Hapa is the new black

Yes, we did.

2008-11-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

After 8 years of watching this sacred document be abused and disregarded, I am proud of us for standing up for ourselves in this way.

While we are on the subject, how well acquainted are you with these? And how many have been violated, ignored, and flouted by the Bush administration?

The Bill of Rights

First Amendment – Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Second Amendment – A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Third Amendment – No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Fourth Amendment – The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Fifth Amendment – No person shall be held to answer for any capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Sixth Amendment – In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where in the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

Seventh Amendment – In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Eighth Amendment – Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Ninth Amendment – The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Tenth Amendment – The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

Sure, there are more rights and amendments that I did not include here. The Constitution is a living document, after all. But these first 10 amendments, the basic rights ensured to us all, has never changed. You will notice, also, that these rights are not granted only to citizens of the United States. They are universal rights afforded to anyone who lives here, for whatever reason and under whatever legal status. Just sayin.

Lecture over.

Norman

2008-10-17T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'm at home, waiting for my hairdye to complete its formidable job, so I thought I'd update you on the homeless fellow I mentioned a few posts ago.

The Caboose and I have seen him regularly at our bus stop downtown in the Financial District, and each day we have a pleasant chat. By chat, I mean he launches into his typical monologue of loose associations and flights of ideas, while the Caboose and I smile at him and wait for the local bus to take us to his preschool. The Caboose never speaks to Norman, but he asks about him all the time and anticipates our meetings.

We have learned, from Norman, the following:

* He has crashed the Cannes Film Festival, where he met Maurice Chevalier.

* He was married once and wanted to adopt his wife's son, but the child's biological father forbade it.

* He doesn't sleep at the bus stop (though we have not yet learned where he does sleep.)

* Someone has taught him that its polite to rise when speaking to a lady, as he always stands up to talk to me.

* He did not know that the words chevalier, cavalier, and cavalry all come from the same root.

* He enjoys calculating the diameter and circumference of things.

* He agrees that I am not as dumb as I look.

After our most recent meeting, the Caboose and I climbed aboard our bus and sat in the back row, which is our usual spot. The Caboose stood on the seat, hands pressed to the window, and screamed, "GOODBYE NORMAN!" a dozen times to be sure he was heard. Norman didn't hear him, but everyone else on the bus sure did.

More of the Same (Addended)

2008-10-14T14:09:00.000-07:00

Greetings.

It's Umma here. That's right. Booper has started calling me Umma sometimes. He is learning at light-speed in his KIP program. He now knows the following, in Korean:

* How to count to 20
* How to sing Happy Birthday
* How to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
* How to write his name.
* How to say, hello, goodbye, thank you, freeze, stop what you're doing and look at the teacher, stand up, sit down, and behind. (we taught him koon-denghi, but he's learned an alternate word.)

There is a lot more that he understands but can't say on his own. His pronounciation is impeccable. He enthusiastically gobbles up all the bul-gogi, kalbi, or man-du that I can make. (Though this may be in part due to a growth spurt because the other night he consumed an entire adult-sized burrito.)

What's even more astounding is that the Caboose is learning a lot of these things too, just by association. It's true that their minds are sponges right now. So all the scholastic stuff is going great.

Booper is also making a lot of friends, and I'm holding my own with the other moms. Some better than others, as you can imagine. Last night, however, I hit a snag. You see, one of the moms has a tradition of holding these periodic Moms Cooking Nights at her house. (She has an older child in the KIP program, so she's a veteran with these things.) She invites all the moms over, and then one of the Korean moms shows the rest of us how to make authentic Korean food. I'm all over that. Unfortunately, the first one falls on a weekend when my Mom is going to be in town. In order to avoid stepping on anyone's toes, I sent the following to the moms email list:

"I would love to join in for the mom's cooking night, but want to ask the group if it's okay if I bring MY mom. She is visiting for Halloween weekend, and I know she'd love to join us. She is a lot of fun, very social, and loves to try new foods. All that to say, I don't think she will cramp our style. Is that alright with everyone? "

A couple moms responded that it was fine with them. then I received this from the hostess:

"I hope you are not offended but this event is really a KIP Mom only and meant to discuss classroom issues, etc. Inasmuch as I would love to meet your mom and I am sure she is very sweet and would have a fun time with us (and we could probably learn from her as well!), in the past, it became too big as other moms, sisters, etc. were visiting...and it was difficult to say no to one and not the other and it became a general party rather than a "school" related bonding event.

Thanks for understanding. I hope you are still able to make it, even for a little bit."

Now I don't want this to turn into some big *thing.* I am going to be dealing with these parents for the next 5 years. But I was a little surprised at this response, as I felt it was kind of controlling to say that we can only come to the dinner if we are going to talk about school things and this is not a "general party" (not sure what that means.) What do you think? Am I being too sensitive? Misinterpreting?

Addendum: At pick-up this afternoon, I ran into another mom from the class. As we were walking to get our kids, she kindly said, "By the way, I just want you to know that I thought "hostess mom's" response to you about the cooking night was kind of mean. I would have said it was fine for you to bring your mom." I actually got a little choked up when she said it. I guess this hurt my feelings more than I thought. I felt sort of rejected or excluded, and they don't even know yet what a handful my mother is!

I am still interested in other perspectives, so fire away!

High Holy Days

2008-10-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

La Shana Tovah! Happy New Year to all you Red Sea pedestrians out there. The countdown has begun....Ten Days to atone for all the sins of the past year. Granted, my sins are pretty mild by San Quentin standards, but pobody's nerfect, as the T-shirt says. During these ten days--so the tradition goes--I am supposed to approach any fellow shtetlers to confess my transgressions and ask their forgiveness. If I do so, they are obligated to forgive me. But since we are in the modern age, I will do so via the internet. So here goes:

1) I did not go to shul yesterday. And even worse, I walked past a HUGE synagogue just as it was letting out, holding hands with the boys, who were loudly asking "What's going on in there?" "Why are those people wearing those little hats?" I told them it was a synagogue, and when they asked for an explanation, I said, "it's a place where Jewish people go to talk with G-d. Like a church, but for Jewish people." To which they replied, "Oh...then you can go in there. So can we. How come we never go in there? And what about Daddy? Will they let Daddy in?"

2) I took the boys for ice cream cones yesterday afternoon after a wonderful check-up at the dentist. While I wasn't looking, the Caboose decided to climb up on the cafe table. But instead of him climbing on top of it, it fell down on top of him. On his FACE! He has a laceration on his precious little nose and one on his gorgeous little eyelid. I rushed him to the doctor, adrenaline surging, and they glued the wounds closed. But his eye is swollen nearly shut. He says he looks like a pirate. I think he looks like Joe Frazier. I know he will heal just fine, and it could have been a lot worse. But WOW! Do I feel guilty about that.

And these are just in the past two days. Going back further:

3) I have eaten an apple from the work fridge that I'm not sure was mine.

4) I de-friended someone on Facebook because he doesn't support Obama.

5) I have ignored my mother's phone calls at times because I don't feel like talking to her.

6) I have re-used birthday gift bags.

7) I have played Scrabulous/Scrabble Beta when I should be working.

8) I have coveted another woman's purse/shoes/coat/jewelry.

9) My driver's license does not reflect my true weight.

10) I have lied to my children and told them I don't have gum, when actually, I do.

11) I have consumed my children's Halloween candy without their permission.

12) I have gossiped frequently about other mom's at preschool.

13) I have judged. Boy howdy, have I judged.

Perhaps it is appropriate for me to stop at unlucky #13. So there you go. My Day of Atonement Meme. Now it's your turn. In the comments section, please.

The Next Level

2008-09-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

I was going to write a sarcastic and, no doubt, inciteful post last week about Sarah Palin, but I just can't get motivated to finish it. Is there anything I could say that hasn't already been said? I do not personally know anyone who remains undecided about this election. But if any of you are, please let me know, as I will do my best to offer compelling reasons to vote for Obama. Otherwise, I think I'm just preaching to the choir.

I am finally getting into a groove with the whole kindergarten/preschool transport thing. We have a system going that takes me 90 minutes, door-t0-door, to cover about 8 miles. Don't get me started. The Handyman can only offer sporadic assistance, so it's on me. Part of the commute involves taking the Express Bus downtown, just the Caboose and me. It's kind of our "special time." I bring magazines, flashcards, or workbooks to pass the time. Then, once we're downtown, we look for Cable Cars, F Trains, or other exciting vehicles. After the Express, we take a local just a few stops to his school. This involves waiting at a bus stop in the Financial District. Every morning, inside the bus shelter, sits the same benign old homeless man. He has a shopping cart full of the usual trappings of homelessness, though he is also usually reading the New York Times. He always greets us enthusiastically, then launches into some stream of consciousness monologue that leads me to believe he is bipolar and off his meds. He has told me I look like Shirley Temple, Margaret O'Brien, and "a movie star." He calls the Caboose, "young man." He has regaled us with stories of his career at General Dynamics and his travels around the country.

This morning when he saw us, he said to the Caboose, "Hey! I recognize you! I've seen you here before. You and your Mommy!" Then he started to talk about Yogi Berra and Yankee Stadium. Poor thing had no idea what he was getting himself into. He didn't get two sentences out before I hijacked the conversation and started rattling off the most interesting factoids about Yogi Berra, starting with the fact that he has appeared in a record 14 World Series. He didn't know any of them, and was thrilled to learn. Soon enough, our bus arrived and we were off with a promise to see him again tomorrow. Now I'm curious to know how this man became homeless.

For those of you who don't speak Yiddish, the above is what we call a shana punum, or beautiful face. It can also be called a zeesa punum, or sweet face. We just call it Booper. And Booper took his test this weekend at martial arts class and is now an Orange Belt. He was so proud of himself, but not nearly as proud as I was of him for sticking with martial arts despite the rough early going. The test involved him doing some things alone, in the front of the class, and I thought for sure this would spell disaster. Instead, it spelled O-R-A-N-G-E. Woot!

Kang-gangsulle

2008-09-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

Surprised you, didn't I? Well, Kang-gangsulle is one of the many things I learned at the Chusok celebration last week. This special day at school was a BLAST! We did the traditional Chusok dance, cooked songpyon, and made han bok-wearing paper dolls. Posting photos is a bit of a challenge, as I don't want to "out" anyone's kids. So here is a small sample to give you the general idea.

The children, all in han bok, walk to the auditorium for the Chusok assembly. The school supplied han bok for those who did not have them.

The teachers all wore han bok. This is Ms. Kim, the second grade teacher. Her han bok was gorgeous (and she is pretty great-looking, too. Booper talks about her a lot, and I think he has a crush on her.) She is reading a Chusok story to the assembled children. A lot of the moms wore Han Bok. I don't currently have one, but I am considering a purchase since there will be many more of these Korean celebrations in the future for Booper & The Caboose.

Another "line-up." Here you can sort of make out Booper's kindergarten teacher, Ms. Lee.

Later that evening, the moms from Booper's class all met for Korean food at a local restaurant. This particular establishment has a program in place where they donate 20% of your bill to the Korean Immersion Program. We had a private room in the back. Lots of laughing, eating, and planning ensued and we were there for nearly 3 hours. When I arrived home, the Handyman said, "I have this vision of you sitting at the table with, like, 8 Korean women." I told him, "You're close. It was me and 11 Korean women." And I loved it! Some of the moms speak hardly any English. Some speak hardly any Korean. Some are fully bilingual. And all are thrilled to pieces to have gotten our kids into this wonderful program. The feeling of community is inspiring.

I brought home some leftover kolbi, which was served the following evening for dinner and quickly devoured. I went to the Korean Market yesterday and bought some more to serve for dinner tonight. Check me out, getting all Jewrean on yo a$$. I asked the Handyman the other night, "so...you didn't start out married to a Korean woman, but it looks like you're going to end up that way. How's that going for you?"

Time Marches On

2008-09-09T13:57:00.000-07:00

This morning at kindergarten drop-off, one of the Dads turned to me and said, "They grow up so fast." We've all heard this innumerable times, but I don't agree. In fact, when my kids were babies, I felt like the newborn stage was interminable. (Above a photo of the two of them the day after we brought the Caboose home from the hospital. It almost looks like the Caboose is smiling, but I think he's just trying to push his fat cheeks out of the way so he can breathe.) I know, not very maternal. But there it is. At least with the Caboose I realized that it would eventually come to an end. But not soon enough for me. I am not someone who does well without sleep, so the lack of rest along with the difficulties of breastfeeding (I can only use one boob, so supply is a chronic issue, but there were many others) and the never-ending tedium of diapers, feedings, pumping, baths, housework, regular work, cooking, etc. felt at times like more than I could bear. I would daydream about what life would be like when my kids were preschool age or older, able to walk, talk, and do things for themselves. In fact, sometimes I would have to chastise myself about wishing away their entire first year and instead try to get my head in the game, enjoying the present.

Now I find myself in this curious position of having these older, more independent kids that I dreamed of, and feeling some pangs for the past. For example, last night Booper informed me that he would like to get his homework done early so he can help me cook dinner. He explained that he wants to learn to cook so he can make dinner every night! He also offers to help with laundry and vacuuming. He is the sweetness, absolutely. But don't be too impressed. He now receives an allowance for the performance of certain basic chores (tidying his room, putting away laundry, clearing the table after dinner), and he can earn more $$ by doing extra chores. So this may all be a clever ploy to fill his coffers.

Lately, the Handyman and I have discovered the ease and convenience of asking Booper to get things for us so we don't have to get up. I remember when I was a kid, my parents would ask me to "get my purse," or "bring me a napkin." I would always think to myself, "what's the matter? Are your legs broken?" But now I see the beauty in the bottomless energy of an eager-to-please child who is proud to help.

In any case, while I am loving all this new maturity, I also find myself nostalgic for his younger self. The soft feet, silky hair, sweet breath. I crave more snuggles now with the Caboose because he still has that delicious toddler body, buttery skin, and plump cheeks. I can lift him and easily carry him. He stealthily climbs into our bed at the crack of dawn every day and burrows in next to me for a morning cuddle. Booper likes to cuddle too, but he is getting so big that I can now rest my head on his shoulder, instead of always the other way around. When he climbs into bed, it usually involves a knee in my (full) bladder and an elbow to my face. He has morning breath. He is a boy. He is turning into his own person and I am fascinated by getting to know him. So there is all this ambivalence about nostalgia for the old and admiration for the new. But did it happen "too fast?" Not for me. It feels like I've been being his mom for a looooong time. Here I am serving the brownies at his 5th birthday party. Check out his smirk.

On an unrelated note, have you heard this expression, "it is what it is?" I loathe this expression. I think it's meant to explain a position of Buddhist-like acceptance of the inevitable, but to me it sounds like giving up. A verbal shrugging of shoulders at something that is just not worth caring about. That attitude annoys me. It's like the new "whatever."

Clueless

2008-09-05T14:49:00.000-07:00

Booper likes brownies.

That much I know. But here's something I don't know. Can you serve brownies on Chusok? Am I even spelling that right?

His class is going to be celebrating this holiday next week at school. He is supposed to wear his han bok to school, but we don't have one. The kids in his class dress in their han bok and parade around the school for the other kids. Then they go to their classroom for a celebration. We are invited to come and take part in a Chusok feast, but I don't know what to bring. The Handyman says that his family didn't celebrate Chusok when he was a kid, so he has no clue either.

Suggestions welcome.

Otherwise, things are going well. As a reward for doing all his homework this week, Booper is allowed to participate in show-and-tell. I thought he'd want to bring his new baseball mitt or maybe one of his trains. Instead, he surprised us by taking his guitar to school. (This was one of his birthday presents.) He looked like quite the Bohemian with it sticking out of his Cars backpack as he shuffled into his classroom.

Yesterday, the Caboose walked up to me and said, "kom-som-nee-dah." No reason. Just felt like practicing, I guess. He slays me. Currently he is trying to learn all the words to Last Train to Clarksville.

Week Two

2008-09-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

After the beautiful long weekend, it's back to the salt mines for Booper. Actually, he returned to kindergarten enthusiastically, even after telling me in the car that he doesn't understand what his teacher is saying most of the time. The Caboose has moved to a higher class at preschool, so he is feeling pretty proud of himself, too. Can't wait to hear all about his day.

On Friday, I spent about 90 minutes in Booper's KIP classroom for that August Birthdays party. During those 90 minutes, I think I heard his teacher use 10 English words. Total. She speaks to the class almost exclusively in Korean. All the literature about Immersion told us she would do this, but it's a bit shocking to see it in action. I felt like a fish out of water, so I can only imagine how the kids feel. When I arrived, the children were sitting in their seats, utterly silent, eating cupcakes. (I was a few minutes late because the Caboose fell asleep in the car on the way there.) Ms. Lee, his teacher, was walking around the classroom saying, "Does this taste good?" in Korean. Don't be impressed. I know three Korean phrases: Thank you, Have a nice day, and This tastes good, so she happened to throw one into my wheelhouse. I also know the words for mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, older sister, older brother, aunt (both sides of family), uncle (mother's side only) baby, rice, butt, penis, and fart. Thanks to a commenter, I now know the word for friend. That's it.

In any event, she speaks to them in Korean even when they address her in English, which is pretty much always. Somehow, they get the message, though she often has to repeat herself. She had them clean up after themselves, choose an activity, line up for dismissal, and learn the word for House, all in Korean.

Meanwhile, I sat at a little side table with three of the other moms, preparing homework sheets, while the Caboose took a long nap in my arms. Of those three moms, two were 100% Korean and spoke pretty much only Korean and to each other. The third was born in Korea, but moved to the U.S. at age 3 and hardly speaks Korean at all. She tried to talk with the other moms, but was frustrated at her own inability to find the words. I chatted with her quite a bit, and we hit it off nicely. What we both realized is that this little class of 20 kids is going to be together from now until they complete 5th grade. Sure, there will be minor changes. But this "little family," as she put it, is our reality for the next 6 years.

The Holy Grail

2008-08-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

The Caboose's preschool is closed this week to get ready for the "new school year" starting on Tuesday. So I am dabbling in the world of the SAHM. Today we ran some errands, as most SAHMs do.

Our first stop was at the Kukje Supermarket, a GINORMOUS Korean supermarket in Daly City. I have never been there before, but my in-laws always hit it hard when they come to visit. The primary reason for going is that Booper's kindergarten class is celebrating all the August birthdays at school tomorrow, and I volunteered to bring some kind of culturally relevant dessert. The Caboose and I stopped first at the Korean bakery on sight and purchased Mochi (I know these are not Korean, but kids like them) along with some cream puffs at the owner's suggestion. After paying, I said "thank you" and "have a nice day," both in Korean. She giggled a little, probably at my miserable pronunciation, and then handed the Caboose a bag of free food. Sweet!

