The Fungs in Mexico

This year for Christmas, my family decided to take a big trip together. So thirteen of us (me, my brother, Mama and Papa Fung, plus two other branches of my extended family from my mom's side) descended upon Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, to spend six days eating, drinking, laying out in the sun, and taking up a whole lot of space. Here are some of the highlights from the revelry.

1.) Right away, it became abundantly clear that, apart from a couple of Asian women with white husbands, that we were the only Asian people at this resort. Not that we ever heard any hotel staff referred to us as such, but we started calling ourselves Los Chinos.

2.) My brother and I both studied Spanish in high school and managed to retain a fair amount of it. The staff was always impressed whenever we conversed with them. Interestingly, and perhaps not surprisingly, the only people who ever asked us where we were from (and clearly were not expecting California as an answer) were the white American and Canadian tourists there. I'm guessing chinos que hablan are not an anomaly to Mexicans. Shouldn't be a surprise to white people either, but whatever...

3.) Getting a group of thirteen together for something as simple as meeting for lunch is like herding drunk cats. And yet, the one person who most successfully dictated our schedule was the youngest of our group, my 18-month old nephew.

4.) We drink a lot.

5.) The ocean is deliciously warm in that part of the Pacific coast. Somehow my brother and I like to announce to each other whenever we pee in it.

6.) When my dad asked the bellhop whether it was safe for us to walk outside the resort, the bellhop said, "Well, you all know karate, right?" I guess some stereotypes are universal. My dad's response: "Yes, but what good is karate when they have guns?" They shared a good laugh.

7.) We went whale watching and swam with dolphins, both of which were awesome activities. I am happy to report that, in spite of my entire family's prediction, I did not fall off the boat or get eaten by a dolphin.

8.) We spent Christmas Eve in a Mexican casino. Sure enough, this is where we found the other Asians in Puerto Vallarta. In fact, the casino has this picture plastered in the front:

Again, some stereotypes are universal.

9.) At least we did not lose money at the casino.

10.) I took my mom, dad, and aunt to church Christmas morning. Catholic masses really are done the same way all around the world. Just from the cadence and rhythm of the speech, you can tell where in the mass you are, even if you don't understand the words. My dad: "What else do you need to understand but Jesu Cristo and Alleluia?"

11.) We also spent Christmas Day playing drinking games in the hotel lounge. Our favorite ended up being "High, Low, Red, Black," or as I like to call, My Cousin J's Stupid Ass Drinking Game.

12.) One of the best things about this trip was coming together for lunch and dinner every day. We had never done that with such regularity before, and it brought a really lovely feeling of closeness. On our last night, we went around the table recalling what was our favorite part of the trip. The old folks got all weepy while talking about how grown-up and independent we kids are, and how it's us holding their hands on these family trips now. It was a beautiful moment. My brother's response: "My favorite part of this trip is my tan."

13.) We saw Mario Lopez while checking in at the airport for our return flight. If he weren't with his family I probably would have bothered him for a picture. That I lived in Los Angeles for four years and never once felt the impulse to talk to any of the celebrities I spotted regularly there shows just how much I loved Saved By the Bell.

14.) Leave it to me to get diarrhea after I come home from Mexico.

15.) We've decided to do family trips every other year for Christmas. Not sure where the next destination will be. I am tempted to pick a location based on what would make the best blogging fodder.

Papa Fung's Bookshelf

I didn't grow up in a house that had cable, but I did grow up in one that had books. Dad kept the shelves in his office filled with books dating back to his college days. I remember poking through his books on economic theory, calculus, and history, and hoped that one day I could unlock the mysteries of grown-up books.

Today, however, as I worked in my dad's office, I became perplexed by the books I saw on his top shelf:

So, I asked him about them:

Me: Dad, what's up with your books? They make you look like a Republican.

Dad: Well, I used to be one. Everyone was back then, in the early 80s.

Me: But those books are kind of new.

Dad: Well, I read them not because of their ideology. I just want to see how stupid people rise to power.

Me: Um, okay.

Dad: Reagan was stupid.

END.

Sharing Feelings With Mama and Papa Fung

My parents don't pressure me about getting married and settling down, and have respected the choices I've made in my life. Still, they're not immune to the worry that I may end up alone, and they would like to see me loved, supported, and taken care of. I'm not immune to that worry, either. In spite of preferring to take care of myself, of knowing that I will always have the love and support of friends and family, of being capable of creating a fulfilling life with or without sharing it with someone, I'm still, at the end of the day, a romantic who still hopes that that someone exists.

My parents and I don't talk much about our fears and our hopes, though. We've never had that kind of dynamic. In my family, we manage to avoid topics that involve feelings, love included. So when my parents check in on my love life, they usually talk around it, posing questions like, "Do you do anything other than work and practice taekwondo?" and "Have you made any new friends lately?" Because assuring them that, yes, I do make time to maintain a relatively active dating life would make for a super awkward conversation, and because they probably don't actually want to know the details of my "activities" anyway, I'm kind of okay with letting them believe that I write books by day and kick people by night.

