An Amulet of Red Jade

My mother was a refugee from South Vietnam and she came to the United States in the first wave of boat people in 1975. Bill and Miste were her sponsors when she arrived in America. They opened their home to her, helped her find her first job, and taught her about the ways of the American people, including eating bologna and hot dogs. I never remembered meeting Bill and Miste. They were always such an intrinsic part of my life, closer than family. Their son, Nick, is my oldest friend. He was a year younger than me, and I never let him forget it.

Life was busy, and we were in and out of touch. They moved from New Jersey to Seattle to Virginia and back to Seattle, while we moved from NYC to Chicago to New Jersey. My brothers were born, and I bossed them around just like I bossed Nick around. His parents thought he was a stubborn kid, but Nick always let me have my way. At nine years old, I attended my first wedding when Nick's sister Kathie married someone in the army. Nick was my first ever partner on the dance floor.

Fast forward forty years, after more weddings, kids, divorces, and retirements, I went to visit Bill and Miste in Tacoma, Washington. Miste had had brain surgery, and her recovery was taking longer than anticipated. She had always been fiercely independent, and I knew it must have been difficult for her to accept help. Yet, she was so gracious in coping with her new state of being that it made me ashamed every time I complained about having a bad day. When she kissed me in greeting, she said, "You look just like your mother."

Now, I resemble my mother quite a bit, the same wide eyes with sparse eyelashes so uncommon in Vietnamese women, the same long black hair so typical of Vietnamese women, and we had very similar gestures, so I thought nothing of it. Before dinner, Miste called me aside and pulled out a small, delicate red pouch. As she opened it, I saw it was lined with satin and I knew there was something very familiar about it, but I could not place exactly where I had seen it before.

A beautiful amulet of red jade fell into her outstretched palm. "Your mother gave this to me before she left my house. I have kept it for over forty years. It's time it was returned to the family. You should have it."

I had never seen this piece, but I had no doubt it was my mother's jewelry. I had seen accompanying bracelets and now I recognized the pouch, a very distinctive set of pouches hand-sewn from Taiwan. Only my mother and grandmother had those pouches.

A tear slid down my cheek as my fingers reached out to touch the amulet. Despite all the times she moved and downsized in forty years, Miste had kept this keepsake of friendship from my mother. The jade grew warm in my hand, as if it became alive. It was a vivid blood red shade, the color of marrow, deeper than even bone. I thought about family as I looked at the intricately carved amulet, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows and shining upon the jade amulet so that it seemed to glow, an exquisite spark lit from within. Family was blood, and that was undeniable. Miste and Bill, they were more than that. They were beyond blood and beyond bone, the most profound marrow of connection between one human being to another, one family to another.
They are our sponsors. The word "sponsor" originated in Latin, meaning a pledge, a guarantee, a solemn promise. That is what they are to us and we are to them. A living promise.

Meeting Anita Diamant

Who is Anita Diamant? She is a respected writer on contemporary Jewish living, and the author of The Red Tent, a NY Times bestselling novel about Dinah, the little-known daughter of Jacob, and the sister of Joseph in the Old Testament. Moreover, she created a new genre of literary fiction, a wave of biblical literature that remembers the voices of forgotten women. Invisible women, silenced women, women of seemingly "little consequence." She affirms the message: as women, we all have consequence. Each and every one of us. We all have stories, and other women want to hear those stories.

As you can tell, I am a huge fan. I read The Red Tent when it was first published in 1997, back when I was in college. Two years later, I bought a secondhand copy of the first paperback edition with my newly depleted college graduate's budget. (Being Asian, we typically don't buy books when we can borrow them from the library. But I had to have this one.) I did not know then how much this story would inspire me, but the journey of Dinah, her courage and authenticity, stayed with me as I traversed the Middle East: Israel, Jordan, Egypt, as well as ancient cities like Ephesus, Cappadocia, and Corinth. When I struggled in my spiritual journey and began writing the tale of Simon (St.) Peter's wife, Anita's book became a bedside reference that continually drew me into the lush, vibrant Old Testament world and gave me a path to a beautiful and visceral New Testament world of my own imagining.