We wandered around the store, looking at the immense array of noodles, ban chan buffet, fresh fish, and snackage. The store has an enormous housewares section, so I tooled around a little bit in there. I started to feel sentimental and a little teary-eyed, knowing that my mother-in-law would have loved this store and would have gladly explained everything I needed to know, patiently answering all my questions so I might better feed her son and grandsons. In any case, I turned the corner and there IT was. The holy grail.

The polyester Tawashi scrubber. (I have searched for a photo on line, but can't find one.) You know the one: yellow, polyester beehive-like weave used as a dishcloth or scrubbing tool. I have seen the Eemohs go wild for these, and here I was knee-deep in their midst. I toyed with the idea of buying all of them and mailing them out to the family. But I thought better of it, realizing I can always come back to buy more. Perhaps even some of the KimChi Mamas would like to place an order for this and other delicacies. I did, however, buy an extra for Booper's new teacher. Apple, shmapple. I know the real path to teacher's pet status!

And while I'm on the subject, I must revise my previous estimate. Based on new data, culled from conversations at morning drop-off this week, Booper's Korean Immersion class is about half Hapa. He has already started to learn how to write his name in Korean. I am amazed. They also sang "Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes" in Korean. Talk about the Holy Grail, I think a public kindergarten in San Francisco that teaches all this from an adorable campus in a gorgeous neighborhood just might be it.

Liberty and Justice For All

2008-08-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

The first-day drop-off was going fairly well until they busted out the Pledge of Allegiance. Turns out they still say this every morning at public schools. I remember all the words, and the recitation of this long-dorment vow of fidelity to the union brought back so many memories that it was hard to hold back the tears. But I managed to keep it under wraps until Booper was out of view, then I let out a few sobs. sniff. I am not the type to generally consider him "my baby" and all that, but it's pretty overwhelming to send your child off to school with so many variables and other factors beyond your control. It's hard to trust. Which is why I feel better to know that at least Booper is with his "meshbuchuh." (Yiddish for "his people.")

Now that we are back home, I can say definitively that the day went very well. No tears or reluctance for Booper. He had a lot of fun today, loves his new teacher, and is looking forward to going back tomorrow. I have some new information to share, also.

1) Coincidentally, we ran into one of his new classmates at the shoe store on Saturday as we purchased his Kindergarten Shoes. This girl is one of the few non-Korean kids in the class. I learned, from her mother, that both her parents are Israeli and her older sister also went through the Korean Immersion program in the past. You would think I would have a lot in common with these people and maybe even feel a kindred spirit. But then she made this irritating statement: "We don't really care about Korean. We just like the private school feeling of the program." I nearly lit her hair on fire. What do you mean you don't care about the Korean part of the program, you posers? That's the whole point! It's people like you who are taking the slots that should go to children and families who are connected to Korean and will involve themselves fully in the field trips, class projects, and cultural opportunities. (Did I mention that the First Lady of South Korea visited the school last year?) Then she went here: "We like it because there are no behavorial problems in this class. These kids are all inclined to do well academically. So the class is quiet and focused on learning." I guess that's good, but why does the way she said it leave a bad taste in my mouth?

2) After drop off this morning, the Handyman and I were evaluating how many of the other kids and families are Korean. He said, "Wow. You weren't kidding. There is a whole lot of Korean going on there." (For the record, I noticed 3 kids with the last name Lee and 4 kids with the last name Kim, out of 19 kids.) To my surprise, he followed with this, "I hope Booper doesn't get a lot of teasing and trouble from the all-Korean kids because he is only part Korean." I have read about this situation on KimchiMamas, so I was prepared that it was possible. But I didn't realize the Handyman was tuned in to it. Fortunately, there are 2 other Hapa kids in the class, plus the two non-Asian kids, so I expect it won't be a huge problem.

3) The class seems to be predominantly female. Of 19 kids, I'd say 12 are girls. This bodes well, as Booper has a way with the ladies.

4) We are totally free of Veruca now. She remains behind in Pre-K. So that whole drama is Ovah!

Seoul Brother #1

2008-08-22T14:26:00.000-07:00

You won't believe where I just was. Are you sitting down? We just got home from the "Meet and Greet" at Booper's Korean Immersion kindergarten class. That's right. You heard me. We got the call yesterday, and he is now officially enrolled in kindergarten. But not just any kindergarten. He is in our dream class: Korean Immersion. I was one of only 4 non-Koreans in the room. The teacher, who is Korean, greeted us in Korean and the room is packed with English and Korean books, learning tools, pictures, words, etc. Consider my mind blown.

We are thrilled, and I am a bit scared in the way that all moms are when their eldest is about to start school. Will he be able to handle it? Will he make friends? Will he like it? Will it be too academically rigorous for him? But now with all of the questions colored by the reality that he is a Hapa in a strange land. He is now in class with just 2 other Hapa kids (near as I can tell) one African-American boy, and all the rest Korean kids.

It's a little too much for me to process, and I know I will be leaning on my readers for support. But for now, I thought I'd share the happy news with those of you who read along as we went through this crazy SFUSD journey. It had a happy ending. Or perhaps more accurately, it has resulted in a happy beginning.

Now things are getting interesting

2008-08-06T13:22:00.001-07:00

So you know how Booper has started at his new pre-K? You don't? Oh. Go ahead and read back a few posts and you'll see it. Don't worry. I'll wait.

Okay, all caught up? Let's move on then. The summer is a strange time to start a new school because there are a handful of new kids from around the city, along with a smattering of veterans who are poised to start kindergarten in a few weeks. I have been getting to know the names and faces of his new classmates, cuz I'm funny like that. A couple weeks ago, during pick-up, I met one of his new pals and the new pal's Dad. I couldn't shake the feeling that Dad looked familiar, and he definitely oozed charisma. Since I pride myself on being someone who never forgets a face, I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

I have since figured it out. Dad is a sort-of celebrity around these parts. There are plenty of boring reasons why he is well-known, but the memorable reason is that he was part of a big political scandal in the city last year. Without "outing" them totally, I think it's safe to say that his wife (who is GORGEOUS) was having an affair with an uber-famous person, who also happened to be the Dad's friend. This bombshell came to light because the Mom was in rehab and had to make amends for all her transgressions, which involved confessing the affair.

At the time that I heard this story, I was as fascinated as the next person by the salacious, Shakespearean drama. Now that I have met their son, however, the whole thing seems sad and confusing. I saw Mom dropping off the son at school the other day, and she looked harried, frazzled, and overwhelmed, just like most of us. No sign of the picture-perfect movie star good looks that were featured in the news last year. Just a mom, trying to see her son off at school. Difference is, she is struggling with a substance abuse problem that is a matter of public record. For all I know, lots of the other parents have addiction issues, but they get to keep theirs secret. And believe me, there are days when I would certainly give serious consideration to a dry martini and a couple lines. It was a fairly standard means of escape for me to fantasize about the single life, once I found myself fully immersed in marriage and motherhood. Not that I really wanted it back, just that I enjoyed the mental vacation that those fantasies provided.

So while it's easy to get all judgy-wudgy on her, I will use my blog forum to be the first to say, "Sister, I feel you."

Breaking Stuff

2008-08-04T12:21:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Brad Pitt, Angelina, George Clooney, and their pals. I said something sycophantic and dumb, then worried that they thought I was a loser. When I woke up to the sensation of Booper climbing on top of me to snuggle, I felt a momentary sense of relief, thinking that my reputation with them was still clean. Wow! What a break! Because you know I am going to be meeting them any day now.

Not much else is new with us. The most recent round of waiting pool list has been run, and still no spot for Booper in Korean Immersion. Our final shot will come on September 8th, when they run the "10-day count." Then it's do or die time. Assuming that doesn't pan out, we will be entering the fray again come September, this time with private schools in the mix. We don't really want a private school--nor can we afford it, especially with the Caboose set to start one year after Booper--but I feel that I can leave no stone unturned. Once I'm in the thick of this, I will institute a Whine Alert level so you can avoid any posts that are really nothing more than one long kvetch-a-thon.

Meanwhile, Booper is blossoming in his pre-K and we have not heard hide nor hair of Veruca. She is so last week. He has made a passel of new friends and she is still moping in the corner, sucking her thumb. I am planning Booper's birthday party, and I asked him if he would like to invite her, to which he replied, "definitely not." Okay, then. I noticed that when I picked him up from school the other day, a female classmate shouted, "Booper! I love you!" as we were packing up. What can I tell you? The kid takes after me.

You know what else is great? Halfmama is coming to visit us this weekend. With the twins. And G. Aren't you jealous?

Now...it's personal

2008-07-28T13:56:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, Booper had his first "soccer practice" with his new team in the local micro soccer league. He was anticipating it greatly. Turns out, Veruca is also on the team, though this did not keep Booper from enjoying himself greatly. The coach is a mom we know well, assisted by her husband. They are parents to two gorgeous Hapa girls that Booper knows from preschool. The younger one is a rascal, full of energy and spirit. She has, however, developed the unfortunate habit of calling kids "dooshy." Say it out loud. Not good. Where she got this, I don't know, but we are putting the serious kabosh on it at our house. Veruca's Dad (VD) is also an assistant coach. Booper likes him a lot (??) and I noticed him spontaneously hug VD on more than one occasion.

That was all well and good until VD crossed the line. As we were packing up to go, Booper revealed that we were heading home to watch the Yankees vs. Red Sox on the TiVo. VD, who is a native Californian, told Booper that he should absolutely root for the Sox. Clearly, the man does not have an allegiance to the Sox, he just wants to annoy me. He was filling my son with all kinds of crazy ideas, such that, when we returned home, Booper was cheering for the Sox for the first 3 innings. He kept saying to me, "Mom...is it okay for me to cheer for the Sox? I can choose any team I want, right? The Giants aren't playing, so I am cheering for the Red Sox."

I know, I know. He can pick his own team, if he decides he really likes a team. Heck, my Dad was a Dodgers fan. Brooklyn Dodgers. But they moved away and broke his heart, so he was forced to choose another home team for us, and he picked the Yankees. He sometimes held his nose to do it, but he did it just the same. That's how baseball works. It's inherited. So I fully expect him to like the Giants, being an SF kid and all. I can work with that. But I absolutely will not tolerate this indiscriminate cheering for the Red Sox. While you're living in my house--the house that Ruth built--you will follow my rules.

I can't tell you how disturbing it was to watch my son's gorgeous, pure lips form the words, "Go Sox!" I imagine this is how it will feel the first time I hear him use the F word (and I don't mean fart.) I had to walk away. This may sound crazy to those of you who do not have a passion for any sports team in particular, but it was absolutely driving me ape shit. So much so, that I turned off the game and watched it after the boys were in bed. (The Yankees won, heh heh heh.) Now VD is on my list. It's bad enough that you are raising an ill-mannered and snotty little princess, but don't fuck with my family traditions. We are New York baseball fans in my house. And while my husband and I may forever disagree on the relative merits of the Mets or the Yankees, there is one thing upon which we always agree: We hate the Red Sox. Sometimes, just to keep in shape, we hate the Celtics and the Patriots, too.

In an effort to expel the bad taste of that experience, we are showcasing the Caboose and his new Karaoke machine. This was a gift from his Harabuji. It's pretty popular with all of us, though. Last night, I was throwing a little BP in the yard with the boys, and Daddy used it to "announce" the batters as we approached the plate.

http://www.youtube.com/v/w1Jaw9cqBBU

Justice

2008-07-14T15:32:00.000-07:00

Based on the comments from my previous post, it sounds like a lot of you have experience with this particular breed of girl: The Veruca. I have been learning a lot these past few weeks about this sub-species, and I am proud to report that sometimes karmic justice is swift.

Booper, Veruca, and another little girl from their class have been moved up to the Pre-K program along with a handful of other kids from campuses around the city. In September, a few more of their classmates will make the switch. Booper was anticipating the move greatly and has taken to it exceedingly well. This school, for one thing, has a rooftop playground, which they get to use twice a day. It is also larger with more areas to explore. A couple days before starting, he told me, "I am looking forward to going to the XXXX class because I know I'm going to make new friends there, and my new friends won't tease me." Amen to that.

And boy, was he right! He has made a passel of new friends and left Veruca in his dust. I have heard from her parents that she is not doing so well with the transition. For one thing, she still sucks her thumb, and in this class there is a rule that one must wash hands after sucking your thumb. (I imagine the idea is to make it so inconvenient that eventually the behavior is extinguished.) For another, she is now in a class with a lot of kids who don't know her from a hole in the ground, and they are not interested in listening to her crap. Consequently, she is not the Queen B she once was. oh boo hoo hoo.

Of course, I know it could be worse. A dear friend put her son in summer camp until he starts kindergarten this fall (in a Japanese bilingual program at another public school.) Her son was shoved into a locker by another boy--one he has known for years--and was left there to suffer. He was terrified, of course, and eventually another child fetched a counselor and he was freed. These are 5 year old boys, mind you. Not teenagers. When the camp director approached the shover's parents to discuss the matter, they deflected all responsibility and made it seem that my friend's son had brought it upon himself. Sheesh. Kindergarten is going to be rough for that kid if this is how he's behaving now.

In other exciting news, Booper has developed a taste for salad. Any kind of leafy greens will do, with celery, and some dressing. Yesterday I gave him a bowl of baby spinach and he gobbled it up. I thought I died and went to heaven. Heaven being the place where the Caboose is lying in that header photo up top.

The Bitch is Back

2008-06-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

While Veruca has eased off when it comes to teasing Booper (after I let her know one morning that I did not approve of her behavior, nor did I appreciate her lying about it when we all heard what she said,) I did see that she reduced another girl (another member of the Princess Posse) to tears this morning after slinging some cruel insults her way. After being reprimanded, little Veruca sat teary-eyed, sucking her thumb for all it's worth. Oh boo hoo.

What is noteworthy about all this is that Booper, Veruca, and a couple other members of the Princess Posse will be transitioning together to pre-K next week. They tour the new school this week, then next week make the switch for real. Booper is excited to "graduate" to this new classroom (at a different location) and I am looking forward to seeing a dilution in this toxic little dynamic. Booper knows several kids in this class already, so my hope is that he will be welcomed warmly and find himself with a bevy of other playmates at school.

We remain on the waiting list--excuse me, "in the waiting pool," for a spot in Korean Immersion. And we will stay there until the fat lady sings. So this could mean a sudden change at the last possible moment, but we are prepared to seize the chance, should it present itself.

Meanwhile, I am developing quite a little grudge toward Veruca. How does a 41-year-old woman come to find herself disliking a 4-year-old girl? Have any of you wrestled with this before? Her parents seem like cordial--if somewhat clueless--people who are bumbling through child rearing. They have been told about this problem, but are frankly ill-equipped to handle it. They try their "full court press" to no avail. Will she ever get put in her place? Or will this reign of terror continue? I am just so grateful that we are not going to know her during her teenage years.

While I'm on the subject, let me share this story with you all, because I think you'll really appreciate it. Veruca is often babysat by one of the teachers at the school. This teacher, we'll call her Kim, is a Korean adoptee, raised in Iowa by a Caucasian family. She is kind of a strange bird, lives alone, very quiet, wears a lot of Disney T-shirts, but altogether sweet with the children. She is utterly devoted to Veruca and her family, babysitting for them at least once per week. I was talking with Veruca's mom about this unique bond the other day, and she said to me, "I just hope that [Kim] is out of our lives before [Veruca] figures out that she's not cool, and just rejects her."

WT Flying F is that? Is this what you are accepting from your kids? That it's okay to "reject" loving, caring adults simply because they "aren't cool?"

We have one more year with this family in the pre-K, and then I'm cutting them off. Quick fade and we're done. Our younger son will then move up to pre-K, and their younger daughter will remain in the same school, so we will not cross paths. I don't have the cajones to just "break up" with them. I have never been good at breaking up. Especially with friends or acquaintances. Have you had to do it? How did you manage?

We are trying to embrace this as the "learning experience" that it is, and I know there will be other problematic schoolmates in the future, but I can't suppress the urge to just cut and run.

Oh, and that's the Caboose and myself at Lake Tahoe a few weeks ago.

The Princess Posse

2008-05-19T15:50:00.001-07:00

Booper is quite the Romeo at preschool. There are a few girls who have targeted him for matrimony and Prince duty. I know these girls are into the Princess thing (Ariel, Belle, etc.), so I chalked this up to the Disney effect. Plus Booper is a gentle soul with a beautiful face, so what's not to love? Booper didn't seem bothered by it, so I let it ride, even when I arrived at school to see these girls draped all over him, hugging and kissing him. Once I even saw their ringleader standing there with her hand on his ass. I am not kidding. (and yes, we had a parent/teacher conversation about that last one.)

In the last few weeks, though some of these girls have turned on him and started teasing him about whatever they could find. The ringleader, Veruca Salt here, is rather a spoiled brat, so I think she was annoyed at Booper for not always giving in to her demands and requests. The Boop is a sensitive guy, though, so he just got his feelings hurt and even dissolved in tears in my lap one afternoon after a particularly brutal session.

Come to find out that this bunch of girls has also been picking on another of Booper's classmates, a little girl we love, who I will call Sophia. When Sophia first came to school, one of the Princess Posse was pinching her every day and leaving bruises! That has subsided, but there has been consistent teasing and ostracizing of sweet Sophia. We found this out because last night Booper had a sleepover at Sophia's house, and her parents were sharing their stories with us. In fact, we joked about how Sophia is going to be in deep doo-doo when the Princess Posse finds out that she had Booper all to herself for an entire night.

This morning, I was dropping the Caboose off at school and I ran into the Princess Posse. Veruca asked me, "Where's Booper?"

I said, "He slept over at Sophia's last night, and her Daddy is dropping him off later."
Veruca: "What?" (crestfallen look on face.)
Me: "He slept over at Sophia's house last night and her father is going to drop them off in a little while."
V: "Really?" (stricken look on face.)
Me: "Yup. Really."

I am so petty, but I have to admit that I took great satisfaction in delivering this piece of news to Veruca. Mostly because she has been giving Booper such a hard time lately with the teasing and, on his behalf, I wanted to exact some small measure of revenge. But also because of what they have been doing to Sophia. It is small of me, I know. But there it is. I fully expect to receive a sleepover invitation from Veruca's parents round about 8 p.m. tonight, a.k.a. first available opportunity. Not because they want Booper to sleep over, but because they want to give Veruca what she wants. Well, Booper is nobody's Wonka Bar, so we are prepared to gently turn them down. Can you believe we are dealing with this already?

