For The Love of Typhoons

There are all kinds of storms brewing around us.  Typhoon Tembin has been threatening to invade our small tropical island for daaaays.  Seriously, this is the most wishy washy typhoon I've ever met, she looks like she's heading this way, but then she's taking her sweet time, giving the weather forecasters and the general public plenty of time to create drama.  The intensity, the direction, the speed, the amount of rain it will bring, the level of winds that will come, all this changes as fast as my daughter changes her mind about what to have for breakfast.  Though our young maiden typhoon Tembin is indecisive, she has a suitor!  Yes, another typhoon is trailing behind her, and get this:  his name is Beloven.  No kidding?!  "Beloven Be Lovin' Tembin." The setting is perfect as Tembin makes landfall on the Chinese Valnetine's Day. Okay, enough with the cheesy puns, people, two typhoons heading straight for us, this means business.  Stock up on stuff, cuddle cozy with your family, it's time for a storm.

This afternoon I went grocery shopping in preparation for some indoor days.  Supermarkets in Taiwan are often scattered with various sales people offering samples of food items being sold.  It is very popular amongst Taiwanese people but I typically find them irritating in the way one feels when one is being forced to buy something one doesn't want.  I am browsing the aisles with my extra large umbrella (it had started raining on my way in the store) sticking awkwardly out of my tiny shopping cart.  A saleslady shoves a morsel of food on a toothpick in my face offering a sample and as usual I pull a crafty evasive maneuver with a quip of "no thank you" before moving on.  A few moments later, I hear her call out after me in a tone of voice stripped of the sales pitch,

"Has it started raining outside?" She didn't miss my ginormous rain gear.

"Yeah, yeah it's raining."  I'm a little disoriented having been interrupted from my focused path to the next destination: frozen peas.

"Is it raining hard?" The supermarket is three levels below ground floor, she really has no idea what the weather is like.

"Yeah, it was starting to rain big drops out there."

"Is it windy?"

"Yeah, wind is starting to pick up."

"So it's coming, the typhoon is really coming."

We exchange shy smiles filled with an air of nervous excitement knowing the storm's upon us as I continue my errand.  Yet that small conversation lingered in my mind as I reflected on how the weather somehow connected us, two strangers who have nothing in common except a briefly shared space in a department store.  It reminded me of how I must be missing the big picture if I passed by this woman thinking she was just another commercial tool used to coerce an economic transaction instead of a fellow citizen on our little island.  We may have different families, ideas, jobs, background, but we were there in the same geographic location, sharing in the anticipation of a big storm together.  And for that one moment we bonded.

I went through the checkout register and decided to pick up some bread.  As one of the workers at the bakery were helping me, I smiled at her and said, "hey, it's raining outside."

Names, Numbers, Formulas

I just finished up the third week of my new job as an administrative assistant at the school.  My responsibilities include sorting through student applications, compiling lists on excel worksheets, processing information on school demographics records, pulling up attendance reports, and doing this with efficiency and accuracy.  Names, numbers, formulas.

Don't get me wrong, I love office work.  I enjoy staying organized and I play with excel worksheets for fun (blush).  These tasks need to be accomplished as a means to deliver a quality education for our students.  And yet the paperwork induces restlessness deep down inside of me.  I think because somehow numbers reduce our humanity.  The applications can't tell me about the nerves these new students feel approaching a strange environment.  The paperwork can't deliver the nuances of each family's struggles and successes.  Lists are not life producing.  They manage, categorize, and control.  They do not tell stories.  They cannot love, forgive, have fun, and cry.

Sometimes I fear our society has become so fast paced and cluttered with to-do-lists a mile long that we have become merely names on applications and numbers on lists.  I hope I am not alone in wanting to wiggle myself out of checkboxes and demanding to live a more abandoned, dynamic life beyond routine reports.  We are more than another name and status update on someone's news feed.  We are more than numbers on someone's list.  We are more than another slot in someone's schedule.

We are human beings created in the image of an intense, dynamic, unpredictable God.

A God who has thrown together a cosmos with a dizzying array of planets, stars, suns, and moons.

A God who has a seemingly limitless palette of colors with which He paints the sky, the earth, and the waters.

A God who loves, forgives, parties, and weeps.

This God gave us life, and damned if we let ourselves be confined to names, numbers, and formulas.

My Daughter and the Gilmore Girls

I know it's totally last decade but I've been watching the Gilmore Girls while I exercise on my treadmill.  Some nights when Jason is working I'll watch some episodes in bed by myself.  He won't watch it with me, go figure.  Last night he walked in on me tearing up to Luke and Lorelai breaking up.  It's just SO sad!!!  Yes I get a tad involved in my dramas, it's a good thing.  It means I am empathetic.