I was excited. And nervous. I boarded the subway at the MBTA red line Braintree station at promptly 5pm, and arrived at Coolidge Corner at around 6:15pm. I was forty-five minutes early to her event at Brookline Booksmith, and I realized I had not eaten dinner yet. Frantically, I paced the neighborhood looking for food, but I could not find anything that suited my appetite. So I rushed back at 6:45pm hungry.

There she was, looking elegant in a black polka-dot sundress and matching sweater. She even brought a wedding cake for the occasion, since she was promoting her latest, The Jewish Wedding Now. (Note to self, cure for the stomach rumbling.)

I gingerly approached Anita and introduced myself, and she was gracious enough to sign my worn, dog-eared, twenty-year-old copy of The Red Tent. Then I presented her with a copy of my novel and signed it, citing her as one of the major inspirations. In between, we chatted and I mentioned we shared the same initial literary agent, Carolyn Jenks, but the traditional publishing route did not work out for me, so I self-published and went on my own. Anita did not seem to disapprove, and she asked me what I was doing to promote it. Was I talking to churches? Good, she nodded, and I realized it was probably a more effective venue than I gave it credit for. We took photos together, and then I sat down in the second row of the audience.

The New Jewish Wedding was actually Anita's first book, which she wrote in 1985 because she needed a similar guide for when she got married and could not find one. It has been revised and updated twice, every 16 years to be exact (once in 2001 and again in 2017). Concepts of huppah, mikvah, and klezmer were all new or vaguely familiar to me, but I was intrigued by the richness and vitality of the Jewish wedding traditions. She spoke about how the times have changed, and how the Jewish community has become much more open and inclusive in the last 32 years. What struck a cord with me, even in my ignorance of this heritage, was how the authenticity of the Jewish identity seemed to be preserved in the evolution of the traditions. And how welcoming it seemed, even to this South Vietnamese-American Catholic.

So I bought a copy of that book, partly for my Jewish friend who had very little to do with most things Jewish but seemed to be searching nonetheless with two young daughters who may want to know these traditions someday. The other part was that I was impressed by traditions I had never even thought about it, and wanted to peruse the book at leisure before giving it away to my friend.

Her presentation ended after maybe twenty minutes, and Anita began signing books and chatting with fans. I had a piece of cake, adorably adorned with wedding photos, and broke my sugar-free fast, but to be fair, it was really good cake. Then she began congregating with family and friends, and I realized that Brookline was now her neighborhood, and this was a community gathering of folks she knew well. Still I lingered. I didn't know what I was waiting for, but it was such a memorable moment for me that I wanted to prolong it somehow.

When I went to say goodbye, Anita said to me, "I am so glad the book meant so much to you. But I need you to tone it down. I am just me." I was suddenly embarrassed. Even then, I was grateful for her humility. "Other authors who are not as accomplished as you are not so down to earth," I said. She smiled. "Success after forty...you don't expect it."

I walked (well, walked for few blocks and rode the MBTA red line) home with a profound lesson. Anita Diamant reminded me of the intrinsic value of being human, and that we are all "just us." No matter how successful, wealthy, famous someone may become, they are still just a human being who can connect to me as another human being. We are all equals and we are all "just us."

Remember your place.

It was a fundamental lesson in self-respect.

One I am not apt to forget.

Thank you, Anita.

Broadway Buddy for a Day

Here was my schedule for Saturday morning:

5AM: Wake up

6AM: Leave for the airport

7AM: Board the plane

8:30AM: Arrive at Newark Airport

9AM: Take train to Penn Station

9:35AM: Take taxi to Broadway

Why, you ask? Why all the sleep privation and hassle from Boston to New York? My love of Broadway musicals, of course. There is a culture and subculture of denizen theatre goers who enter the lotteries, queue up at rush ticket lines, and wait for standing room to see their favorite shows.

So at 9:50AM, I arrived promptly at the Broadway Theatre, and scurried onto the very end of the line for rush tickets for the revival of Miss Saigon. The box office opens at 10am, and there were about 25 people ahead of me in line, and I very much doubted whether I would be able to see the show. Chances are, tickets would be sold out by the time I got to the box office window.