Ennui

2008-05-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

Wow, I am bored. And I realize I have not posted to this blog in too long, so excuse me while I brain barf a series of unrelated, and unimportant, thoughts.

* Booper has a sleepover planned for this weekend. No big deal, right? But this time he was invited to sleep over at a girl's house. A sweet, adorable girl that we love. And we love her parents. I asked Booper if he was okay with the idea and received an enthusiastic yes! So we are going to their house for Korean food, then Booper stays over and we go home. Does this seem weird to anyone else? Part of me thinks, "Hey...I didn't have boys sleep over when I was a kid." But another part of me thinks, "Hey...they are Korean. So that makes it okay!" Reminds me of the time that my father-in-law left my son with some random Korean people at the zoo while he went to the bathroom. I know he figured that, if they're Korean, they're okay.

* I think Angelina Jolie is gorgeous and has never looked better.

* I wonder why all the women on Survivor have shaved armpits and no bikini line. Even if they waxed right before it started, by day 30 they would have some strays. So what gives?

* One of the kids in Booper's preschool class hit me yesterday on the ass. Without really thinking, I wheeled around and said, "XXX, that is not okay! I do not play with boys who hit!" And then I walked away. He is the *problem* boy at school, and Booper often tells me that he "gets his choices made for him" because of his behavior issues. Poor little thing is just confused. He has two mommies and a daddy and none of them live together (or within 20 miles of each other) and he doesn't know which end is up. But hitting is just not okay. This boy goes to a different parent's house every night--unless one of them is out of town--and I can't imagine what this is like. Different clothes, different toys, different rules. I feel for ya, kid, but keep your mitts off the tush.

It is really hot here today. It's never hot here. This is one of the reasons I love San Francisco. Never too hot. Never too cold. Always just right, Goldilocks. As a result, we do not have air conditioning at home or at work. So here I sit, schvitzing.

Round 2 -- Skunked Again

2008-04-26T15:37:00.000-07:00

In an act of amazing efficiency, the school district was able to get our Round 2 acceptance letters out one day early. Ergo, I received Booper's assignment letter today. If you can call it an "assignment letter." Essentially, it said, "You'll get nothing and like it." I mean, who do you have to fuck to get your kid into kindergarten around here?

Let me back up: The letter told us that he did not get a spot in the Korean Immersion program, nor did he get a spot in any of the other schools we requested. He will remain in a waiting pool for the Korean Immersion, but the chances of that working out are slim to none. It would require that a family that already has a spot relinquish it for some reason. Historically, this is rare, and rarer still in these highly coveted language immersion programs. So how do you say, "You're fucked" in Korean.

So my child has no kindergarten assignment for next year. If we wanted to, we could check out some of the schools that still have spaces like The Asbestos Laden School or Cripsandbloods Elementary. The only good news is that he does have a spot in the lovely pre-K program at his current preschool where they will teach him to read and write and where he will have a wonderful year of stimulating curriculum with his current group of friends. So we can go through this bullshit again next year.

The preschool is great. In fact, the Caboose's class is do a project on cultural diversity. The teacher made them passports to travel the world. Their first destination was Africa. This week they went to Korea! All the Korean moms of beautiful Hapa children in this class (there are 3 half-Korean/half-white tots in just this class) brought in han bok and treats for the kids. It was wonderful.

Alright, I'm going off to mope somewhere.

A teeny tiny update

2008-04-08T16:48:00.000-07:00

Because I can't leave well enough alone, I called the Educational Placement Center today for a little more information. I have a few clarifications to report: 1) The Round 2 letters are mailed on April 28th, so look for me to post results on the 29th or 30th. 2) As of COB today, there are 6 children in the waiting pool for Korean Immersion. That's actually not too bad. Last year there were 10. And of that 10, 2 families got spots. But they are not finished yet entering all the applications, so this number "changes daily." What they could not yet tell me is how many spots at the school are open. (Those who were offered seats had to accept them by March 21st, or they are offered to families in the waiting pool. Naturally, I'd like to know how many, if any, seats remain open.)

I will say one thing: The people who answer the phone at this place are always really friendly. You'd think, after months of dealing with neurotic parents, they would be kind of fed up. Maybe they are just drunk with power.

Round 2

2008-04-02T14:56:00.000-07:00

Lacking the aforementioned Korean secret handshake, I sent the Handyman downtown with our school enrollment forms last week as planned. He had an enlightening visit. I am reluctant to post about this, just on the off chance that some how some way some one should read this and it would torpedo our chances. But suffice to say, we made the necessary adjustments and filled out paperwork for Round 2. When the dust has settled, I'm happy to share all that we learned.

Here's where we stand: We are allowed to list ONE waiting pool choice, and we can submit a list of "alternative" school choices that we would consider for assignment as well. For our waiting list choice, we put the Korean Immersion program. Duh. I've heard that tenacity pays off with this process, so I'm in this for the long haul. Wouldn't you be? A chance to send your child to Korean Immersion for 5 years, capped off by a school trip to Korea and then another 3 years at a wonderful public middle school? For this to pan out, we need a family to turn down its assignment to this fantastic program in favor of another school or moving away. (In reality, we may need this to happen a few times until they get to us in the wait pool.) The chances are slim, but we have to try. For "alternative" schools, we listed our neighborhood school, which is a sweet little school that would be fine. Just fine. It's closeby, friendly, adequate. It's painted blue. If we should get a chance to attend kindergarten there, the tough decision would be to take that and run, giving up the ghost on Korean Immersion, or try again next year after a year in pre-K.

Results of this round of assignments go out on April 25th, I think. If we still don't get what we want, there are other chances later in the summer that we could be plucked from the wait pool. We can stay in that waiting place until 10 days after the school year starts (the notorious "10 Day Count" when they count the students and fill in any empty seats. We have heard that families will get a call 10 days into the school year telling them they can have their desired spot if they are okay with switching their kid. We would be willing to do that for Korean Immersion.)

To answer some of the questions you have posed: NO OTHER CITY that I know of in the U.S. runs their public schools this way. This is part of a program known as ""School Choice" which is really just a nice way of saying that they wanted to integrate the schools, but school assignments cannot be given out based on race as this was found to be unconstitutional. So we have this wackadoo system where you can theoretically choose your school, except that it seems the vast majority of people flock to the same schools, then many people don't get in to any of their choices and are all dumped in other schools that are totally unworkable. So if you don't live within the city limits of San Francisco, which is also the County of San Francisco, you don't have to fret about this.

I try to keep a level head on most things, but the frenzy regarding schools is outrageous. I know Moms who were literally in tears for a week because they did not get the school choices they wanted. I feel lucky that we have the option of pre-K, and also relieved that we did not go through the private school admissions process this year, which seems much more personal as they are assessing your child and you!

So here we are. What a pain in the ass! (hence the photo.) That, by the way, was the Caboose's caboose. Delish!

It's not Who you know, it's Who you ARE.

2008-03-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

The kindergarten drama continues round here. While the spots are swirling among the various private schools, we continue our undaunted pursuit of the Korean Immersion Program at a well-regarded public school. SF boasts many language immersion programs, but this is the only Korean one. The others are Cantonese, Mandarin, Japanese, and Spanish. The kinder class has 20 seats, some of which were taken by siblings of the older kids (don't know how many). So we are vying for one of those few remaining seats. We didn't get one in Round 1, so we are submitting our name for the Waiting Pool and hoping for the best. Last year, 2 seats were made available to families in the waiting pool, so there is a slim chance. I realize now, however, that I may have made a crucial error by not emphasizing on our form that we have a Korean speaker in the home. Apparently this is a big factor, though nowhere on the form does it ask that.

The application form did ask us these questions:

1) What is the first language your children spoke: For our kids, that is English.

2) What is the primary language spoken in the home: You got it, English again. (If you don't count chaji, koondengi, and pangoo as "primary language.")

3) Please mark the box next to the racial group that your child most identifies with, ranking them 1, 2, 3, etc. Huh? I am supposed to rank them? My kids are Hapa. the Ha and the Pa are equally important and equally present. You can't possibly expect me to rank them. So I put an X in the Korean box and an X in the "White" box. I guess this wasn't good enough.

A little bit of history here: Up until 1946, on most public enrollment/application forms, "Jewish" was a racial group. One can argue the merits of that, if one wants to, and I don't, but it is a fact. So a person back then was categorized as either Caucasian, Negro, Oriental, Jewish, etc. I know these terms are antiquated, and in many instances offensive, but they are the terms used at the time. After WW II, Jewish was dropped as a racial category and Jews were supposed to say they are "White." Again, one could argue the merits of this, and I don't want to, at least not right now. So being asked to classify my kids as "white" and "Korean," and then being asked to prioritize these things was, to put it bluntly, fucked up. Oh, and they say that they are asking for the racial information for purely demographic reasons. It has no impact on school assignment. Then why ask me to prioritize it?

So now we are in the situation of having to strategize to get into the KIP program, or else have Booper do a year of pre-K, which I'm sure he would love, then do this all over again next year. I am really okay with "red-shirting" him for a number of reasons. But I am feeling pretty annoyed at how we have to go through these machinations to get our kid into public school. Despite our annoyance, the current plan is to have The Handyman, in all his Korean glory, go down to the Educational Placement Center and let them know that we have a Korean speaker in the home. This is supposed to be very desirable, as he could potentially help the kids with homework, etc. Can you believe that this is what it takes?

I spoke for a while with a mom who sent both of her kids through this immersion program, though they are not at all Korean. She loves the program and thinks it's "perfect" for us. I agree. It is perfect. We are committed to the culture and the language and would be very enthusiastic about the annual school trip to Korea and the Korean student exchange in 6th grade. She said a lot of folks ask for the Korean Immersion just to get into the school, then they drop it after a year or two and go into the general education strand of this highly regarding elementary school. Jerks.

Any other ideas out there on how to handle this? Is there some secret Korean handshake I can do with someone to grease the wheels a little bit?

What's good enough for my children

2008-03-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

I am pissed off today. So if you plan to read this entry, I suggest you put on your helmet.

We received our "letter of assignment" on Saturday, telling us which public school Booper has been assigned to for kindergarten. We received exactly NONE of our choices. (The process involves listing up to 7 schools that you would consider, then they assign you to one of them based on their fucked up "diversity" selection system.) Instead, he was assigned to some for-shit public school, nowhere near our house, where the mother of one of the students was shot a couple years ago by her estranged husband. We are not sending our child there. I am not sending my precious son to kindergarten in some concrete dump with inferior facilities, mediocre academics, and underfunded extracurriculars, that cannot guarantee basic safety in their own parking lot. Needless to say, we are not accepting this "assignment."

Our options, at this point, are the following.

1) We can "select" a few other schools that we would consider and hope a space opens up for him in one of those. Of course, these are the schools that still have openings, meaning no one else wanted to go to them either.

2) We can put him on the waiting list for ONE school only, and hope he gets a spot.

3) We can keep him in pre-K for a year and then try this process again next year, including private schools in the mix. Because of his birthdate, he did not make the cut off for a lot of the private schools this year so we didn't go that route at all. Not that we really want private school, but if our choice is private school or some bullshit like this, then we'll take private, thank you very much.

Our top choice school for him is the Korean Immersion program at one of the popular public schools. Thirty-eight other families made this their top choice. A total of 130 families had it somewhere on their list. And this is for less than 20 spaces. (We don't know how many exactly because the class size is 20 but some spots are taken by siblings. Maybe all of them were!) I think some families say they want their children in this program just as a way of getting them into the school in general. It's one of the most desirable public elementary schools in the city. Then they ask to switch out later, to the general education track. But in the meantime, they take a spot that could go to a child with a genuine interest in learning to read and write and speak in Korean. Like Booper. We did not get offered one of these very few spots, unfortunately. But my inclination at this point is to put this program down for our one waiting list choice. I've heard this can work, if you're tenacious. One thing I am is fucking tenacious. I applied to UC Berkeley 3 times before I got it, and then I was the valedictorian of my class. So the fucking joke was on them, those assholes.

I guess it could be worse. We do have the option of having him go through one year of pre-K at his current school, which we like a lot. Of course, this costs about $16K a year. A steal compared to the expected $20K a year for private school. Some families have to put their children in kindergarten next year no matter what. But I still feel angry that, after paying property taxes in this city for 5 years, we still can't get our son a seat in even the public elementary school that is 3 blocks from our house. No shit. We put that down as one of our choices, and we didn't even get that. This drives me ape shit. Makes me want to do something crazy, like move to Marin.

I am so frustrated. What kind of system is this? What the flying fuck is this? And what's the best thing to do now?

My Peeps

2008-03-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

We are invited to a birthday party this weekend. Ordinarily, this would not be worth mentioning, as there are birthday parties almost every week when you have two kids in preschool. It seems that, at this age, inviting the entire class is de rigeur (we don't, but others feel it's the proper thing to do). This party is different, though. It is the party for the baby sister of one of Booper's classmates. The classmate in question is a beautiful and sweet Little Korean girl, 100%. She has a crush on the Boop, and wants to marry him, which puts her in good company. (It seems that most of the girls at his school have designs on him. And what's not to like?) We feel that she would be an ideal wife for Booper, but that it may be premature to make this kind of decision.

I'm not sure what the genesis of this invitation is, but I am touched and flattered, and a tad surprised, by it. You see, the party is at a restaurant, to celebrate LKG's baby sister's dol. We have never met LKG's baby sister, though we have met her parents who are friendly, intelligent, and kind people. I was once chatting with LKG's mother (who is stunning, BTW) at a school event. She told me that LKG has a crush on Booper. Then added, "What the heck! I have a crush on him, too! Those lips! That hair! He's so handsome!"

I checked the Evite list, and we are the only family from the preschool that is invited (and possibly the only family that is not 100% Korean.) I assume that is because:
1) They are taking this preschool betrothal more seriously than we are
2) They wanted to have a friend there for their older daughter to play with
3) They are wrapping us in the warm, kimchi love of the Korean family.

Whichever it is, we're happy to be included, but I am a little nervous about being the outsider, unfamiliar with the customs, foods, language. I love to experience new things, but I don't want to put my foot in it by mistake. My son's social life hangs in the balance! Sound familiar to some of you Kimchi Mamas? Can anyone offer some guidance on the how-tos? I have only been to my own sons' dols, and I think they were fairly unorthodox. My sense is that this is going to be the real deal.

Wax Off, Wax On

2008-02-25T11:41:00.000-08:00

Why do preschool enrichment classes require that you pay for classes upfront? Probably because they are familiar with the fickle whims of your average 4-year-old.

Case in point: Booper was thriving in his martial arts class, enthusiastically participating, and earned his first stripe after the required 5 classes. At the 6th class, the Handyman came along and videotaped the class for posterity. We watched the video endlessly in the living room, oohing and aahing over Booper's accomplishment. But the Boop did not seem so impressed.

The following week, he absolutely refused to participate. Would not even put on his uniform. The Senpei (junior teacher and also Sensei's son) sensitively inquired if "anything happened at school today" to upset him. Nope. He just categorically refused to do the class. I gave him a pass that day and that night we discussed the problem. It came out that Booper was nervous about doing jumping jacks after seeing himself on the video. He does not think he does JJs the right way, and he refuses to particpate in something that he does not do well. (Uh....that gene would be mine. Sorry.) So after a lengthy JJ practice session and a talk about how it's okay to make mistakes, we tried again.

Boop was willing to put on his uniform this time, but he hid behind the elliptical trainer and would not come out, curling up with a big boo-boo face. The Sensei came over to encourage him, but no dice. I told Sensei that Booper was worried about making a mistake with the jumping jacks. He said, "hey, it's no big deal. I make mistakes with the JJs sometimes too." Booper was unmoved. We stayed for 2/3 of the class, then I took him home, angry at his unwillingness to even try. I know it was a mistake to be angry, and even in the moment I knew it wouldn't help, but I was frustrated at the thought of having spent all this $$ on the class only to have him refuse to do it. I'm not sure why this touched such a nerve in me, but I was pissed. I resolved to talk with Sensei the next day to strategize.

As soon as I walked into the dojo, Sensei asked, "So what's up with [Booper]? Why doesn't he want to do class?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," I answered.

"When that kid smiles, his face lights up the room. But when he's grumpy, look out!" he observed.

"I know. But I don't think it's a good idea to let him quit once it gets difficult. We want to teach him that making mistakes is okay, especially in a class, and that he has to keep trying."

"Yeah, you can't stop bringing him now. He'll just learn that it's okay to give up. Just keep bringing him until you eventually wear him down. Sometimes you have to walk that line between pushing and parenting."

So I resolved to continue bringing him to class. The next opportunity was Saturday morning, after the adult boxing/kickboxing class. In the past, I have taken this one-hour class, which is immediately followed by the preschool martial arts class, and Booper has played or colored while I got my sweat on. The people at the dojo are totally cool with that. So I brought Booper along, hoping he could hang out and get comfortable enough to do his class. (If you knew his personality, you'd know that this is a sound strategy.) I also tried a little "psychology." I told him I was nervous about my class because I was going to have a new teacher, but I planned to do the class anyway, even though I felt scared. I asked him if he feels scared about his class too, and we agreed to support each other through the nerves with a promise of chocolate if we both did our "best job."

Upon arrival, I put on his uniform (I mean I helped him put his uniform on. You knew that, right?) then started punishing myself with kicks, punches, push-ups, and the like. He was watching me intently to be sure I did my "best job" when the Sensei asked him if he'd like to help do some measuring around the studio in preparation for a remodeling project, Booper eagerly agreed. He happily followed Sensei around, holding the tape, counting the numbers, and assisting with the work. They were having a great time, yucking it up. I heard a passer-by ask the Sensei, "Hey...is that your boy?" To which Sensei replied, "I wish."

When it came time for the kids class, Booper again was reluctant to take part. He was worried about the jumping jacks. The senpei lead him over to class and I told him I would do the first part with him (mostly stretching). He agreed. While he did not do any JJs (and that is the very first thing they do), he did complete the rest of the class with aplomb. As a very special reward, Sensei gave him another stripe for his belt. (You're supposed to complete 5 classes for a stripe, and Booper wasn't there yet.) He said that this special stripe was something Booper earned for being brave and overcoming his fears.

Booper was over the moon. After class, he ran into my arms and showed me his new stripe. "Look at my stripe, Mom! I am so happy!" I wanted to run over and give the Sensei a big hug, but opted instead to just whisper "Thank you" as he walked by. To which he replied, "You are very welcome." Don't you love the Sensei? I think I found the right teacher for my kid. Now if I could just get this lucky with the kindergarten thing.