Anyway, my dear daughter who is nine years of age, begs me to let her watch with me.  She, being the mini-me that she is, also leans towards the dramatic side.  Like any human, sensible mother, I say no (it's not a show for children, come on) and then cave (I'm tired, there's no will left to fight).  I wince a bit whenever a "what the he$$" pops up, or a "da$m" slips in.  I recoil as "adult themes" are referenced. It's quite stressful watching a show keenly aware of a nine year old's perspective, I don't recommend it.

Last night she inevitably asks again.

"Please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?"

"No, honey, I just want to relax, I'm sorry."

"Why?"  Flashback to the three year old life stage.

"Because I get nervous watching it with you knowing there are parts that aren't appropriate."

"Why is it inappropriate? Give me one example." Oh geez, brain cells dying slow and painful deaths.

"Well, it's a show about a mother who has a daughter without a husband.  I don't want you thinking that's what you want to grow up doing."

"Moooom (yes, just in that pre-teen sassy tone you're imagining in your head)!!  I don't WANT babies, you know that!  Give me another example."

"..."  Seriously, Cindy, two examples.  One plus one example, and you couldn't even come up with it.

"Honey, it's a show for adults. If you watch it, you're like an adult, and your childhood is way too short as it is, I want you to enjoy just being a child." I don't even know why I say things like that, it makes me sound like an old geezer.

"Moooom (yep, for the next decade, I better get used to it)!! I'll still play with my friends and stuff, I won't turn into an adult."

I think we went back and forth a few more times, or maybe not.  I just caved again and had another anxious evening of the Gilmore Girls.

Don't judge me, friends, unless you've got a better idea of communicating to your nine year old daughter why they shouldn't watch Gilmore Girls with you.

Boba Tea aka a High Ranking Love of My Life

Us Taiwanese have our challenges.  We cannot fly our own flag at the Olympics. We cannot grow very tall.  We cannot let go of our obsession over Hello Kitty. But we lay claim to introducing the world to the ingenious beverage that is Boba Tea.

Let's first talk origins.  Now I have personally read heartrending origin stories of boba tea in several tea stands all over Taiwan.  I have a healthy amount of skepticism, not unlike the doubt I cast over the old farmer who sits giving autographs by the Terracotta soldiers claiming to be the first to strike this amazing discovery (come ON, the dude never ages!), towards anyone who claims to have invented BT. There are two probable tea shops, one located in Tainan, the other in Taichung with a higher degree of legitimacy, but the verdict is inconclusive.  Suffice it to say, someone at some point, in Taiwan, decided to put tapioca balls in milk tea, increase the diameter of a regular sized straw, and start a world-trending sensation in the cold tea industry.  

Next let's try to nail down proper terminology.  In the beginning, the drink was given the lovely name of Zhen Zhu Nai Cha, the "Pearl Milk Tea", invoking the beautiful Chinese tradition of embellishing the names of our dishes, transforming plain old tapioca balls into a treasured jewel.  Later on, as the pearls evolved (got bigger), someone crassly named it Boba tea.  Boba is a Taiwanese colloquial term for large breasts.  It's kind of a bummer, really.  Luckily, some English speakers have taken to calling it "Bubble Tea", which is both a sound play of Boba Tea as well as descriptive of the round objects suspended in the drinks.  For the purpose of this blog, I'm going to shorten it to BT.

I LOVE BT! I HEART BT! I NEED BT!

For those who may have never tried BT, let me just break it down to you exactly what it is.  Bobas are tapioca balls.  Its primary ingredients are starch, water, and sugar, mixed together and shaped into small balls of varying diameters.  Originally, people ate them just by itself in sugared water as a dessert.  At that time, they were usually made to be clear in color.  Eventually people started liking the taste of brown sugar in them so the dark colored tapiocas came to be popular.  Taiwanese people are very particular about the texture of our food. A common description for bobas are "tan-ya", which literally means bounces-off-teeth.  For some odd reason we like to work to consume our food.  Chicken off bones, crab meat from the crevices of the claws, nuts encased in hard shells, the process is half the fun.  Consistent with this ethic, we feel simply gulping down liquid is hardly belaboring, let's work the jaw muscles as we drink. Boba tea is made by filling about 1/4 of a cup with tapioca balls, then filled to the brim with milk tea. It is consumed by straws large enough so you can enjoy a perfect proportion of both liquid and solids with each and every sip.

Adding boba to tea is like accessorizing.  It may not have cost you very much to add that colorful scarf or shiny belt to your cute little black dress, but it sure transforms the entire outfit.  Who would've thought something as plain and ordinary as starch and sugar could make a pauper of a drink into a prince? 