As I stood there pondering, a pleasantly faced old man in his sixties with a baseball cap approached me. He was standing at the front of the line, and his niece just cancelled on him, so would I like a good seat at the front of the orchestra with him? I was immediately exhilarated, and accepted without a suspicion in the world. I waited for him while he came back to the box office window, and as he anticipated, he scored front row orchestra seats at Miss Saigon. So I paid him for the ticket ($39), and he proceeded to tell me to meet before 2pm, when the matinee starts, when I decided to buy him coffee. A kindness for a kindness.

So I asked him why he picked me, out of the 25 folks standing in line. He replied that I looked conspicuously unattached. Hmm...I have to think about that one...

Thus began my friendship with John. He was a mild-mannered New Yorker, who had seen the city transform over the course of 50 years, back from when he saw West Side Story in the 1960s for $1.50. He had an expansive knowledge of all 41 theatres in this metropolis I thought I knew so well, how the Winter Garden theatre was constructed in the 1920's, how the nondenominational Times Square Church was being sold for $35 million, the new renovation of the Brill Building, and how the Ambassador Theatre (where Chicago was playing) had a secret apartment upstairs. He affectionately chided Phantom of the Opera as the show that elevated Broadway prices from affordable to prohibitively expensive...($50 a seat when they opened in 1988!). We even toured the old locations of the Paramount Theatres and other now defunct icons of a glorious movie culture, now replaced by stolid looking office buildings or the ubiquitous storefront of some big consumerist franchise glimmering in Time square lights.

He shared how he happened to auspiciously be at a certain phone booth during the David Letterman Show, how he was called to be an average Joe guest after an audacious wave, and how those programs are much more scripted than one might think.

Coffee became an invitation to lunch at Emmett O'Lunney's Irish Pub, one of his favored hangouts where I had my first ever shepherd's pie. Apparently, this dish originated from the Irish shepherds out tending their sheep on the pastures without much besides potatoes and lamb. John was an investigator for 30 years with the city of New York, and recently retired due to a knee injury. (Now that's why he was such a good judge of character.) Not to let that stop him, he now works part-time as security at the Tropicana casino in Atlantic City, picking off cheaters from the blackjack table.

He told me how his aunt and uncle left him an apartment in Hell's Kitchen, the playground of Broadway actors, and ironically how he goes home to his place in Atlantic City because he doesn't want to disturb his nephew and girlfriend (lucky girlfriend) currently living in his midtown abode. He talked about old fashioned Irish virtues and work ethic, how he was a summer delivery boy at one of the old Stockbroker houses as a student, how he was hired into the financial industry upon graduation, and how he managed to study and break into another field, just as the brokerage firm went under.

Then he showed me St. Malachy's Church where the actors worshipped, the amalgam of creativity, inspiration, and faith. How I would love to imbibe that energy.

His face radiated pride when he spoke of his nieces and nephews, one a percussionist for Broadway and currently playing in the orchestra for Beautiful: The Carole King musical, another a business man in South Korea, and the young college student at Columbia University who cancelled on him today because she was working a last minute waitressing shift and needed the money. When he spoke about his wife and her twenty-five year struggle with cancer and how they couldn't have children, I saw the tears glisten in his eyes.

1:30 pm arrived before we knew it, and John showed me the interiors of Broadway Theatre, with wide entrances because it also used to be grand movie theatre in the same vein as the Paramount. Sure enough, our seats were front row orchestra and the view was amazing. He also pointed to the balcony, and laughed about how the rich folk of the city used to be more concerned about exhibiting their extravagant clothes then seeing the shows, since balcony seats sported terrible views in his opinion.

Miss Saigon was just as affecting and beautiful as I remembered it. I saw it in the early 1990's (without Lea Salonga, I might add) when my student budget only afforded a seat high up in the "nose-bleed" section. Being of South Vietnamese heritage, it reminded me of the trials and tribulations of my people in a particularly visceral way.

It also annoyed me about how they always managed to find Filipino singers for the role of Kim (why never Vietnamese?) and how the costume design was clearly inauthentic because the long flowing black satin hair of Vietnamese girls, our unique signature among Asian women, was ignored in favor of these hideous buns atop the head like a Laotian, Thai, or yes, Filipino girl. (Only wives bun up their hair in those times, certainly not the image an escort/call girl/prostitute would want to convey to customer.)