MN in MN

2008-02-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

MN: Please forgive my tardiness on this. I was visiting my mother, and the risk of leaving a cookie crumb behind on her computer that would lead her straight to us was just too much chance to take.

You may not know this, but I read your blog every day. I think about you throughout the evening and wonder how you are doing. I imagine creating a voo-doo doll in PN's likeness and jamming the rectal area with sharp little pins.

You know why I am not voting for Hillary? There are several reasons, but here is one that is relevant to this situation: She took shit from her husband that no woman should take, just to further her career. Let's face it. Her husband, while brilliant and possibly an excellent President, humiliated her and her daughter in front of the world. On more than one occasion. And he lied about it, dragging her along with him. I can understand that, while he was Prez, she may not have felt she could dump his ass. But once that part was over, kick that sorry pile to the curb. If she couldn't do it for herself, then what about as an example to her daughter of what NOT to take from a man.

How does this relate to you? Because I am a firm believer that marriage vows are only valid when both parties adhere to them. Marriage may have been created as a lopsided biblical institution designed to enslave women, provide for their economic survival, and offer them protection from roaming bands of wolves, but it's not that anymore. It's a partnership. Takes two to tango, etc. I don't know what your marriage vows contained, but mine did not say, "I promise to take whatever shit you can dish out, allow you to call me names, drive you around so you can get shit-faced when I'm 15-months pregnant, give you all my money to buy darts, clean up your crusty blue underwear, and accept racist and bigoted behavior from your family."

If you did happen to state those vows, then I guess you're screwed. But if you went with the usual "love, honor, respect" thing, then you're free and clear.

So please know that you are doing the right thing. You are doing the only viable thing. You are doing the strong thing. You are doing the sensible thing. You are doing the motherly thing. And we got your back.

Oy, Sensei

2008-02-01T17:46:00.000-08:00

Looks like things are going very well for Booper and his martial arts career. He is enthralled with it and looks forward to attending class. The Caboose is a little less enamored, so we're going to push pause for him and let The Boop just do his thing.

But wanna hear the funny part? Today, during my personal training session with Sensei, I learned that he is Jewish. From New York. Bar Mitzvah and everything. He told me he is adopted, which is why he doesn't look Jewish, but he was raised by Jews and considers himself Jewish. Leave it to me to find the only Jewish Martial Arts instructor in all of SF.

I think he is living with the woman who works the front desk. She is half-Korean, half-Chinese, and was telling me how beautiful she thinks Hapa children are. (She was tactful enough to use the word "mixed.") Who knows....maybe there is some Hapa in her future? And for Booper, maybe Hapa is the new black belt.

Ooos!

From Southern Voice

2008-01-25T16:02:00.000-08:00

I'm still not able to put my thoughts into words regarding my friend Max. So I am pasting in a recent profile published in Southern Voice in Atlanta. Max was all about spreading his story, so please indulge me in helping him achieve this goal.

I will be dying soon; when is anybody’s guess. This sucks, of course, totally. But I am content. I look at my life and am satisfied — and that’s saying a lot. A definition of successful, even. I count myself lucky. Blessed. Full. Rich.” — Max Beck, Dec. 31, 2007

On Jan. 12, less than two weeks after Joseph Maxfield Beck, known to everyone as Max, wrote this final entry in his blog, he succumbed to cancer, at home and surrounded by those who loved him. And despite the pain he suffered from chemo, radiation, side effects of powerful drugs and just being sick all the time, he never lost his spirit, said his wife, Tamara Beck.

“He was diagnosed in March 2005 and it was stage four then,” she said this week, seated on the couch in her Grant Park home. “He was such a fighter. He said, ‘I’ll be the miracle case.’”

Beck, who was born intersexed and lived most of his life as a woman, was 41 when he died of vaginal cancer. He is survived by his family, including his wife, 7-year-old daughter and 2-year-old son.“My family speaks for itself. Something I never even thought I would, or could, have," Beck wrote in his final blog entry. "I found my soul mate, and she dragged me kicking and screaming into marriage and fatherhood. Kicking and screaming, and I am so glad that she did, for my children are the center of my world, a miracle of noise and laughter and mayhem of which I am so proud and — every day — in breathless amazement.”'

UNFINISHED GIRL'

Arriving home from school during this interview, Beck's daughter introduced herself, then announced, “Daddy’s not here."

Tamara explained to her precocious child with an affinity for dinosaurs that daddy was going to be in the newspaper. “He would have liked that,” said Tamara, who serves as the Grant Park playgroup liaison.

Max wasn’t a stranger to publicity and felt telling his story was a form of activism, Tamara said.He was interviewed by CNN’s Anderson Cooper in 2005, featured on The Learning Channel, profiled on the HBO documentary “Middle Sexes” and appeared on the PBS series Nova.

Max unabashedly told his story of being intersexed to not only reporters, but to young people facing the same struggle and doctors who have intersex patients. One of his passions was working with the Intersex Society of North America (www.isna.org).

Max very frankly discussed his experience of being raised a girl named Judy — an “unfinished girl” the doctors explained when she was a preteen undergoing hormone therapy and eventually genital surgery.

At the time, Tamara said, doctors believed in assigning most children born with ambiguous genitalia as girls because, and she quoted one doctor, “It’s easier to make a hole than build a pole.”Judy eventually married a man, but decided she was a butch lesbian when she fell head-over-heels in love with Tamara in 1992 after the two met in college in Pennsylvania.

When Judy told Tamara that she had a “horrible” secret, Tamara said, ironically, she feared Judy had cancer.

But when Judy — and Tamara is careful to talk about Judy and Max as they were, actually, two different people — told Tamara her “shameful secret,” Tamara said she told Judy it didn’t matter “because I love you.”

“The horrible thing of it was this amazing person was carrying around this enormous secret alone,” Tamara said.“She was and he was the most interesting person I met. He was incredibly deep, able to see beyond the banter to the important stuff,” Tamara added. “Everybody liked him. He had charisma. He had a genuine way of relating to people that was refreshing and surprising."

There is a match to your rough edges, Tamara explained, and Max was that to her. “That was my person,” she said. “He was the person who loved me unconditionally. We had a deep knowledge of each other. I was very lucky — I suspect most people don’t have that.”

FROM JUDY TO MAX

Max Beck found out about being intersex by accident when he sent off for vaccination records needed for a job. His childhood medical records showed he was a “male pseudo hermaphrodite.” Never completely comfortable as a woman, Judy began pondering becoming a man.

It was at an Atlanta Feminist Women’s Chorus concert, when they both went to the women’s restroom and were looked at by other lesbians as “some strange heterosexual couple,” that the couple decided to make serious changes. “That was an eye-opening experience,” Tamara said. “Even among our own we were different.”

Judy changed her name legally to Max and in 1998 started taking testosterone. A visit to the DMV for a driver’s license renewal resulted in a happy accident when a customer service employee took one look at Max and replaced the “F” with an “M” on his license. With that official designation, the two were able to legally marry in 2000.

At the time the couple got together, Tamara said she identified as a lesbian. But by staying with Judy and then Max, her love never faltering, she admitted she doesn’t really know how to classify herself.

“Does that make me the ultimate bisexual?” she asked.

Max never identified as a man, but if society gives you two boxes and male is how you are going to present, then a male you are, Tamara said.

“He did have some guilt about passing and the social privilege,” she said. “But just seeing him change from Judy to Max … there were subtle changes, but some of it was very core,” she said.

The couple never hid from their children, conceived with the help of donor sperm, that at one time daddy was a girl; photos of Judy and Tamara together still line the hallway of their home. To their daughter, the anguish her father suffered as a girl was simply “doctors being mean to daddy,” Tamara said.

For Max, gender was never simply either-or, she added. “He maintained a fluid identity where gender was concerned. Even when we were lesbians, he wanted to be the father,” she said.

As a man with vaginal cancer, Max Beck did not have a built-in support system to deal with this specific issue. A friend suggested he contact the Atlanta Lesbian Health Initiative, and there he found a small, intimate and close group to share his feelings, said ALHI Executive Director Linda Ellis.

LIVING WITH CANCER

“He called us because there was no one else to call,” Ellis said. “It took some conversations to explain and educate folks, but there was never a question [whether] he was welcome.”Ellis came to know Beck as a man whose wife and children were the most important things to him.

“Max had the amazing ability to take what life handed him and build a life out of it,” she said.“There are parts of his story that at first you want to gawk at, like a car accident. And every time a new person came to the group, he had to come out again every time,” she said, “but he did it with incredible grace.”

Ellis described his life as a “radical nature of normalcy.” Not only did he devote his life to his family, he was a recent graduate of the Rollins School of Public Health at Emory University. By simply being who he was, he set an example for all of us, Ellis added.

“I want people to know Max’s story,” she said. “He lived life openly and with grace — and that is my best hope for all of us.”

The ALHI cancer support group continues to meet the first and third Thursday of every month, Ellis said.

“I'm content, I suppose, despite what can only be described as a raw deal, because, in retrospect, I discover I have lived a meaningful life. I have to confess, this wasn't something I planned...it just sort of, well, happened. But it did, leaving me and, I like to think, all of you, the richer.” — Max Beck

Karate Kid II

2008-01-20T19:58:00.000-08:00

Life often imitates work: If I just put off making a decision long enough, the situation will resolve itself. So yesterday we went to our second martial arts class. I made sure to arrive early, as I knew the boys would be getting their uniforms, and corralling them into changing clothes/getting ready for class would be a time suck.

The atmosphere this time was different: Music playing, grown-ups sparring, Two senseis on the scene. With uniforms in hand, we sat down on the side of the mat to watch the adult boxing/kickboxing class. Not there for even one minute, Sensei called, "Hey Mom! Do you want to join us in class?" Yes! Yes! Yes! I do! So I quickly changed my clothes and got down to business. Lifting the free weights, doing sit-ups, following Sensei's order. Sensei told the boys where to sit and kept them out of trouble while I got some much-needed exercise. When it was time to "work the heavy bag," (and by that I mean the boxing training device, not myself), Sensei let me borrow some boxing gloves and gave me a quick instruction on what to do. Then--and this is my favorite part--he told the boys to come sit on the edge of the mat near me and "Show your mother some respect." I'm in love!

Class proceeded like this for about 30 minutes. Then it was time for the boys to do their thing. This time, Booper was all about it. He performed every element of class, start to finish, including the vocal parts. (e.g. Ooos, Sensei.) He had a blast, giggling, listening, enthralled by Sensei and the other kids in his class. Dream come true. The Caboose...not so much. I got the uniform on him, and he promptly stripped it off, standing in class in his diaper. Sensei laughed and told me his son did the same thing when he was Caboose's age, and it's probably because the new uniform is itchy. I participated in class again this time, but really just with the Caboose, who was not that into it. The Boop was doing his own thing.

Now we can't wait to go back this week, and I'm hoping to work something out with the Handyman so I can go to this boxing/kickboxing class regularly. If you've never put on boxing gloves and kicked/punched the bejesus out of something, I gotta tell you. It's a revelation.

Wax On, Wax Off

2008-01-17T10:53:00.000-08:00

Last week, the Handyman took Booper to what we hoped would be the first of many kids martial arts classes. True to form, The Boop was cautious about the new situation and elected not to participate. He sat with his Dad, watching closely, and they agreed that next time he would give it a whack.

Afterward, I had a brainstorm and thought it might be easier for Booper to venture forth if the Caboose tried it with him. (They are thick as thieves.) I researched the options in our area and yesterday took them to a preschool martial arts class for kids ages 2.5 to 5. (They are 2.5 (Caboose) and 4.5 (Booper)). When we arrived at the dojo, we met Sensei (who, not for noting, was smokin' hot) and waited for class to begin. Sensei was the main teacher, and he had two assistants, both boys around 13 or 14 years old. My kids generally respond well to older boys like that. Booper was willing to stand with the other kids in the line--an improvement over last time--but would not otherwise take part in class. He was obviously shy (he had his fingers in his mouth, which he only does when he's anxious and shy) and just wanted to watch. The Caboose, on the other hand, was a prodigy. He kicked, punched, jumped, ran, stretched, and bowed. All while listening closely to Sensei. He did it all, and loved it. To encourage The Boop to try it, I started in the class myself. Sensei encouraged me to participate, and it was fun! But I was a little apprehensive that my participation would undermine the goal: to help Booper develop self-confidence, self-discipline and strength. Also, because he has gentle female teachers all day, I thought it would be good for him/them to experience a more firm, strict male teacher.

When class was over, Booper, who is the total sweetness, told me, "Mommy, I am so proud of you for doing the class. You did a great job." Because he struggles with trying new things, I got the feeling that it really impressed him that I was willing to just try something and not let its newness get in my way. So right there I was feeling like maybe I had done the right thing by leaping in.

After class, Sensei told me that he thought both boys could enroll and that it's not uncommon for some kids to be reluctant in the first class. Given a few more sessions, he expects Booper to be roundhousing with the best of them. He also told me that I am welcome to participate in class with them, at no extra charge. I would really like to, but I am torn. Let me break it down for you:

Pros: 1) Martial arts becomes a family activity, which I would like more of, since the boys go to preschool fulltime. 2) The boys see me model the kind of behavior that I would like them to exhibit. i.e. willingness to try new things, listening to teacher, focused attention in class. 3) I get a chance to learn martial arts and get some exercise.

Cons: 1) The Boop does not get this opportunity to master his fear of doing new things alone. i.e. I am horning in on his action. 2)....there really is no 2. That's all I got.

Mitigating factors: Both boys attend preschool fulltime, while I am at work. We get exactly zero complaints about their behavior at school. Their teachers love them and they are popular with the other kids (Booper is maybe a little too popular. 4 girls in his class plan to marry him.) Booper is the oldest child in his class, which we notice has done a tremendous amount for his self-confidence, after being the youngest/smallest for a while the year before. Next year, he will likely start kindergarten. We would like this to ease this transition for him as much as possible, hence our objective to give him some experience with new environments. Point being: it's not like I am with them all the time, smothering them, and preventing them from being independent. But we want to help foster independence as a general principle.

Can you tell I'm feeling conflicted? What do you think? Should I do the class with them? Just do a couple classes until they are comfortable? Not do the class at all and make Booper cowboy up?

Please advise.

Can I get a witness?

2008-01-16T09:02:00.001-08:00

Max's wife Tamara has made public the details of Max's memorial service. It's on February 5th, his birthday, in Atlanta. I'm fairly certain that I won't be able to make the trip again this time, and am feeling satisfied that I went when he was still alive and he could know I was there. But I'm wondering if any of the Kimchi Mamas (or other readers) who live in that general area would be willing to attend as my proxy. If you think you could swing it, please post in the comment section. I feel strongly that Max deserves a huge turnout for his memorial and that I would like to make people aware of the issues he worked so hard to represent.

Otherwise, here's the link to the details. If you are familiar with Max's story, you'll see some links to charities that mattered to him, if you are feeling so inclined.

http://www.dogearedpress.com/max/maxblog/

The End

2008-01-13T20:36:00.000-08:00

Those of you who have read this blog for the last little bit have heard me mention my childhood friend, Max Beck. Max died on Saturday after a long battle with cancer. I have a lot I want to write about him, but right now it's all too raw. So, I am pasting in a transcript from an interview that Max did with Anderson Cooper about the issue of intersexuality. The first part of the transcript is lifted from "Middle Sexes," a documentary Max was in that is occasionally aired on HBO.

MAX BECK, BORN INTERSEXUAL: When I was born doctors couldn't determine if I was a boy or a girl. I had what are described as ambiguous genitalia. My parents were confused, scared, they weren't able to tell anyone who knew they'd had a child if it was a boy or a girl.
GORE VIDAL, NARRATOR, "MIDDLE SEXES": Max was just a year old when his phallus was surgically reduced. He was brought up as a girl, Judy, who underwent a whole series of operations until the age of 15, never once being told what they were for.
BECK: For 20 odd years I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone about this and didn't tell -- just like my mother didn't tell -- her best friend. I never even told my best friend.
VIDAL: By her late teens Judy felt confused. She tried a relationship with a boy -- and a girl.
BECK: Whereas my male partner, boyfriend, had not commented on the difference in my genital anatomy -- which incidentally I wasn't even aware of at the time -- my female partner did. She said something. She said, boy, Judy you sure are weird. I came away from that thinking of myself as a monster or a freak. And so I decided that I would avoid that upset by being with men. So I quite literally settled down with the next guy to come along.
VIDAL: Judy simply married a male friend from college. But the relationship was short-lived. Judy had met Tamara.
UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: I was really excited. It was definitely a case of love at first sight. Sparks just flew. It was magic.
BECK: I looked at her and fell in love with her. It was love at first sight. She was breathtakingly beautiful.
VIDAL: Then a bombshell. I needed my childhood immunization records. So I contacted my childhood pediatrician and found that he had retired. And the woman who had taken over his practice had someone photocopy my records and mail them. And I opened my mail in a diner in a Center City, Philadelphia. And right after my name, which at the time was Judy Elizabeth Beck, were the words "male pseudo hermaphrodite". And I was devastated and dumbfounded. At the same time it was almost a relief because I had a label. Not only did I know that was monster, but I could point in a textbook at exactly what kind of monster I was.
VIDAL: The couple lived in an open lesbian relationship, but Judy's knowledge of her own medical history was gnawing at her. I began to question how valid a lesbian identity was; if I'm not female, can I be a lesbian? I'm thinking in those vicious circles and undermining this precious shred of identity that I had finally obtained through Tamara (ph) and (INAUDIBLE) depression and I was hospitalized.
VIDAL: What emerged from this turmoil was a man. Judy became Max. The full transition took four years and incredibly the loving bond with Tamara survived. They live as man and wife with a child conceived by Tamara.
BECK: I don't have a male identity. And I don't know that I ever had a female identity, but I certainly don't have one now. And if pressed I supposed I would say I have an inter-sexed identity.
UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: We've been together more than 10 years now and we're still together. This is the same person that I fell in love with. You know over the next 50 years his hair is going to fall out and he's going to get wrinkles and he's still going to be my Max.