BT is more than my comfort drink, it is my Savior drink. I have had the darkest days of my life brightened by the presence of BT. My husband knows instinctively how to smooth over a fight. No flowers or chocolate for me, a cheap drink off the tea stand taps into the most romantic part of my soul. Stress melts when I anticipate that first cold rush of bubbles shooting up into the roof of my mouth, and the ensuing slow rhythmic chewing as the caffeine adds a kick to my system.  It's a perfect balance of white and dark, fluid and substance, yin and yang.  

You should try it.  I like it a lot, can you tell?

Criticism

Continuing the conversation on false assumptions of Chinese displays of affection, Kimberly asked this question:  "Is criticism from Chinese mothers a display of genuine love?"

This is a loaded question mainly because we move into the territory of defining what "love" is, which differs widely even within America's own culture.  Needless to say, trying to digest all the various ways Chinese define love will be outside the scope of this blog.  However, I think I understand where the question comes from. I'm sure the perception of the harsh and more poignantly, constant, criticism of parents toward children is hard to watch for Americans who care for these families. Let me just offer some food for thought which hopefully helps shed some light on the spirit behind which the criticism is extended.

My first baby was born in the States.  As I stepped into that life stage in American culture, I was naturally exposed to the ways American parents interacted in their society.  The first time I heard an American Mom brag about how cute their baby is to their friends, I was shocked. A traditional Chinese value (I am aware times are changing quickly and generalizations are what they are, so I do stress this is as a historically traditional Chinese value) is humility. Bragging on yourselves is not virtuous.  Even when others compliment you, you are to disagree vehemently and reject any compliments to exhibit your humble stature.  Imagine a society where your identity is wrapped up with your family's identity (unlike American individualism, where each individual's identity stands on their own), bragging on your children is equivalent to uplifting your own self. This causes great confusion to Westerners who may want to show kindness by complimenting a friend's child, only to have them respond, "What? My daughter is not beautiful, she's fat and her eyes are too small." Before you judge them to be super critical of their own child, trust me when I say inside the parent is swelling with pride at your compliment.

As the child grows and the criticisms continue, the American struggles to see beyond the pure horror of a grown adult being chastised severely by their elderly parent.  Again, I'd like to remind the American how much the family's identity is wrapped up in each other, so what appears to be relentless criticism toward the child is often self criticism or constant reminder to the child their behavior represents their whole family.  The stake is high: get those high scores, find a better job, get in relationships with the right people, our family's honor depends on it.

Americans will also be surprised the adult child allow themselves to receive the criticism without putting up a fight.  This is because the concept of hierarchy is so much more pronounced in Chinese culture compared to the West. Age is a powerful status in Chinese culture. The one person who has more power than the all-revered Chinese emperor is the emperor's mother, the elder of the emperor (Think the infamous Qing Dynasty Empress Dowager, Ci Xi). As soon as your baby brother is born, the older sister has clout at 2 years old.  Jie Jie gets to tell Di Di what to do and get away with it.  Speaking back to an elder is a sign of grave disrespect, so no matter how ugly the criticisms can get from an elder, you'll seldom see push back.  It may seem unjust but keep in mind the child grows and one day becomes an elder with the rights to criticize.  What goes around comes around.

One more thing I'd like to mention is the difference between obligations to each other.  In American society, parents relinquish most of the obligations as their child goes off to college.  Chinese families are committed to being intimately involved for life.  So American kids would typically not put up with their parents' criticisms, especially after they've become adults, but they also don't expect their parents to be obligated to them for financial support or to help raise their kids. The criticism Americans hear is only one part of an implicit mutual agreement: I will do and sacrifice everything I have for you for the rest of your life and this gives me a right to continue to input into your life.

Thus far, I've tried to refrain from making value judgments.  Not right, not wrong, just different.  This is a personal topic for me to tackle because I have my own Christian convictions as well as Western influences (not to mention a bit of a badass personality) which makes it VERY difficult for me to handle criticism from my elders. I especially believe as a follower of Jesus, I am responsible to fight against the injustice of a patriarchal society and stand up for my own value as a Chinese woman, rejecting harmful words for myself, for my daughter, and for all the beautiful girls of this culture. However, outsiders to this culture must be hesitant to judge before listening and understanding the vast commitments Chinese families have towards each other.

I love you = Wo Ai Ni?

Language is so much more than the words we utter.  Along with verbiage, our communication is expressed through tone, body language, and cultural implications.  Living in the cross section of American and Chinese culture, the missed layers of communication I observe between members of the respective cultures is at best humorous, and at worst, cause for broken relationships.