Nonetheless, I was grateful to John for this experience; for the show, for his memories, and for his stories. We exchanged phone numbers and I do hope we can keep in touch, but these encounters often amount to a memorable day or two and nothing more. Yet, it is in these moments that we truly share ourselves with strangers, our dreams and our heartaches, things too deep or too familiar to share with our loved ones. We allow ourselves to laugh, cry, and sing without fear of being judged. It is in these moments that we remember our humanity, that in living it is in the connecting of random souls, weighted down by baggage and yet we stubbornly seek the buoyancy of the soul, somehow hoping to rise above it all. For John, it was filling his time with Broadway shows, with music and fantasy, and occasionally a kindred spirit.

For me, it was a break from routine, this constant culture of going and doing. It was a space and a silence in which I did not have to achieve, did not have to perform, did not have to impress. I can just be.

There we were. Broadway buddies for a day...

Evolution of Gypsies (the Pick-Pocketing Kind)

Back when I visited Italy in 2003, I encountered gypsies for the first time. It was in Taormina, Sicily, early in the morning as we were descending from the active volcano of Mount Etna. I distinctly remember a bedraggled gypsy in a tie-dyed shirt, orange hair, and seemingly pregnant, although whether her belly was full of alcohol or a blossoming child, I couldn't tell. She was begging. I even wrote a poem about her. My mother once said that seeing a beggar first thing in the morning denoted bad luck. Coincidental or not, I woke up early to watch the sun rise on my last night in Sicily, got completely carsick on the bus ride to Sorrento, and ended up missing the boat tour to Capri.

The next time I spotted gypsies was in Rome, filthy little children crowding around my friend and attempting to open up her fanny pack. Luckily, she was a feisty sixty something-year-old (Italian in origin as well), and she slapped their hands back, scolding them in a way only grandmothers could. It's funny how reprimands are universal, and Gloria, grey haired and pug nosed, was every bit as intimidating as their native women folk could be.

Fast forward 11 years to Berlin in 2014, when I made my third reconnaissance with gypsies when they were, no joke, posing as market researchers, carrying clipboards and asking people questions. However, being a market research professional for many years, here are the signs.

1) They move in groups: Market researchers typically work alone to cover as much ground as humanly possible. It is counterproductive (and more expensive) to gather survey responses in a group, so if there is more than one surveyor congregating together, chances are, it is a subterfuge.

2)Papers on their clipboard are old: Typically, responses to market research questions are recorded on fresh printouts, since questions change until the very last second. There is usually a substantial width, and the information recorded on these pages are more valuable than the paper itself. However, the papers carried by the gypsies are never used since it is only a façade. So, they get old and yellowed, and becomes very clear they are unused.

3)Their attire is the slightest bit unkempt: Market research is a profession, and researchers dress for the job in serious looking clothing. If you look at the gypsies, while their appearance is hugely improved from their beggar days, they are wearing brightly colored and clean t-shorts, or coats, but they don't aim for professionalism. Also, their hair still tends to look uncombed.

So what's the lesson? Gypsies are evolving, changing with the times. The better they get at disguising, the harder it will be to identify them. So they steal from us. They ruin vacations. They create logistical nightmares to sort out your paperwork. Sometimes I wish they would disappear. Other times I don't blame them. After all, they are just trying to make a living. What allowed me to be educated and enabled me to find a job where I can travel? What kept them from education and the finer things in life? One could argue manifest destiny, the fruits of our hard work, our parents, ancestors etc. We like to give ourselves more credit than we deserve. But at the end of the day, it is just plain dumb luck. A lottery draw that separates those with access to education and those who continue to exist on the fringes of society.

NY Times Bestseller, Here I Come!

Okay, not quite.

Not quite NY Times. Amazon Kindle

Not quite for weeks on end. Two Days. May 16 and May 19. (Only smart enough to screenshot May 19)

Not quite Bestseller among All Categories. Two Categories

Top FIVE in Historical Romance!!!

Top TEN in Christian Literature!!!

Hey, you have start somewhere.

For a dream, I am making some headway.

This is when a dream makes that transformation into a goal.

A determination.

A destiny.

An identity.

For today, I am a BEST-SELLING AUTHOR.

(I have 48 minutes left until midnight)

Back with a Book!

Since I last posted, I have published my debut novel The Fisherman's Bride!

Why did it take 4 years to get back to blogging?