(END VIDEOTAPE)
COOPER: It is a remarkable story and joining me now from Atlanta is Max Beck. Max, thanks for being with us.
MAX BECK, BORN INTERSEXUAL: My pleasure.
COOPER: Was it difficult for you to agree to do this?
BECK: No, not at all.
COOPER: What went into the decision? I mean, did you want -- what do you want people to know?
BECK: Well, it's very important to me and other folks who are involved with ISNA, the Intersex Society of North America, to increase public awareness. Let people know about intersexuality, the various conditions, and also call their attention to the fact that these surgeries in early childhood often -- harmful surgeries, obviously emotionally very harmful later in life, but also potentially physically harmful surgeries are still happening.
COOPER: What do you think parents should do? I mean, you're parents decided -- how did they make that decision, by the way, to have surgery to try to make you a girl?
BECK: This what the doctors told them. This was 1966. My parents had never heard of any such thing as intersexuality; had no idea that this was a possibility. And here they were with a brand new infant and the doctors couldn't tell them if that infant was a boy or a girl. The prevailing treatment paradigm at the time was to surgically intervene and create normal appearing female genitalia and raise that child female. And that was the doctors very strong recommendation.
COOPER: And what do you think parents -- what -- as you look back on that, what do you think your parents should have done? Or do you wish they had done?
BECK: Well, clearly, there needed to be a gender of assignment. And be it male or female. We are understanding now a great deal more about certain biological markers that can give the doctors a better understanding as to whether a male or female gender identity is likely to develop. But avoiding the early childhood surgeries, leaving the anatomy intact until the individual can actually be part of informed consent.
COOPER: Do you think there was an age when it became clear to you, that something was different?
BECK: I think that -- yes, I think from my earliest recollections, my earliest memories I was aware of the fact that there was something different. My life was a series of visits to doctors, specialists, men poking around between my legs with no explanation as to what was going on. I knew --
COOPER: What would they tell you about those doctor visits? Because you continued to have surgeries and without any explanation of why you were having surgeries?
BECK: Well, when I reached an age that I think at around 11 or 12, I needed to have some major surgery. It was explained to me that I was a girl, but I wasn't finished yet. And that was the doctor's explanation. That was the extent of the explanation.
COOPER: Did that make sense to you? I mean, it sounds --
BECK: No, it didn't. I certainly didn't question. I mean, so much of it was tied in with my parents and my family. It was emotionally devastating for my mother to talk about it. It was impossible for her to talk about it. The doctors had told her not to talk about it with me. And, you know, she was able to comply because she couldn't talk about it without just falling to pieces. And so I learned from a very early age not to ask those questions, certainly not of my parents. COOPER: Well, it's great that you are talking about it now. The documentary is called "Middle Sexes: Redefining He and She". It premieres on our sister network, HBO, tomorrow night, 9:30 Eastern. We'll definitely be watching. Thanks so much. It's good to meet you.
BECK: My pleasure. Same here.

Gentle reader: If you're still with me, I ask that you click on the link at right to Max's blog and read his final post there.

Max, I'll see you next time.

The "F" Word

2008-01-11T09:26:00.000-08:00

After a good night's sleep, and some Diet Mountain Dew, I figured out what I was trying to say in yesterday's scatalogical post: Feminist. That's the word I was looking for.

There was a commenter in MN's aforementioned blog who suggested that a woman drowning in a toxic and deteriorating marriage should give her husband another chance (for the nth time) because "marriage is work." This remark chapped my hide, and it took me a day to figure out why. How is it that the wife should "give him another chance" and "stick with marriage even though it's work," but the selfish, unrepentant dude is not required to do any of said work, or change his behavior in any way. This is sexist and anti-woman.

At the time, I was tempted to use the F word in my comment. I held off for fear of alienating my fellow bloggers. But if what Halfmama says is true, whatever appeal I have as a blogger comes from my willingness to be candid. So I will invoke the "F" word now. I am a feminist and proud of it. Does that mean I hate men? Hell to the no. I love men. I even married one. I live with all males, and wouldn't have it any other way. I have no sisters, only a brother that I adore. Men. Men. Men. I love men! But that doesn't mean I can't be a feminist.

How does feminism tie in to my poop story from yesterday? Because that anecdote typifies how women are often socialized to not reveal the truly ugly parts of their individual experiences, especially when it comes to childbirth. It's all prettied up, sanitized for our protection. A conspiracy theorist might say it's to keep us all breeding. I don't believe that. But I do think it's a holdover from a Victorian Era that encourages women not to be graphic, ribald, or frank with each other about what happens with their bodies. Phooey on that.

To strengthen each other, we really should reveal the good, the bad, and the ugly:

Yes! You're going to dump on the delivery table!

Yes! You are going to have your period for like 4 weeks after the baby comes out.

Yes! You will have bed-soaking night sweats after delivering.

Yes! There will likely be a medical student or fumbling resident in your delivery room as a "learning opportunity." (My first-timer asked if he could "check me" during a contraction, to which I shrieked, "Get away from me!" Of course, I was foolish enough to have my baby in July. Everyone knows you should never go to the hospital in July.)

Yes! Your privates will be eyeballed by everyone, including janitorial staff, and you won't give a damn because you just want that baby out!

Yes! You will have stitches somewhere, either in the cooter or the belly depending on how things go for you. (With Baxter, I even had one in my clitoris because I tore so much. Did I mention he had a HUGE head?)

Yes! Breastfeeding hurts for the first 10-14 days even if you are doing it right!

No! You will not want to have sex even after the doctor says you can.

In an effort to strengthen our ties to each other as women, I invite you to post/comment with your hidden truths about childbearing. Not to scare away the women who haven't done it yet. But to prepare them for what they will face. It's the sisterly thing to do. No...it's the feminist thing to do.

The Poop

2008-01-10T15:24:00.000-08:00

I was reading Mama Nabi's blog post from yesterday, and she mentioned that she got a fax from Mr. Brown while she was in labor. Her husband--PN--felt he should announce this to the entire delivery room, which was mean and unnecessary. But I started thinking about this whole dooky thing, and I can't help wondering why this fact of labor is shrouded in secrecy. It's natural, so why should we feel embarassed.

Based on the commentors on MN's blog, a lot of women drop a deuce during labor. Probably most women do. Isn't there safety in numbers?

Now that we are on the subject, I'll share with you a little story about what often happens after the baby comes. When Booper was about 3 weeks old, I was struggling mightily with the breastfeeding. For one, I could only nurse on the right side due to a lumpectomy I had on the left side when I was a teenager (that's a whole other story I won't bore you with now.) The left one made milk, but I couldn't get it out. Wow! Engorgement is no joke. So I was just nursing on the right. The right side, unfortunately, had developed a yeast infection from the antibiotics I was given during labor. (I became feverish, and they didn't know why, so they just threw a bunch of meds at me to see what would stick.) Any of you who have had mammary yeast know that it hurts like a mo-fo. And modern medicine has come up with exactly ZERO effective ways to treat this nightmare. But to address the pain, my doctor gave me some Tylenol #3 (you know, the good kind, with the codeine.)

Long story longer, Tylenol #3 can be very constipating. As can breastfeeding, if you don't drink enough water. Between the two, I became so stool-challenged that I passed out on the toilet trying to do my thing. That's right. Fainted dead away, banged my head on the sink, and hit the deck. With my maternity panties around my ankles and my nursing nightie in a twist.

Fortunately, the Handyman was home and he helped me get into bed (now that, people, is love.) The next day, I went to the doctor to get a check-up. Of course, first time in my life that I have a cute young doctor. Imagine my joy when I get to say, "Well, Dr. Delicious, last night I passed out on the crapper. How's your day going?"

Once again, I find myself at the end of my post without a point. I'll get back to you on this. Or better yet, can we go interactive and you can tell me my point in the comments section?

2008-01-03T12:56:00.000-08:00

So here I am at work, not working. Instead I am reading blogs. As per usual, I check the status on Mama Nabi, only to find that she has added me to her Blog Roll! Wow! I'm so excited, I could pop a tire! (As Mater would say. And if you don't know who Mater is, then you obviously don't have a son age 6 or younger.) Such high praise as this deserves a new blog post, so here I go.

I am not feeling particularly controversial today, but I will try to put forth some observations anyway, as you are no doubt intrigued by me after reading my fascinating meme. This picture here is of the Caboose. At his holiday sing-along. He is goddamn cute, is what he is. His teachers drew on his nose with lipstick. That's me behind him. Somehow this photo makes it look like I have a really smokin' bod. Trust me, I don't. But you do get a good look at my preternaturally long thumbs.

On Monday, I submitted our enrollment application for kindergarten for the Booper. While I love to sing the praises of the city by the Bay, this is one part of living in SF that is jacked up. You have to apply for public school. You supply a list of 7 schools you would send your child to, in order of preference. Then the school district has a "lottery" in which you are assigned to a school, hopefully from your list. So there is no guarantee that my kids will get into the elementary school that is just 3 blocks from my house. Our alternative to this is to pay $20K/yr for private school (I sh*t you not). Some people send their kids to Catholic school, which is about half that much, but that's not an option for us. I know, I know. Jewish people send their kids to Catholic schools, too. blah blah blah. We've been over this. Not. Gonna. Happen.

I think I've decided to vote for Barack Obama. While I totally dig the idea of a woman President, I am annoyed at this current trend of passing the Presidency around like a joint, as Mos Def would say. Let's give someone else a turn. Especially if that someone else is Hapa!

About 17 years ago, I was dating this dude. He is now married and has a son. He keeps a blog about his son, and just posted a bunch of pictures of their holiday in Ohio. I lurked over there and checked them out. He looks old, my ex-boyfriend, and is still as dull and unoriginal as he ever was, but his kid is really cute. This was the boyfriend who taught me the valuable lesson that sometimes shyness can be a form of hostility.

Alright, I'm going to make a concerted effort now to do some work. Especially since Halfmama and I are trying to plan a family vacation for this summer. But I'll be back. As soon as something pisses me off, and that can't be long from now.

Random Acts of Meme

2007-12-29T11:53:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my first meme, thanks to Halfmama. Having never done this before, I'm not quite sure of the Rules, but I'll try to supply 8 random, yet entertaining, facts about myself.

Rules: Once tagged, you must link to the person who tagged you. Then post the rules before your list, and list 8 random things about yourself.

1) My pupils are inordinately large, even in bright light, so I have to wear polarized sunglasses even on a cloudy day. In addition, my pupils are not the same size. Once, during an eye exam, the doctor accused me of being on drugs and would not take no for an answer.

2) I have extraordinarily long thumbs. I can wrap them around the back of my hand. Freaks people out.

3) In September, 1992, I almost died in a hurricane on Kauai. My boyfriend at the time and I went backpacking on the NaPali Coast Trail on the North Shore. On Day #2, the island was slammed with Class 5 Hurricane Iniki. Winds up to 180 mph. We spent the first part of the storm wedged between a boulder and the mountain, with our packs on our stomachs. During the eye, we scurried down and sought shelter for the second part inside a rental car that had been crushed by a tree. Because of this shared experience, I stayed with this dude for way longer than I should have.

4) I love to do the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle in ink. I HATE it when someone tries to "help" me by blurting out answers over my shoulder.

5) I love Coconut flavored Coffee-Mate liquid creamer. I also like Toffee Nut flavor. I don't like Blueberry Cobbler flavor, though I love real Blueberry Cobbler. Mmmmm. Cobbler.

6) In my career thus far I have done the following: sat with people as they died, watched surgeons remove all the organs from a brain-dead person, watched a baby be delivered, had babies taken from their mothers because of drug use during pregnancy, walked into a hospital room to see a mother holding her dead babies. After this last one, I quit that job.

7) I would like to write a book. Or more accurately, I would like to have written a book.

8) I'm excellent at reading maps.

The Outlook Wasn't Brilliant...

2007-12-13T20:35:00.000-08:00

People who know me know that I love baseball. They know that, at our house, we always eat dinner in the dining room, except during October. They know that I adopted a dog from a humane society and named him Willie Mays. They know that I decided I was going to marry my husband when he surprised me on my birthday with plane tickets to NYC and two seats on the first base line to see the Yankees take on the Red Sox on a Friday night. They know that my most prized possession, prior to having children (who are not a possession, but you know what I mean), is my baseball signed by Bucky Dent and Derek Jeter. They know that I gave my oldest son the middle name Aaron for a reason.

Warts and all, I love baseball. And I believe that baseball is one of those things that you can't teach a person to love, just like you can't teach a dog person to be a cat person. Maybe you can introduce her to a really awesome cat, for whom she might develop a particular attachment, but when faced with her choice of pet, she goes canine every time.

I have a friend who says, "I don't trust people who don't like Bruce Springsteen." I feel similarly about baseball. I don't trust people who don't like baseball. And when I say that, I mean real baseball. Not the kind with the big, splashy home runs in every game (boring.) But the kind that involves strategy (Yes! Baseball has strategy!), psychological gamesmanship, and the balletic artistry of a sure-handed shortstop turning a double play.

So being a lover of baseball, this has been a difficult day. I don't like to see my game disgraced, and I do think this is utterly disgraceful. It's not the prevalence of the steroids: I'm not naive, I've noticed that certain players have developed muscles on their ears. (you'll notice that my Baby Daddy, Derek Jeter, was not named anywhere. He's all real.) It's the way the game condoned it and even encouraged it. Having read most of the Mitchell Report today, when I should have been working, the most disturbing part was how the scouts, coaches, and team staff would assess certain players by saying, for all intents and purposes, "he was on the stuff, he's not on the stuff now, but he needs to get back on the stuff if he's going to be of any use to us." So not only do they not care that he abuses these harmful drugs, they want him to get back to doing it so they can squeeze a few more useful years out of the old guy. At the same time, these businesspeople are doing all they can to stall any attempts at testing players randomly.

I will leave it to the sports pundits to eloquently analyze the evidence in this report. And I will leave it to the cynics to say that baseball is a business, pure and simple, and that thinking otherwise is childish. Instead, I'm going to survey the horizon for baseball's next great hero...and there will be one. Baseball always resurrects itself.

Baseball has survived many horrific scandals. It has a long history of racism, greed, cronyism, corruption, and drug abuse. So why do I love it and continue to believe in it? I love it because, aside from being a fantastic way to spend a hot summer afternoon, it reflects so perfectly our American culture and society. It acknowledges its problems--though sometimes only under duress--then attempts corrective action. Maybe not consistently, maybe not successfully, but always in public. Based on that history, I'm gambling that baseball will right itself. In a few years, there will be a sincere, hardworking, talented young player to guide the game in a new direction: back to double steals, sacrifice bunts, screwballs, and inside-the-park home runs. In keeping with current trends, he'll likely be from another country (Korea?!) where this is the common style of play. Better yet...Hapa All Stars anyone?

Too Much F*cking Perspective.

2007-12-03T14:20:00.001-08:00

Max was my “first best friend,” as he likes to say, back when he was Judy. Max was born intersexed, and the doctors performed an immediate sexual assignment surgery after his birth, then told his parents to raise him as a girl. So they did. And that girl, Judy, was my constant companion from kindergarten through junior high. Judy was a wonderful friend. Unlike other girls, she was never catty, cliquish, or cruel. She accepted me unconditionally and we didn’t squabble or compete, like I did with other girls. Her family invited me over every year to decorate their Christmas tree. We had frequent sleepovers. She was creative and brilliant. In first grade, we wrote satirical “newspapers,” skewering our teachers, families, and general issues pertinent to a suburban 6-year-old. She liked Root Beer. She had a T-shirt with the iron-on initials JEB, so I called her Jeb. She introduced me to Mad and Cracked magazines. We memorized the dialogue of “Star Wars,” (the first one, the real one) and would recite it to each other.

When I got back in touch with Max, he told me he had cancer. Vaginal cancer, but he seemed to be in a remission and was working fulltime, raising a family. This didn’t last long. The cancer spread to his lungs, and probably elsewhere in his body, and did not respond to treatment. He is terminal, with a life expectancy at this point of 3 to 4 weeks. I wanted to be among the faces he saw in these final days, so I flew to Atlanta for a weekend visit. I took a cab from the airport to the home of Max’s friends, Jennifer & Dale. They put me up in their third-floor nanny’s quarters and had generously also offered to chauffeur me around. Upon arriving, I learned that Max had been hospitalized that day because of constipation. He hadn’t pooped in nearly 2 weeks and was in significant pain. So the plans were going to change around a little, but I didn’t mind. That first night another of Max’s friends picked me up and drove me to Max’s house so I could meet his family. I visited a little with Tamara, Max’s wife, and met their kids. We ate ice cream and I helped her give baths and read books. Then she packed them in the car and drove me back to my accomodations.

I slept somewhat late the next morning, then showered and went downstairs to deal with the day. I played with the kids for a while, and had a couple cups of coffee. I was in no hurry to get to the hospice, even though this was the stated reason for my visit. I knew it was going to be rough and was procrastinating. Dale offered to drive me to the hospice and pick me up when I was ready, and finally we headed out. On the way, we stopped to get some supplies that Max had requested like “decent coffee” and some Vitamin Water.

The hospice looked like a regular doctor’s office from the outside. It was by the side of a road, not far from a strip mall, just kind of unassumingly sitting there. We buzzed to get in and found Max’s room right away. He looked horrible. Like someone dying of cancer. Gaunt. Gray. Weak. I put down my things and hugged him. He grabbed ahold of me hard and held onto me for a long time. Dale excused himself and left. I pulled up a chair so we could face each other and talk. We had about 15 or 20 minutes of conversation about how he was feeling, his current medical issues, and some other facts like that. I was handling the topics well, albeit clinically, and felt like I was on solid emotional footing. We talked about his parents, his kids, and his plan to come back as a red-tailed hawk.

Intermittently, Max would wince with abdominal pain. His belly looked distended and he told me about his constipation. He also told me that he had a “fistula.” Fistula is kind of a general medical term, but in this case it refers to an opening that had developed between his rectum and his vagina. More like a tear, really, from all the strain. And since Max’s vagina was created in the operating room, it was not meant to withstand much pressure. Consequently, anything that came out of his rectum also came out of his vagina and vice versa. It also meant that enemas were useless to resolve his problem as the fluid just looped back around came out the va-jay-jay. I could see that he also had double nephrostomies, which are tubes that go through his back and right into his kidneys to drain his urine. His insides are so full of cancer that it is choking off the ureters that lead from the kidney to the bladder. The urine backs up into the kidneys then. So they put these tubes in and his urine drains out the back into two little bags.

After talking for a while, Max told me he thought he was going to “get some action,” and would I help him to the bathroom. He cautioned me that he had trouble moving his legs and would need assistance getting out of bed. When he drew back the bedcovers, I could see that his emaciated upper body sat atop distended, bloated hips and elephantine legs. It was as if he was wearing the back end of the horse costume in a cartoon. He had severe edema in both legs, left over from his chemo, and was probably carrying 40 lbs of water in just his lower half. Amazingly, he steadied himself on these pilings, and shuffled to the bathroom. He was wearing a Depends, which I helped pull down, and I seated him on the toilet and left to get him some rubber gloves, as he was going to have to perform a manual disimpaction on himself.