Take, for example, the usage of the phrase "I love you." I have heard Americans say those three words to people they've barely met.  I slowly learned not to squirm uncomfortably when I hear these words of affection thrown around like a greeting or more often a closing quip as companies depart.  My American friend recently admitted to me sometimes she feels those words are cheapened by how freely and frequently they are tossed around in her family. Being Chinese I've had to learn this cultural phenomenon and I've observed the following three situations in the way Americans say "I love you":

1.  A semi-to total functional family who genuinely respect and support one another may express I love you frequently as a sign of authentic love for each other.  They see the importance of leaving no room to doubt for their children or spouse to truly receive the heart behind the verbally spoken words.

2.  I love you becomes an acquiescence to societal norms in an effort to cover up what's really not-so-functional underneath.  Imagine a parent who is never around and drops the L-bomb at the end of a phone conversation in order to soothe their guilt.  Or a marriage whose passion has grown cold but continue the ritualistic "I love you-s" each morning as they go off to work in order to keep up the appearance of a healthy bond.

3. Sadly there are truly broken, perhaps even abusive, homes where family members have never been loved nor been told they are loved.

The problem arises when Americans encounter Chinese families who have never uttered those precious three words, "wo ai ni".  I'm afraid the American easily jumps to the conclusion the Chinese must therefore be a number 3 family.  I'm even more afraid when Christian Americans make it their mission to demonstrate true love to Chinese families with the assumption they must not know how to love if they don't say it.  This is simply a false assumption! Chinese families know how to love fiercely.  They do it through immense generosity, unwavering loyalty, and a lot of food. We love differently, not better, not worse, but definitely different.

This is not to say I don't think there's value in verbal expressions of love.  Some non-traditional Chinese families are starting to freely say I love you to each other and I believe that can be a healthy development. But I do believe the community should decide for themselves when or how they want to exhibit the love without being judged for being unloving unless they express themselves a certain way.

I'd be interested to hear what my American or Chinese readers think about this subject.  Do you say "I love you" to your families and friends?

Just Enough

When I logged in to write this new blog entry, blogger pulled up the stats of my blog. The numbers of page views, comments, impressions. When we see young children exhibit creativity or ingenuity, we quip, "that kid's going to grow up and change the world." We are inspired by heroes in our culture and aspire to impact others as we have been impacted.  We derive meaning and purpose from what sort of mark we hope to leave in this lifetime.  We strive to make impressions.  As many and as deeply as we can with the resources we've been given.

As Christians we have co-opted this drive to be influential.  We couch the intentions with religious language and say, "we are working unto the Lord" and with evangelistic fervor we urgently "reach" as many as we can.  We may argue our motivations are more pure than the worldly drive for success because we do it in God's Name and for His Glory, but the underlying ethos is no different.  Let's build the grandest sanctuaries, lead worship with professional musicians, host quality Sunday School programs, so we can further God's Kingdom as effectively and efficiently given our resources.

We value visionary leaders and the go-getters.  We encourage each other to dream big, to live radically for God.  We see the broken world around us and our passions drive us to do more, to help more, to make a difference, to impress God's love upon our world.

We celebrate biblical teachings like how God can turn a mustard seed of faith into a big tree.  We trust that if we just give our five loaves and two fish God can feed thousands.

My name is Cindy and I suffer from a messianic complex.  I see a problem and think I am the only solution.  Truly this is why I break the stereotype of ageless Asian women by spouting grey hairs prematurely.  My personality feeds right into our industrial hype for efficiency.  I work with the language of excel worksheets and bullet points.  I believe armed with the right tools I can impact the world dynamically for Christ and His Kingdom.

It wasn't pretty the day I found out I couldn't, indeed, change the world.  Those rosy colored lenses hovering my vision dissipated as I reflected on the fact that even the most powerful man in the world, the president of the States, remains quite limited in his capability to solve just one of our many global problems.  I discovered the movers and shakers of society are really mostly jiggling within their rather confined spaces, effecting only a minute segment of the world population.

If even the most charismatic successful people of the world are not really as influential as I thought they were, what the heck do I think I'm going to accomplish? Perhaps this is the time to start considering a theology of enough.  I am starting to embrace mediocrity because I am remembering how upside down the Gospel really is in relation to our prevailing cultural values.

Instead of praising the high achievers, we bless those who mourn.  The ones who are racked by grief, whose hearts are torn and their faith hanging on by a thread.

Instead of applauding the dynamic communicators, we seek out those who don't speak.  The ones who have completely stopped trying to speak because their voices have been drowned out for too long.

Instead of being inspired by the spiritual giants, we stumble along with those who are falling.  The ones who are so messed up inside they can't find their way out of the tangle.

Because isn't it true sometimes we offer up our bread and our fish and all it feeds is a few people?  Sometimes our faith is just enough to make it through the day, or even half a day, or just the next moment.  I think I'm ready to celebrate impacting the world "just enough".