The answer is life. I got a new job back in 2013, one that stretched my professional abilities (not to mention I was doing the work of 3 people without any additional compensation.) Oh well, such is the plight of the kind, compliant, and capable Asian woman. Otherwise known as the curse of the competent. Was I ever promoted? Of course not. But I still am employed.

I was also traveling nonstop around the world for work, and it always sounds inordinately much more glamorous than the reality.

Then I was dumped by my agent, and needed to find a way to self-publish my novel. A lot of crying, praying, self-doubting, and perhaps not an insignificant amount of commiserating with friends and family. The beloved of artists know all too well how much support, reassurance, and time we need, to bring the creative visions inside our heads to the world. And it can be a painful and exhilarating process, like heaven & hell at the same time. But once you do it, it is a badge of courage.

So now I am back, and shamelessly promoting my book.

Why, you ask? Because I made it happen. Because it's my dream.

Call me naïve, but I am still a chaser of dreams.

Chatting with Channing

It had begun ordinarily enough. Back in 2007, I was flying home from a wedding in St. Petersburg/Tampa, Florida, home of the famed Salvator Dali museum and retirement mecca for Americans aged 65+. Weddings had become routine to me, particularly since I was not acquainted with either bride or groom, and I was attending purely out of the social obligation of being a plus one. Nonetheless, I enjoyed dolling up and looking pretty and dancing on the arm of a less than perfect man. Particularly in a ballroom flooded with light high atop a famed hotel, sunshine accompanying every movement of everyone in that narrow circle of sunset.

I sat in an exit seat, besides a fellow who was so tall his legs extended to the next row and so he looked awkwardly cramped, even with extra leg room. He seemed good-natured (and kind of cute), so we began talking. Apparently, he was also flying back from a buddy's wedding to the New York area. "But I live in LA," he added.

"So, are you some kind of consultant?" I wanted to know.

"Actually, I'm an actor."

"Really? What's your name?" I did a double-take. He had chiseled good looks, sort of statuesque, like a Greek god, but seemed too approachable to be an actor.

"Chan. Channing Tatum." What an odd name.

"Never heard of you. What have you been in?"

"Have you ever seen She's the Man with Amanda Bynes?" I hadn't.

So he began to explain the premise of the movie, working with Amanda Bynes ("she's a sweetheart") as well as details of life as an actor, like how they get health insurance (through an actor's union), and then we discussed fame, Tom Cruise, celebrities, "Anonimity is like air. You don't realize you've got it until you've lost it." The he began talking about how he broke into the industry. He used to play sports and after an injury, he was rather lost. Then he got into modeling, one thing led to another, and a path opened to the silver screen. Acting was just the beginning, though, as he told me of his plans to write and direct. In fact, he was already working a screenplay. Then I discussed my analagous plans of writing, the children's fantasy novel I was working on, my dream of being a writer. He believed in dreams, and told me I could succeed if I continued writing. We all could.

The flight attendant began the safety preamble, and we promptly turned off our cell phones. His was pink and glittering; I recall the rhinestones flickering as he sheepishly put it away. "It's my girlfriend's," he admitted. His face glowed as he spoke about meeting Jennie on a movie set, how they couldn't keep their eyes and hands off each other, how they couldn't help being together, the chemistry that was so intense when you knew you were meant to be with someone.

When inquired about my relationship, I replied it was serious and I was actually considering marrying the man. Channing looked at me quizzically for a moment.

"You don't seem to be that excited about it."

"Well, you know, it's a big committment, a lot of change, and I just wasn't sure exactly how everything was going to pan out. Where we would live; how we would make it work. So many details to be ironed out." I felt myself blushing.

"You just don't seem to be in love with him."

My perplexity must have showed in my face. Channing laughed. "When you are in love with someone, the whole world knows. You can't stop thinking about the other person. You can't stop talking about the other person. When you are in love, your eyes light up at the simple thought of them. Like me and Jennie."

He was right. Six years later, he and Jenna are probably one of Hollywood's happiest young couples.

Whenever I think of Channing Tatum, I don't think of one of the World's Sexiest Men, or critically acclaimed actor, or celebrity on the rise. I remember a kind fellow who told me the unadulterated truth about myself.

One I am still figuring out six years later.