Just after I had my first son, I had some pretty severe constipation and ended up passing out once on the toilet. I was afraid this might happen to Max, so I pulled a chair up to the door of the bathroom, which I kept ajar, then asked him if it would be okay if I sat there to be sure he was safe. He was fine with that. As I read the issue of Mad magazine I had brought, I could hear him grunting, straining, moaning, and ultimately succeeding in moving his bowels. After that first passing, the floodgates were open and he began to have explosive and unrelenting diarrhea. Every time he tried to get up and clean himself, it would strike again. We called for the nurse several times to help him get into the shower and rinse off, but then he would soil himself in the shower as well. So there I was, sitting in the visitor’s chair outside the door, talking to Max while he painfully shit his brains out all over the bathroom. Shit coming out of everywhere. The stench, I might add, was staggering. Occasionally he would ask me to get him something, and I would deliver it to him while he sat on the can: Some water, a tissue, a washcloth, etc. In all the years we were best friends, I had never seen Judy on the toilet. But Max did not hold to these formalities.

After about an hour of this torment, Max was ready to get back to bed. He rose from the toilet, blue-lipped and shivering. I helped him to bed and wrapped him with extra blankets, like I would my child. I lowered his head a little as he said he was dizzy. Then I brought the chair close to the bed and held his hands, which were like ice. He closed his eyes and said to me, “I’m okay with this. Are you okay with this?”
“This is the reason I came to see you,” I answered. “There is no place I would rather be right now.”
“I love you,” Max said.
“I love you, too, buddy. And I always will.”
Then we talked a little about what brought us together as friends. Then Max told me, “I have to go to the bathroom again, but I’m too weak to make it. I’m just going to go in this diaper. I hope you don’t mind.” He did that several times and then fell asleep. I kept holding his hand. He dozed for about 15 minutes, talking unintelligibly in his sleep, then awoke. I went to get the nurse to help him get cleaned up. She got him back into the bathroom, where he endured another bout of this painful, uncontrollable expulsion. Again, I sat outside the door and talked with him while he moaned, bleeted, and sweated through this episode. This time he went into the shower afterward and was able to get back into bed. Once comfortably settled there, he asked for a few items from the store. I made a list and ventured out to the Publix market about ¼-mile down the road. It felt good to be outside in the fresh Georgia air, not breathing in the stench of old shit, but I was still bracing myself, kind of talking myself through it. Once I had the Chap-stick, Gatorade, ginger ale, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, I walked back to the hospice. This time, Max’s door was shut. When I opened it, I saw two nurses at the bedside with Max rolled on his side. By the smell it was obvious that he had soiled himself and the sheets. They asked me to wait outside, so I went to the TV room and watched American Idol Rewind.

About 20 minutes later, the nurse let me know they were done. Once again, Max was all tucked in, but totally exhausted. By now I realized he really wanted to sleep, but was trying to stay awake for my benefit. I held his hand again and let him know it was okay to close his eyes. I eased his head back onto the pillow, and he began to breath rhythmically. Thinking he was asleep, I began to cry. Tears of pure grief. I felt his other hand gently pat my head, and his whispered voice saying, “it’s okay. I love you.”
I told him, “I wish I could say something deep right now that would really help, but I can’t think of anything.”
“Just love,” he said.
“I will always love you and always remember you,” I blubbered. “Whatever happens, Max, I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

Again we sat in silence, holding hands, and Max dozed off again. He talked in his sleep, but nothing I could understand. Except for one clear and distinct, “Wow!” I decided it was probably time for me to get going, so I phoned my hosts and Dale started out to pick me up. We agreed that he would call me when he was outside so I could say my good-byes in private. For that last 15 minutes, Max and I talked about our friendship, how we never had a fight, why we grew apart, and how pleased we were to have found each other again. I told him I would think of him always. Part of me couldn’t wait for the phone to vibrate in my pocket, letting me know my liberators had arrived. Another part of me dreaded the thought of walking out the door. When the time came to do it, I hugged Max one last time, told him I love him, and forced myself to walk away.

As soon as I hit the fresh evening air, tears came. I buried my face in my hands, walking toward Dale and his red mini-van. Next thing I knew, he scooped me up into a big bear hug and let me weap and sob all over him. I barely know this person, having spent an hour or two chatting with him for the first time that morning, and now I am dissolving into a vulnerable heap right before his eyes. But he handled it, and I thank him for that. It takes a unique person to surf that kind of emotional tsunami, especially from a stranger.

I’m kind of exhausted just from typing all this out. Not sure I have a point, exactly. I just needed to purge it. If you’re still with me, thanks for reading it.

Is Giuliani "Interesting?"

2007-11-15T13:21:00.000-08:00

I read the following on The Huffington Post today:

"Per the Jewish news service JTA, top Giuliani aide Ken Kurson told a Jewish audience last night in New York that if Bill Clinton was "the first black president," than the former New York mayor would be the first Jew to reach the White House. Kurson was referring to Giuliani's support among Jews in New York and, presumably, his backing of Israel."

Of course, after reading this I was intrigued. Is Rudy really a Brew? They found out that John Kerry had a little Hymie in him, remember? And General Wesley Clark does, too. So I thought it was worth taking a look at this possibility. Let's examine the evidence:

Rudy was born in Brooklyn. So far, he's looking pretty Jewy. Not a Bronx Indian, but still pretty strong.

His father was a criminal who did time in Sing Sing, after which he became a Mafia enforcer. Hmmm. That sounds less than completely Yid to me.

Giuliani is a Yankees fan. This could swing either way, and surely there are plenty of Burger Yankee fans. So we'll put this in the neutral column.

Most members of his family are either policemen or firemen. Are you kidding? Unless you count that whole Burning Bush thing, Jews aren't firemen. Or cops. Have you ever known a Jewish cop? Jews are lawyers, and maybe even criminal prosecutors, but they aren't cops.

He was the Chief of Police of New York. This is a position never held by a Jew before or since. And since Giuliani is not identied yet as a Jew, it's a position that has never been held by a Jew. I rest my case.

He was the Mayor of New York: Big-time job for the Red Sea Pedestrians in recent years. Beame, Koch, LaGuardia (part Jewish), Bloomberg. You get the picture. So he gets some points here.

Rudy married his second cousin--very shtetl-fabulous--but then had the marriage annulled because he said he thought they were third cousins when they wed. What kind of mishegoss is that? Annullment? No such thing for the 5-3-9. In the tribe, if you want your marriage "annulled" you stop talking to each other and instead communicate via your children. e.g. "Tell your father to put the leftover brisket in a tupperware." "Tell your mother that her brisket was dry and not worth saving."

I'm sure you will agree, that after this complete analysis of the evidence, I must conclude that Giuliani is about as Jewish as paying retail for a Christmas ham.

WTF

2007-11-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

Once again, I find myself struck dumb by a post on Kimchi Mamas. Here is today's pearl:

"I've dated many Jewish guys (am dating one right now) and many of my BFFs (Best Friend Forevers) have been Jewish too. I've noticed that what Asians (regardless of religion) and Jews have in common is the drive for success. Jewish comedians often talk about nagging moms, moms bragging about their sons and daughters' education, jobs, etc...I'm wondering if others on this board have noticed this too...
Posted by: Cynthia C Thursday, November 01, 2007 at 08:20 "

First, I love how she literally tells us that some her best friends are Jews. Then the knish queen lumps all the Jews together, based on stereotypes she has heard from Jewish comedians, and indulges in some facile, race-baiting sweeping generalities about Jews & Asians. Who is this broad? And does she mean to imply that Latinos, African-Americans, Whites, and Christians do not have a drive for success?

TMI

2007-10-05T12:08:00.000-07:00

As a corollary to yesterday's post: Last night, Booper and I are doing the whole night-night snuggle routine.
He asks me, "When a lady has a baby in her tummy, how does it get out?" (There are several pregnant moms at his school, so this topic has been getting a lot of air time.)
I responded, "Ladies have a tunnel where the baby comes out."
Booper: "Is it your belly button?"
Me: "No. It's down lower, in the private area."
Booper: "Can I see yours?"
Me: "No. It's private."
Booper: "But I'm in your family!"
Me: "I know you are in my family. But there are some parts of a lady's body that are private, even if you're in the same family. "
Booper: "I want to see it."
Me: "You can't see it. But I will tell you about it. It's called a vag!na. And it's a tunnel that opens up so the baby can come out. Sometimes a lady has a doctor with her when the baby comes out, to help her, so that's why she goes to the hospital."

Christ, almighty. I can't believe I said the word "vag!na" to my kid. In fact, I can't believe I had this whole fucking conversation with Booper. Lately he is walking around the house with a stuffed penguin under his shirt, telling me that he is going to have a baby. Two nights ago, he fell asleep like that. Then this morning he had the penguin on the kitchen table and notified me that he had delivered my grand-penguin this morning. He hasn't picked a name yet.

Oh, and yesterday we were in a ladies room where they had a tampon/maxipad machine. Of course, he wanted to know all about it and what "those things" are used for. Fuck. I thought having boys was going to free me from these conversations.

Reveal Yourself?

2007-10-04T11:53:00.000-07:00

Booper likes to play a little game at night after his bath. Once Daddy has toweled him off, he runs downstairs in the buff and jumps on the couch next to me, yelling "Here is your nude dude!" He is very sad if he doesn't get a chance to do this at night.

This morning, I was getting dressed for work and Booper was hanging out with me in my room. He is now 4 years old and in the throes of ,what I believe is, his Oedipal phase. I was standing there in my "altogether" and realized that maybe he is getting to the age when I shouldn't allow him to see me like that anymore. I told him, "Booper...when it starts to make you feel weird or uncomfortable to see me without my clothes on, just tell me. I'll stop doing it, okay?" He said, "I will never feel weird to see you without your clothes on, Mommy."

Sometimes it's purely a logistical issue. I am home alone with both boys in the morning getting myself ready for work and them ready for school. I'm bound to be naked at some point in this process, but need to keep the door open so I can keep an eye on them.

And all this got me to thinking....

What's the consensus out there? Do you still let your (male) kids see you naked? If not, why not? And at what age did you stop? Did you see your parents naked when you were a kid? At what age did you stop seeing your opposite sex parent naked, and how did you feel about it?

Reveal Yourselves!

2007-10-04T10:14:00.000-07:00

Once again, I am following in the footsteps of the much-beloved Halfmama, and asking my readership to Delurk Now! It's lonely at the top, one is the loneliest number, misery loves company, etc. So c'mon you MoFos, show yourselves!

In other exciting news, The Caboose pooped in the potty last night. A completely unprovoked and spontaneous act of dumpage. I guess preschool and the Booper have inspired him to get on board with the commode. I'm sure I looked like a total idiot dancing around the house, carrying a piece of Baby Bjorn molded plastic filled with sh*t, but a mother's love knows no bounds. He looked so cute sitting there, with his book, that I took his picture and now have photo documentation of his first foray into getting a fax from Mr. Brown. You know that's getting whipped out on prom night!

Where the Wild Things Are

2007-10-01T19:52:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't checked out his blog, linked to this page, I want to introduce you to my friend Max.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/gender/beck.html

I've known Max since kindergarten, when we became best friends. We were inseparable. If you think of the kid that is best friends with your kid, that was me and Max. We stayed that way until 5th grade, when the unique and confusing pressures of junior high conspired to put distance between us. We were in a play together in high school, but once we went off to college, we fell completely out of touch.

For the last year or so, I have been lucky enough to have Max back in my life. But he is not doing well. Right now, he is asking everyone and anyone to put their spiritual energy behind him to bring him comfort, relief, and an end to what has been 41 years of unbelieve suffering, often in secret. If you pray to anything or anyone, and you have room in there for one more, please include Max. Thanks.

Turtle Droppings

2007-09-28T09:12:00.000-07:00

I had a mysterious message on my cell phone yesterday. The Caboose's preschool teacher left a voice mail saying that one of her "friends" bit the Caboose on the back because he wanted to look at her book. She kept saying, "my friend" bit the Caboose, "my friend" didn't want to share the book, etc. At first, I thought there was some grown-up pal of hers hanging out at school biting toddlers. And while the Caboose is about as delicious as they come, I do believe one should show some self-restraint when it comes to actually sampling the goods. When I phoned her back, she explained that it was another Turtle that bit him, but she can't tell me who, so she calls this person "my friend." What gives? I mean, they're right. If she told me who it was, I would no doubt judge this child mercilessly and harbor secret resentment toward her parents. (I was able to ascertain that it was a girl Turtle.) But goddamit, I want to know who bit my kid!

In other news, I am starting to get the feeling that one of you loyal readers is also the parent to a fellow Alligator at the preschool. If you are, please give me the secret handshake or something so we "come out" to each other. Why do I say this? Well, this morning we all approached the school together, me with my two and you with your adorable Hapa son. Mr. Blog Reader said, "So Booper was out sick on picture day, huh?" Now either he is an incredibly observant parent who somehow noticed that my son was not in the class photo, nor did he receive any individual pictures, or he HAS BEEN READING MY BLOG! If it's the latter, come out come out whereever you are.

Can you stand it?

2007-09-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

Caboose's first official school photo. Sadly, The Boop was out sick this day so we don't have one for him this year.

I found this amusing.

2007-09-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

Diversidad

2007-09-25T10:10:00.000-07:00

While reading some of my favorite Mommy Blogs, I notice that a lot of families out there are bumping up against racial intolerance, ignorance, and idiocy, especially when it comes to their Hapa children. I have experienced this also, but only when we travel outside our blissful liberal bubble. In our day-to-day lives, we remain largely untouched by this pervasive problem. In fact, one of the great pleasures of living in the city by the Bay is that we don't have to deal with this AT ALL. My hetero-normative nuclear family is downright Republican by SF standards, and we raise nary an eyebrow. If people notice anything it's that I am taller than my husband. If you really want to shake people up, trying messing with the "rules" that the man has to be taller and older. (One year, I wanted to go to a Halloween party dressed as Angelina Jolie and Maddox, but the Handyman wasn't into it. Killjoy.)

To back up my stance, I did an informal poll this morning at preschool. In Booper's class, of 22 kids--many of whom are there only parttime--there are 8 biracial (mostly Hapa) kids and 4 kids of color. There may be more mixed-race kids that are not immediately obvious to me. In the Caboose's class of 12, he has 4 Hapa kids, a special needs boy, and 3 children of color. Caboose's teachers are Persian, Ukrainian, Korean, and Mexican, some immigrants, some children of immigrants, some adopted from their homeland. Booper's teachers are Brazilian and White. BTW, this is the only white teacher at the school. The school boasts a map of the world on one wall, with photos affixed to the home countries of all the teachers and staff, including the above plus Peru and Guatemala.

I love this about San Francisco. What I also love about the City by the Bay is the other types of diversity. One example involves this guy:

This is Woody. He works the counter at Orphan Andy's in the Castro. He makes the city's best chocolate milkshake. And one of the boys' favorite things to do is ride the vintage F Line (see above, an example of a vintage train from Milan, Italy) to his little cafe and order one of these delicious cups of creamy goodness. Woody is what you might call "a colorful character." He always wears a kilt. He frequently wears a studded black leather belt that says "Nudist." (It tickles me no end that he wears an article of clothing that reads "nudist." That's like carrying a gun that reads "pacifist.") And he usually has a T-shirt on that makes me glad my kids can't read. This past Saturday, his shirt read, "Girlie Man." He also is incredibly friendly and loves kids. He takes the time to answer all of Booper's questions about "Why do you have an earring in your nose?" "Did it hurt when they put it in?" "Why are you wearing a skirt?" and "How do you make this milkshake taste so good?" We look forward to visiting Woody and he is part of the fabric of life here.

But this last can prove thorny when dealing with preschoolers, who like things to be concrete. There is a boy in Booper's class who has two Mommies. Because all the kids quickly become attuned to who is whose Mommy/Daddy, this family set-up did not go unnoticed. In connection with that, there has been a lot of talk at school lately about marriage. One of the girls in Booper's class says she is going to "marry him." She says Booper is her "prince." (So I think we know where she is getting this from, thank you Walt Disney.) Booper asks a lot of questions--about everything--and has asked me many times if he can marry me. I tell him, "You can't marry me because I am your Mommy. Plus, I'm already married to Daddy." He will answer, "Will you and Daddy help me find a [FingKASIL] to marry?" "Don't worry, you will find someone wonderful to marry when you are grown up, and if you would like our help we will be happy to help you." He asks if, when he is married, he can still live with us. He also asks if he can marry The Caboose, figuring this would keep things simple since then they could just keep living in our house and we would all stay together. But I told him that brothers can't get married, either.

So putting all this together, the other night Booper asked, "Mommy, can two boys get married?"

Deep breath, and here we go. "Yes, but it depends where they live. In some places, it's okay for two boys to get married, and in some places it isn't."

"Can two boys get married in Africa?"

"No, they can't."

Why?"

"I don't know. But in Africa, it's against the rules. In some places, like Hawaii, two men can get married if they want to."

"I love Hawaii."

"Me, too."

So while we may have had that go-round wrapped up in a tight little bow, I know there is more to come. I feel like I want to be honest with the boys about the world. I want them to be open to people and not judge the way others live their lives, especially not based on the way they look. This is a complicated world, and I want to help them navigate the complexities and appreciate the textures. But when is the right time to start, without confusing them?

Great Moments in Parenting

2007-09-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

Booper bounced back incredibly today, after spiking a 105 degree fever yesterday and subsequently being diagnosed with pneumonia. (Don't get me started.) Through the miracle of modern anti-biotics, he was feeling back to his old self today, albeit a little fatigued from fighting this nasty bug. So we decided to go out for dinner to our favorite sushi place, Blue Fin Sushi on Clement St. http://bluefinsushisf.com/

For reasons that remain a mystery to me, The Boop kept talking REALLY LOUDLY throughout the meal. I kept having to remind him to use his "inside voice" and take it down a decibel or three. Granted, it was kind of noisy in there in the first place, but his voice really travels. Mostly, I think he was just excited to be out of the house after being cooped up indoors since Wednesday, unable to raise the energy to even play Chutes & Ladders.

After dinner, Boop needed to go to the potty. (One of the unfortunate side-effects of the antibiotics is frequent poops), so I escorted him to the John and back, with the Caboose in tow. (He wouldn't want to miss anything important.) Once we returned to the table, Booper announced, "Daddy. I just went to the potty. AND I HAD A BIG DIARRHEA."

Hey buddy, I don't think they heard you on the East Coast.

Super.

Needless to say, we paid our bill and slithered out the door.

Day of Atonement--Please G-d, if I say sorry will you let the Yankees win the World Series?

2007-09-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again: Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. While this holiday is kind of confusing for kids (who rarely do much worth atoning for) it is kind of cool for adults. The deal, historically, is that everyone in the village gets together and publicly apologizes for all their transgressions during the previous year. As a group, we read aloud a list of "sins," apologizing for everything, whether we did it or not. In this way, we provide for each other a veil of secrecy because only we know which mistake actually applies personally to us. (i.e. "I apologized out loud for cheating on my taxes, which I didn't do, but I also got to apologize outloud for coveting my neighbors buttery suede purse, which I did."

In the olden days, the service was followed by a tradition of personally approaching each individual we had wronged, confessing our error, and offering a sincere apology. If done during the Yom Kippur holiday, the wronged person was obligated to accept the apology regardless.

Of course, like any human being, I am secretly hoping to get something in return for all this soul-baring torment. And this year, I am hoping G-d will see fit to let my Yankees win the World Series. They are making a run at their division right now, and I'm getting October baseball fever. To that end, I am paying tribute to the Chosen people who are currently active in the Major Leagues. Don't worry...it's a short list. While it would surprise no one to know that Jews have always had a prominent role in the management of sports, it may shock you to know that we also represent on the field.

Shawn Green: Currently on that great Jewish team, the NY Mets, Shawn started his career on the Dodgers (historically also strong for the Jews. Can you say Sandy Koufax?) According to a friend, he started a near riot in the synagogue circles of LA as they all competed actively for his membership when he first moved to town. Plus, he's hot! He posted 3 100-RBI seasons in the past, though this year he is struggling with injuries and not doing as well. Shandah, really.

Gabe Kapler & Kevin Youkilis: Two players for the Red Sox (puh puh puh.) Kapler has been around a while and is a solid player, but he spent the past year in a management role. He intends to return to active play next year. The life of a professional baseball player can be quite stressful. There's all the travel, the pressure to perform in a spotlight, your life constantly under a microscope, the invitations to Bar Mitzvahs. Youkilis is a rookie phenom at this time, so I am going to overlook the fact that he plays for Satan's team: The Bosox. He was involved in a mini-scandal in last week's game. The Yankee pitcher hit the firstbaseman with a pitch, and it was clear that this was unintentional. (He was in mid-swing when the ball hit his wrist.) The next time the Yankee firstbaseman came up to bat, the Red Sox pitcher promptly retaliated by throwing the ball right at him. Evil. But de rigeur for the majors. If he hadn't done it, his team would never let him forget it.

There are a few more players, none of them prominent enough to mention. sigh.

Whether baseball loyalty is more often passed on via matrilineal (like traditional Jewish identity) or patrilineal (the Reform movement theory) descent is a question for more extensive research. Nevertheless, my father's loyalty was to the Brooklyn Dodgers. When they moved west, he was forced to choose another team. Reluctantly, he went with the Yankees, and my love of Yankee baseball was born.

The Yankees haven't had many Jewish players (one exception was Ron "Boomer" Blomberg, who is remembered most for his having the distinction of being the first designated hitter in baseball history), but that has been more than made up for in my own mind by the Yankees' wise decision to bring a certified-kosher hot-dog stand to the stadium, something only a few other teams have done. Also, New York has probably had more Jewish mayors than any other city (Mayor Bloomberg keeps a box next to the dugout, which he recently loaned to Spike Lee, Brad Pitt, and their offspring for thenight.) Plus, I'll bet my Loehmann's membership points that their accountant is an MOT.

So during this most important of Jewish holidays--the holiest of the holy--please join me in atoning sincerely for any transgressions during the year. (Trust me, it feels good.) And while you are in touch with your own personal diety, would you mind asking her/him/it/them to give the Yankees a little extra push this year? If sports personality post-game interviews are any indication, it seems She/He/It/They is the one who deserves the credit anyway. But that's another post....

Quietly murmured
at Saturday services,
Yanks 5, Red Sox 3

Question of the Day

2007-09-06T14:09:00.000-07:00

I linked over to KimChi Mamas today for OpenThread Thursday. Here is the question: "Would you send your child to a different-faith school? Would you be okay with your kid learning about a religion very different from your own? I went to an Anglican school, and while my religion, Roman Catholicism, belongs in the same category (i.e. both Christian), there were plenty of non-Christian students there too. But my Jewish boyfriend found it interesting/shocking that parents would do that. What would you do?"

Here is my initial comment in response: "I confess openly to a double-standard on this one. I would not send my children to a non-Jewish parochial school, but I have no problem with non-Jewish kids attending the local Hillel house. As complicated and anxiety-provoking as the elementary school situation is in our city, I could not get down with a parochial school if it's not a Jewish school. I am just too uncomfortable with the idea that they might come home and want to talk about the Big JC, and what "he would do."

Now that I am considering it more deeply, I think I am much more at home debunking orthodox Judaism than I am with criticizing any other religion. So if the grunion came home spouting off on why we don't keep kosher, I would feel very comfortable explaining the inherent contradictions and obsolete beliefs on which that ritual is based. But if they came home telling me about the Resurrection, I would feel less qualified, though more motivated, to give them my two cents.
I can offer no rational explanation of this stance. It fits right alongside the fact that I have been a devout vegetarian for 21 years, but I LOVE a pair of buttery suede shoes. (Or purse. I'm good with a suede purse, too.)"

Then another poster added this comment: "FingKASIL, what if this parochial school isn't really a parochial school? Many prep schools are historically Christian, and still require chapel attendance. Yet, they are not marketed as "parochial."

Also, would you allow your child(ren) to take a course on world religions that may require them to attend services of a variety of faiths?"

And that's when I started getting pissed off. Cynthia: I believe that any school that requires chapel attendance, is, by definition, a parochial school. To make a determination about whether to enroll my children, I would have to attend a service. If the service was based in Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, etc., I feel it might be confusing for my children and discordant with the spiritual guidance they receive at home.

As for "allowing" them to take a World Religion class, even one requiring attendance at faith-based services, that is an easy one: Short of "Bombmaking 101" and "How to Hack Into Online Porn: A Seminar," I would support them in enrolling in any class about which they have a genuine interest. Should they elect to pursue one of these faiths because it rang true for them, they would have my total support. But that is a choice that *they* make, not one I make for them.

To me, this whole thing smacks of the kind of obliviousness that you typically see among dominant cultural groups, in this case Christians, but White Entitlement is the same animal. When you are comforably ensconced in the dominant cultural group, you accept your worldview as the "correct" world view or, worse, the only worldview. As if being Christian is the natural human state. And you arrogantly believe that everyone else should fall in line with these beliefs because that is "how we've always been." So when one says that a school , founded on Christian religious tenets, that requires chapel attendance, is not a parochial school, I am flummoxed. What if I opened a school and called it Joe's Secular Elementary School? I "marketed" it as an independent private school, but required all the students to attend synagogue daily, would this not be a parochial school? Does the same standard not apply when we're talking about a Christian School?

This reminds me of a business conference I attended recently. Nothing religious about it. At the group luncheon, we had a brief speech from the president of the company. After giving his little motivational talk for 15 minutes, he ended with, "Now let us all bow our heads in prayer. In Jesus' name, we pray...." Another perfect example of the clueless assumption that we're all Christians unless we prove otherwise.

Oh...brother

2007-09-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

An argument for nature over nurture, also known as, He Gets That From My Husband. Overheard yesterday, while the boys were playing: " [Caboose], I am going to choose what game we play and you're just going to have to deal."

Overheard this morning while driving to preschool:

Caboose: Ambooyans! Ambooyans! (translation: ambulance!)

Booper: Aliens? Where do you see Aliens? Are Aliens nice, Mommy?

People Are Stupid

2007-08-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'm grumpy today, I know. But that doesn't change the fact that people are stupid. Once again today I read a story in the paper about someone who left their child alone in the car, in some parking lot, while s/he went in a store for over 30 minutes. Fortunately, this time someone saw the child screaming and sweating in the car seat and called police to release her. The nanny was arrested for child endangerment.

What is wrong with people?

Every summer it seems like there is this spate of cases where the parents or caregivers "forget" that their kids are in the backseat of the car, then leave them there for hours, only to return and find them dead. And every time I hear one of these stories, I try to imagine a scenario in which I might become so overwhelmed by the day's tasks that I would also make this mistake. But I can't. I can't. I can't wrap my mind around it. Can you? I have two kids, work fulltime at a family-owned business, run a household, all that stuff. But I still can't imagine forgetting my kids are in the car and leaving them there, windows up, doors locked. What's more, I can't imagine not giving them another thought for the next 6 to 8 hours while they suffocate. That's the part that really baffles me. Have you ever gone that long without thinking of your children, and what they are doing at the moment? Do you not have a photo of them somewhere on your desk that would stimulate you to remember them?

My son has a friend. His mother is a wonderful person and lots of fun. Worries incessantly that her children should go to the right schools, etc. I know she cares about them deeply. But sometimes when she comes over, she'll come in the front door with her older son and I'll ask, "where's The Baby?" To which she replies, "He's sleeping in the car. I think it's safe, don't you?" No. No I don't think it's safe. I don't think it's safe to leave your baby sleeping in a car that is parked on a city street. I have even gone so far as to move my car out of the garage and move her car into the garage so at least The Baby sleeps inside the locked garage with all the windows down and not on some dangerous urban thoroughfare. (Okay, I'm exaggerating. My street is not a thoroughfare. But I do live in a city.)

Am I the crazy one here? Do other Moms leave their kids alone in the car? Why do people keep doing this?

The Halmuni Review

2007-08-08T19:51:00.000-07:00

As advertised, Harabuji and Yoko came to visit last week. Sweet people, both of them, and we had a very enjoyable time. To be frank, I love anyone who loves my kids. And those two really dote on them and shower them with affection and complements, so what's not to love? Yoko has her heart in the right place, tries very hard to be helpful (even if this means cramming my fridge with unidentifiable food stuffs), and takes great care of Harabuji, which is a mitzvah, as my people would say.

So what up with the Halmuni?

Well...it went down a little something like this. Right from the get go, we stuck with calling her Yoko. This was fine until the day that H & Yoko took the kids to the zoo. I learned, via Booper, that on the outing they were encouraged to call her Halmuni. To complicate matters, later that evening we were talking about ways in which our sons are similar to the Huz, a.k.a. The Handyman, at the same age. For fun, Handy decided he would bring up a digital photo of himself and his family from back in the day. So there is Harabuji, Handy, HalfMama, Komo, and Halmuni (the real Halmuni) in living color. Booper asks who is who in the picture, and Handy runs it down. Once he says, "and this is Halmuni," there was utter silence. Crickets, people.

Long. Awkward. Silence.

But that's as close as we came to bringing up the subject. Healthy, huh? We just ignored it and hoped it would go away. Which it seemed to do. For now.

On another topic, I don't know how many of you out there follow baseball, but I do, avidly. And while I will save all my baseball opinions for another time, and warn you in advance so you can avoid that post, I just have to take the opportunity to say publicly that I feel Barry Bonds is a complete and utter tool. I cannot scrape together one iota of enthusiasm for his new "record" and I'm just counting the days until A-Rod or someone else can break it and rid us of this plague. It's no mistake that the Booper's middle name is Aaron.

Just Don't Call Me Late for Dinner

2007-07-30T10:35:00.000-07:00

This week, we are getting a visit from the in-laws. Well, the quasi-in-laws. I'll explain. As some of you may know from HalfMama, my mother-in-law passed away a few years ago. I won't even try to explain how sad this is for all of us, even now, and I will move on to the point of my post. (And this is where you Kimchi Mamas come in.)

My FIL, harabuji, is coming to visit with his "lady friend" of about 2 years, let's call her Yoko. (I know this is linguistically/culturally inaccurate, but the name fits her on a pop-culture level.) One afternoon, after harabuji began dating Yoko, he phoned me at my office. I could count on one hand how many times my FIL called me at my office, and always it had to do with my MIL's medical issues, so I feared for the worst. After hemming and hawing for about 20 minutes, he finally told me that he was calling to say that "something happened to him" and that he had "fallen in love." He was calling to ask me to help him tell his children. While honored, not to mention astounded that I had the inside track on some juicy family gossip, I felt uncomfortable with this assignment and did not know what to do. (Was this a Korean thing? Just a My Family thing?) That evening, I sat the Huz down on the couch and spilled the Mung beans. He took it like a champ, and told his sisters, with all of them stepping up nobly to the plate to express their happiness to their father.

This is the second time that Yoko and Harabuji have come to visit us, and this time they are staying in a B&B near our house, as opposed to in our house as they did last time. (Can you say awkward moments?) Before their arrival last time, I asked the Huz, as well as my FIL, what my son should call Yoko. I did not want my boy to appear disrespectful and I was unfamiliar with the mores of this particular situation vis a vis Korean culture. FIL told me it would be okay for him to call her by her first name. I even asked Yoko herself, and she said it was okay to use the first name. During the visit, however, when Huz and I were not around, harabuji asked my son to call Yoko halmuni. (As he had previously done with Buddy & Bean.) Later that week, I told Huz that harabuji wants the kids to call Yoko halmuni. He looked sternly in the mirror while adjusting his tie and said, "That's not going to happen." So we went right on our merry way, calling her by her first name.

Now they are returning, and both boys can talk, so we will have to revisit the issue, I'm afraid, with The Caboose. Huz, HalfMama, and I are all very uncomfortable with calling this woman Halmuni. She is not Halmuni. Halmuni was the Huz's mother, and we show the boys her picture all the time and call her Halmuni. This other lady, while sweet to my children, is not their Halmuni in our eyes. So here's my question to you, Kimchi Mamas:

Is it widely accepted, in Korean culture, to call an older woman Halmuni, regardless of whether she is your grandmother? Is there some other term of respect that my children can use that would be appropriate? In my world, Grandma is reserved only for Grandmas. Is Halmuni the same?

Lacking fins or tail
the gefilte fish swims
with great difficulty

Grasping at Straws

2007-07-26T16:57:00.000-07:00

I don't know how some moms do it, but I can never find time to exercise. I work full-time, own my own business, and have the two spawn you have heard so much about. But recently I discovered something that is working surprisingly well. FitTV. Does anyone else watch it? I've TiVo'd a couple of shows, then I watch them with the boys in the living room. Mostly they are cardio shows from the All-Star Workouts series. Either hip-hop dance or kickboxing. They have music, colorful outfits, and vivacious teachers. Booper & The Caboose love to do it with me, and as long as they aren't lifting any weights, the doc said it's really safe. So they (pretty much) let me complete the class, then might toddle off to play with toys and return later. But I'm breaking a sweat. Has anyone else tried this? Know of any good shows that would fit the bill?

One caution: I try to avoid the shows with a lot of jumping. After two babies, I have a tendency to leak. Does anyone else share this secret shame?

Oh...and before I forget, today is HalfMama's birthday. Big shout out to Mo' Komo. I would wish her a night of drunken debauchery, but she had that already.

Jewish triathlon:
gin rummy, then shopping wholesale,
followed by a nap

The Invisible Woman

2007-07-20T10:38:00.000-07:00

Monday is my birthday. I turn 41. Yawn. Nothing important or milestone-esque about it. Just another year under my ever-tightening belt. I am wondering if this means I am middle-aged now. If you get an average of 80 years or so, I am entering the second half, right?

I hear what you're saying, "it sure beats the alternative," and I agree. But it's on my mind just the same. Sure, some things are better now that I'm older, but none of them have to do with my body or appearance. My relationship with my mother is better, and this is no small thing. My level of confidence in myself to "get shit done" is better. I can always get shit done, and well, when I need to. I have a beautiful family, a devoted husband, lots of friends, a warm and safe home, blah blah blah. And I'm thankful, really. (I want to be sure that, if there is a G-d, he hears me say I'm thankful. Because it's widely accepted among Jews that if you are not appropriately thankful for your blessings in life, they will promptly disappear.)

Now comes the part where I start complaining. (It's also widely accepted among Jews that if you stop complaining for even one second, G-d will give you something new to complain about.) I am turning into an invisible woman, i.e. I am no longer hot. There was a time, long ago, when I would walk down the city streets and have all kinds of dudes check me out. All colors, ages, shapes, sizes. I know that some women don't like this, but I found it empowering. I would think, "that's right, *sshole, check out what you are never going to have." I will confess to you that my self-esteem got a little boost every time I heard a whistle or obscene proposition. (I used to live in NYC, and my female coworkers and I regularly had a contest for who heard the most creative lewdness on her way to work that day.) I ignored each and every come-on, but then went right ahead and tucked that energy boost into my back pocket. I'm sure this is shallow of me, and I admit it only under the shroud of blog secrecy, but I dug it. It gave me a little charge. And as my coworkers and I would frequently state: "Just because a man is filthy, homeless, schizophrenic, and a junkie doesn't mean he can't appreciate a good-looking woman."

Lately, however, these looks are fewer and farther between. I delivered two babies, after the age of 35, and I think we all know the kind of collateral damage that entails. I have no time for pedicures, facials, or any of the other maintenance that used to be a regular part of my routine. I rarely have time to exercise. Dinner usually consists of whatever does not get eaten by the shorties. If I am walking with my sons, there is the occasional look of "you're not bad for an old broad with two kids." But when I'm alone, on my way to work, nothin' doin.' I am now just another of the nameless, faceless schlub women strolling the streets.

Am I the only one out there mourning the death of her hotness? Is this what drives women to Botox or lipo or The Mommy Makeover? I know the Huz has no problem with the way I look, so it's not about that. It's the changing identity that I'm struggling with. Anybody else out there feeling the same way?

The same kimono
the top geishas are wearing:
got it at Loehmann's

Better late than never

2007-07-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

I forgot to tag this onto the last post:

A lovely nose ring--
excuse me while I put my
head in the oven.

My streak remains intact.

Jew/Not a Jew?

2007-07-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

Back when the Howard Stern show was on terrestrial radio--and was funny--Howard used to have a regular feature called Jew/Not a Jew. This was a dial-in radio gameshow during which Howard would mention a well-known celebrity, then ask participants to guess whether this person was, in fact, a Jew. (This was a correlary to his other hilarious game, Dead or Alive.) And Howard, as a Jew, had license to find humor in this game, much like the way that only an African-American can use the "N" word.

Jew/Not a Jew is a game I play with my MOT friends all the time. Because the fact is that we are proud of the accomplishments of other Jews, simply by virtue of their Jew-dom. I know we are not alone in this: my husband and father-in-law have often demonstrated extreme fondness for K.J. Choi and Michelle Wie simply because they are Korean/Korean-American. And the huz was pulling for Paul Kim during the American Idol finals, though he will deny deny deny if you ask him about it.

J/NaJ comes with an interesting set of by-laws: What to do with the half-Jews of the world? Well, I will let you in on a little secret. Jewishness is considered to be matrilineal. Meaning that if your mother was a Jew, then you're a Jew. If your Daddy was a Jew, but your Mommy was a shiksa, then you are SOL my non-MOT friend. Perhaps an example will help illustrate:
Kyra Sedgwick = Jew.
Gwyneth Paltrow = Not a Jew.

Ready to play? Here are some celebrity names. Take your best guess. I'll post answers in the comments section:

Natalie Portman
Adam Sandler (if you can't answer that one, then you got no biznezz here)
Robin Williams
Michael Douglas
Harrison Ford
Jake & Maggie Gyllenhaal
Scarlett Johansson
Joss Stone
Selma Blair
Zach Braff
David Arquette
Brook Burke
Kate Hudson
Chelsea Handler
Joaquin Phoenix (not to mention River Phoenix.)
Leah Remini
Fred Savage
Winona Ryder
Alicia Silverstone
Phoebe Cates
Robert Downey, Jr.
David Duchovney
Jack Black

Plenty more where that came from. We're just getting warmed up. Wait until we move on to Rock Stars and Professional Athletes!

Chaji Update

2007-07-03T09:34:00.000-07:00

In response to some of the comments from my last post--did I mention how much I appreciate the comments? I'm amazed anyone reads this thing, let alone comments on it--I have done some cursory research into the appropriateness of the word chaji. I have found the following:

1. Chaji is an acceptable Japanese word for Tea Ceremony. It may mean that in Korean also, but I can neither confirm or deny.

2. My son said "chaji" once in front of his Korean grandfather and his grandfather's equally Korean , not to mention old school, girlfriend and they both just giggled. No signs of outrage or disapproval.

3. If you google the word chaji, my blog comes up as the 6th entry! That's hot!

4. My husband can shed no light on whether chaji is considered an acceptable word to use for p*nis. No surprise here.

5. My other SIL (not halfmama), who is quite proper herself, has used the word chaji and heard us use chaji without any untoward reaction. If you knew her, you'd know that she is not the type to tolerate a lot of potty-mouth. Halfmama, on the other hand, can be counted on to scream "c*cks*cker" at the drop of a hat.

6. Someone's MySpace page contains the following: "massagie the chaji." Ew.

7. I see chaji listed in the lyrics of several Korean songs. This makes me wonder if it has some alternate meaning, or maybe Korean Gangsta Rap is a burgeoning genre.

Check please!

2007-06-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

Remember when I said this? "I am okay with the idea that going to school means that he will be exposed to topics, behaviors, and words that we don't use at our house. Isn't that kind of the point? I can't control that and I can't control what the other kids see and hear when they are at home. I can only *try to* teach my kids how I expect them to behave, and control what they are exposed to in our house."

Well, the joke's on me. Yesterday I had Booper's parent/teacher conference at preschool. It all went beautifully and the teacher went on and on with his glowing review. At the end of the meeting, I asked her if there is anything we should work on with him or any areas where he needs more support. After reassuring me that we are "great parents," she offered some advice: "Booper is doing very well and is wonderful to have in class. But sometimes, when he is playing with certain older kids, he allows them to influence his behavior. They tell him to do things that he knows are wrong, and he can succumb to that pressure. So we are working on teaching him to stick with what he knows is right or wrong." I knew to what and who she was referring, and we resolved to reinforce this idea at home.

Cut to us at home that night, hanging out and playing in the living room. The boys were walking on my back (has anyone else tried this? It feels GREAT!) and we were giggling and having a wholesome family time. Then Booper dropped this bombshell: "I am going to touch you with my p*nis." SAY WHAT?! I knew this was something he picked up at school, especially because we call it a chaji at our house, not p*nis. But touching someone with it?! I tried not to panic and asked him,

"Where did you hear about touching someone with your p*nis?"

"I heard it from [Napoleonic Syndrome Boy]."

"Does he touch you with his p*nis?"

"yes. When we are at the potties." (The potties at his school are open and public. And during our occasional playdates I notice that they like to cross "streams.")

Has this kind of thing happened to anyone else? What did you do?

I felt that this was one of the "Slow down, buddy. I'm not ready" moments of motherhood. So I went over the idea that his chaji is private, so no one outside the family can touch it. And that he shouldn't use it to touch other people, for the same reason. He understood, and was sure to clarify that "I can touch my own chaji, right Mommy?" Say hello to my little friend. So, anybody out there have more experience with this than me? Normal 3-4-year-old development? Should I say something to his mother? And how to delicately broach the subject?

Harsh Scrabble discord--

someone has placed "putzhead"

on a triple word score.

Psychic Vampirates

2007-06-25T12:59:00.000-07:00

My older son, let's call him Booper, age nearly 4, attends preschool. It's a lovely school and we are satisfied with it. So much so, that our younger son, The Caboose, is going to start attending in September. But like any school, there are the attendant issues. Lately, we have been grappling with two in particular. The first has to do with some of the other boys introducing Booper to words and concepts such as "shoot," "kill," "jail," and "dead." The other night he surprised me at bedtime by asking, "Mommy, how do pirates bite your neck and drink your blood until you die?" Ex-squeeze me? We have talked before about dying, which I consider to be a topic well inside my purview as his parent. But pirates that drink your blood? WTF? First, I clarified that it was vampires that are thought to drink your blood, not pirates, (verbal accuracy is important to me, even in these situations) and then explained that this is a "made up" story "to scare people" and not at all true. I noticed that the little friend who told him about this has a habit of telling Booper scary stories designed specifically to frighten him. He is somewhat older, but shorter, and I think this is his current manifestation of a nascent Napoleonic syndrome. Good luck with that, little man.

That seemed to satisfy Booper for the time being, and really, this is the secondary issue. I am okay with the idea that going to school means that he will be exposed to topics, behaviors, and words that we don't use at our house. Isn't that kind of the point? I can't control that and I can't control what the other kids see and hear when they are at home. I can only *try to* teach my kids how I expect them to behave, and control what they are exposed to in our house.

So what is the primary issue? At this point, the primary issue is not the talk of vampires, but rather the actual psychic vampires that loom in the form of other kids' mothers. What the fuck am I talking about? I'll explain.

There is another boy in Booper's class who is widely considered to be a monumental pain in the ass. He is very handsy with the other kids, doesn't listen well to adults, and is disruptive at every party/gathering/event. But this is not his fault, as his parents impose little structure and he is constantly testing the limits, with success in many cases. His mom made it plain that she wanted to arrange a playdate between her son and Booper, so we agreed to go to the zoo one weekend day. Pretty much from the get-go, the Wild Thing (about 10 months older and quite a bit taller) kept putting his hands on Booper. Hitting. Pushing. Pulling hair. One time he led Booper around a corner, out of eyesight momentarily, where he gave Booper a swat across the head and the Boop started to cry. His mother fecklessly told him to stop, with no results. I attempted to intervene, in that awkward way of wanting to discipline someone else's kid without coming off as a controlling bitch, but then he started manhandling the Caboose, and I was at my limit. Feckless Mom told him that, if he touched Booper or the Caboose again, they would have to leave. (I should say that she told him AGAIN that they would have to leave as she had threatened this in the past to no effect.)

Well you could see this stand-off coming like a parade down Main Street. The Wild Thing walked right up to Booper, and while looking his mother straight in the face and grinning his menacing grin, he smacked Booper again. FM turned to me and said, "What should I do? I don't know what to do." I looked her in the face and said, "You should take him home now. You told him you would take him home if he did it again, he did it, and now it's time to say goodbye." And with that, I took my kids' hands and walked away.

A week or so later, after multiple attempts, I thought I'd give FM and WT another try at a playdate. (She's Jewish, so I felt it was my duty to make the effort. If you are unclear on why I feel this level of guilt and responsibility, I refer you back to my previous post, Red Sea Pedestrian.) Here is the email chain:

FM writes: I am back from NY and around to schedule a get together with all of you when your schedule permits.We are open for any activity, if you all are interested. Let us know.

To which I respond: Looks like Huz is going to take both Saturday and Sunday off. Are you still free on Sunday? He is going to work on Monday, so I'll have the boys to myself. If Sunday is still good for you, maybe we can do something together then. What do you think?"

FM: Yes, we are available. Let me know what suits your schedule for time and place. We are open for anything.

Me: We are going to check out the Classic Car show tomorrow on Pier 45. It starts at 10:00 a.m., and we figure that we'll get there around 10:30. Some other friends plan to meet us there as well, also at that time. They have a son, 3, and another on the way. Are you guys interested? We are probably going to park downtown and take the F train to the Pier.

FM: Thanks for the invitation but I think we will pass due to late notice. Also, I guess I misunderstood your acceptance of our offer to get together. I guess I thought we were going to mutually agree upon an activity and spend some time together. Hopefully we can try and reschedule something in the future that works for both our schedules.

Where do I begin here? Is "we are open for anything" somehow code for "you must provide adequate notice of the plans, which may not include any other people, and I have veto power over them?" Did I miss the part where our one, arguably disastrous, playdate means that I owe you something? This may sound a little narcissistic, but I've got WAY TOO MUCH SHIT TO DO to worry about this kind of crap. If I want someone to make me feel guilty for not making enough time for them, I'll call my mother.

Am I over-reacting?

Anyhoozle, here's the real kick in the pants. I apologized to her! Why? Because I have to see her most every morning when I drop Booper off at school and I didn't want it to be awkward for him, or for her son, who can't help himself. We won't be scheduling any more playdates with them, but that's the price of playing poker. Now I am more cautious when it comes to these relationships. I put it right out there that I am not looking to playdate anyone exclusively. I'm telling you, it's a jungle-gym out there.

And now the moment you've all been waiting for:

Is one Nobel Prize
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?

Red Sea Pedestrian

2007-06-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

Now that I've opened the door to thoughts about race/religion/heritage, lots of ideas are trying to make a break for it. Most of these half-baked thoughts have to do with my relationship to my ethnicity, and some secret guilt about betraying my progenitors by marrying outside the religion. I've not shared this with many people, but isn't that what secret blogs are for?

I'll give you some background: As mentioned previously, I went to Hebrew School from age 6 to age 10. Three days a week we attended, twice during the week after a full day at regular school. Tuesday & Thursday we learned to read, write, and speak in Hebrew. Fairly benign stuff, though our teacher often threw in some Zionist propaganda just to be complete. Sundays we attended Bible study, covering the usual Old Testament suspects (Moses, Miriam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, etc.) The school had one teacher: Sybil. She was a single woman, living in an apartment near the temple, which seemed quite exotic to me at the time. I went there once with my mother--can't remember why--and the apartment was tidy and smelled weird. Sybil always wore a black turtleneck, black tights, and a gray or hounds tooth skirt. Even in summer. She had long black hair, showing the first signs of graying, which she wore piled on her head in a quasi-bun situation. She kept a lot of pens shoved in there. She wore glasses. Because of the size of the school, each class was comprised of kids ranging in age from 6 to 11. (After 11, you transitioned into a Bar/Bat-Mitzvah prep course with the Cantor. Years later, Sybil and the Cantor ran off together to live in Semitic sin.)

Sybil was a strange broad. She was pious and devout in her Judaism. She loved children, it seemed, and was affectionate toward us regularly. She always had snacks and cookies for us. But she also had this warped need to subject us to hours-long lectures regarding the gruesome details of life/death in the Nazi concentration camps. Our textbooks contained graphic and deeply disturbing photos of the prisoners in these death camps, and she would force us to look at them while she described their brutal tortures. I'll give you an example (IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH, SKIP THIS PART.)

One afternoon, Sybil got on the subject of the death camps and specifically the gas chambers. She told us about the death selection process, which we had heard before. We already knew about the tattoos, the shaved heads, the pulling of gold-filled teeth, the giving over of all clothes, shoes, etc. We knew that the Nazis made soap, lampshades, and sweaters from the fat, skin, and hair of their victims. She frequently reminded us that all children under the age of 15 were summarily put to death by the Nazis, so we should never forget that we would assuredly have been among the doomed. But on this day she went further, to describe how the prisoners were stuffed into the showers/gas chambers and the door was locked behind them. She told us how, when the gas began to flow, the elderly, the sick, the disabled, the women, and the children suffocated. During the suffocation, their bodies would secrete a sticky gel through their pores that caused them all to adhere together in piles on the floor. After the gassing, the doors were opened and other prisoners (usually the surviving male Jews) were made to remove the bodies with a pitchfork. (can you imagine hearing this at age 7?) After being lifted onto wheelbarrows, they were carted to the crematoria, where they were burned. Some of the people at the bottom of the piles were still alive, so they met their deaths in this fiery hell.

After traumatizing us in this way, Sybil would remind her pie-eyed charges that it was our personal responsibility to replenish the world's supply of Jews by marrying only a Jew and having Jewish babies. Talk about your guilt-wielding. Not only would we be a disappointment to our parents if we married outside the religion, we would also be personally colluding with Nazis. Fuck. Inevitably, someone in class would tell Sybil that we didn't have to worry about this kind of thing because we live in the United States, where we are free to be whatever we want to be. You fucking idiot! We have been down this road with Sybil before! Don't give her the "it can't happen here" line again! But someone always would, and then we'd be in for another 20 minutes about how it CAN happen here, and that all the Jews in Europe thought it couldn't happen to them and LOOK! So we must never trust anyone who is not a Jew. "But Sybil, no one in my family died in the Holocaust. My ancestors were already in the U.S. by then." Her reply:"Selfish child. It is not always what's in your family that matters. You owe it to the 6 million to repopulate the world." Now go forth and multiply.

Certainly my parents--both of whom are Jews--made it clear that they would prefer if I married a Jew, mainly from the standpoint that that's what they did so it seemed like a good idea at the time. But they ended up getting a divorce, so this kind of took away their credibility to make demands on my marital choices. My aunts and uncles--many of whom refuse to buy any German automotive products--stated plainly that they would not attend my wedding if I married outside the faith. Of course, by the time I actually got around to marriage (at age 35) this stance was long forgotten and they were all just happy to hear I wasn't going to be an old maid. The take-away: On the shame scale, spinster trumps shagitz every time. (For those who don't know, a shagitz is a gentile man.)

I'm not sure I have a point here. I think I just needed to share. My secret guilt over marrying outside my religion has a secret but intimate relationship with my secret insecurity about whether my Korean in-laws will accept me. And my secret guilt harbors secret resentment against all the self-hating Jewish men I dated who rejected me in favor of a less ethnic model.

I'm afraid this post was not all that funny, so let me end on a humorous note. Another from my catalog of Jewish haikus:

Testing the warm milk
on her wrist, she sighs softly
But her son is forty.

The Unlikely Custodian

2007-06-20T18:07:00.000-07:00

Hi. Welcome to my world. After reading a lot of other blogs, I've concluded that I am just as adorably self-indulgent as the next person, ergo I should have a place online to share my insightful musings. So here I go. Let me start by telling you some things about me that will be relevant to our discussion here. 1) I am Jewish and my husband is Korean. 2) We have two sons, ages (nearly) 4 and (nearly) 2. 4) My husband and I own a business together. Got all that? Great, then let's move on.

Let's start by elaborating on item #1. I am Jewish. I'm not particularly religious, though I did attend Hebrew School for 4 years, but I'm more one of those "cultural" Jews. You know the type. I don't keep kosher, but I love Woody Allen. I don't speak Hebrew, but I do speak Yiddish. I married outside the religion, but my sons are circumcised. I was not bat mitzvahed, but this is a separate matter. I could have been bat mitzvahed--my parents offered--but the prospect of standing up in front of a room full of people (three of whom would be my nuclear family) and singing....IN HEBREW...was more than I could stomach. Plus I was not exactly comfortable with the idea that I was "a woman" at age 13. I think my feelings can best be summed up by this Jewish Haiku:

Today I am a man.
Tomorrow I will return
To the seventh grade.

Also, my parents were going through an ugly divorce at the time, and having a big family party with all the meshbuchah didn't seem like such a pleasant way to spend a Saturday.

So I love my Jewish heritage, and I never miss an opportunity to teach my children about theirs. We light Hanukkah candles. We have a Passover seder. As their mother--and the reason why they are Jewish in the first place--it is clearly my role to educate them about their ancestors, customs, and culture. No problem. We even light a Yartzheit candle for their Halmuni, who is sadly gone for nearly 3 years now.

Halmuni was a lovely woman. I know that, way back when, she was strongly opposed to her son marrying anyone not Korean. But by the time he was 36 years old, still single, and living in San Francisco in a suspiciously tidy apartment, I believe she was somewhat relieved to find out he was getting married at all. When she met me, over dinner at a vegetarian Korean restaurant in Manhattan, she was cordial, polite, and reserved. It was a few years later, when our relationship had developed in some unexpected ways, that she said about me to a family friend, "Sometimes an American girl is better than a Korean girl."

And this leads me to the point of my post. I feel very strongly that my biracial/bicultural children should learn as much as they can about their heritage(s). While my understanding and knowledge of their Jewish culture abounds, I am woefully lacking in the Korean language/culture/history department. The boys have two wonderful Komos, who try to add what they can, but they live far away. And their harabuji lives far away also, which leaves quite a void. As for my husband, well...let's just say that being the ambassador for the Korean culture is not exactly his strong suit. I believe that if my MIL were still alive, she would be doing a bang-up job of teaching my children about their Korean background. In fact, we have the most touching and sweet video of her cuddling our older son as a newborn, whispering to him in Korean, asking him if he is sleepy, gazing in wonder at her first grandchild. What wondrous things would she be saying to them now, if she could?

Both of my sons had a Dol, but that's about all they had. They love bulgogi, but I buy it premade at Trader Joe's. They know they have a "chaji" and a "tushy." We hope to enroll them in the Korean-immersion program at one of our local public elementary schools when they reach Kindergarten. But are these gestures enough? Are they going to feel resentful one day that they were deprived of adequate exposure to their proud Korean lineage? Or will they be happy Hapa, satisfied with a little of this and a little of that?

Thoughts?