I admit that there's a part of me that wants to commiserate with my parents at a more intimate level. I love them, and I like them as people. I'm also constantly learning from them, so why not ask them for advice on love as well?

Here's why:

In a recent conversation with my parents, I explained to them that the reason I was single didn't have to do with my lack of trying to meet men, or even getting dates with them, but that, quite simply, it's hard for me to meet men with whom I share common interests. When you're a 30-something-year-old woman with a PhD, whose idea of a fun time is to sing songs from RENT at karaoke, make costumes even when it's not Halloween, and point out things that are racist, you're probably not compatible with too many people.

My mother's response: "Who told you you had to be so weird?"

My father's: "Who needs common interests? Your mom and I don't have anything in common and we get along okay."

Sharing feelings is going to take some practice.

Mom and Daughter Take to the Streets

Over and over again, I have to remind myself to never underestimate my parents. When I decided to join a march for justice for Trayvon Martin today, I expected that my parents would try to convince me not to go.  I braced myself for potential frustrating dialogue. As immigrants, my parents know full well the violence of racism, the injustice of a legal system that doesn't work equally for all, the fear of the police. However, precisely because of the violence, injustice, and fear that they have experienced as immigrants, they don't feel entitled to the right to protest. It doesn't accomplish much, they say. Who listens to us anyway, they ask. The world is as it is. Your energy is better spent making money to take care of yourself and your family.

Nonetheless, in spite of never knowing quite what to make of their American-born, loud-mouthed daughter who chose to study English and teach Ethnic Studies, they have always listened to my rants and raves with appreciation and patience. And over bowls of noodle soup, we had an extended conversation about the case, the verdict, and racial injustice. As I had expected, they expressed ambivalent views and betrayed their own prejudices. But in the end, they agreed that the legal system is unfair, that Zimmerman's verdict is unjust, and that the public needs to pressure the federal government to file a civil rights case. To my surprise, Mama Fung decided to join me in the march, not only because she supported me, but also because she supported the cause. After I fashioned a "NO Justice NO Peace" sign out of cardboard, she wrote on the back her translation: 没有正义，没有和平. 

My heart swelled with pride as I linked arms with my mom and marched through the streets of San Francisco. I nearly cried when I heard her shout, in her accented English, "Justice for Trayvon Martin!" I chuckled when she shied away when the reporter from her favorite newspaper, World Journal, wanted to ask her questions about our sign. 

After the march, we had dinner together. She asked me about how I developed my commitment to social justice, how my community work relates to my scholarly work and professional life, whether I ever feel that I should have taken an easier road in life. She shared with me her own feelings about her place in America, her experiences in the 35 years she's lived here, her hopes for me and my future. As we refilled our cups of tea and worked through our jook and noodles, we spilled one story after another, as if we were confessing fears and hopes we had each longed to say to each other. 


The day was full of great one-liners from Mama Fung. Here are some of my favorites:

"I hate the police."

"Maybe you picked the wrong career. You should have been a lawyer. After tenure, you can still get a law degree. But then you'll be so scary, no man will want to marry you." 

"Of course I will support you when what you are doing is right."

"Your dad thinks that you get your spirit from him. He's not even here! Obviously, you get it from me."

"We are the only Chinese people here!"

"That guy over there is kind of weird. Let's walk the other way."

 "Stop telling all your friends about me!"  

"Will you get fired for this?"

"Of course I'm a special kind of mother. I would have to be to produce a daughter like you." 

"Can you ask the police where we can find a bathroom?"  

Adventures in Babysitting

Mama Fung now spends much of her days looking after my cousin's one-year-old. To entertain the kid, she has pulled out the arsenal of VHS tapes that my brother and I grew up watching. (Yes, my parents still own a VCR. Baby is getting a lesson in antique machinery.) To get a break from Barney the Dinosaur and Disney Singalong Songs, I tried to get the kid to sit through an episode of one of my favorite cartoons, The Animaniacs. I admit that the puns, pop culture references, and quick-paced dialogue are beyond a one-year-old's appreciation. My parents, however, saw an even greater problem.

Mama Fung: "What is this? Why is this so strange?"
Papa Fung: "This is an anarchist cartoon."
Mama Fung: "This was your favorite? No wonder you turned out so crazy. Don't let the baby watch this."

END. 

Midnight Conversation

My brother and I always enjoy some healthy banter when we're together. Case in point:

Me: You used to be such a sweet kid. What happened?

Bro: I'm still fucking sweet! You take that back, you assface.

END.

Dad Plans Ahead

Apparently my whole family is imagining scenarios in which I go to Eastern Europe and disappear. An email from my dad:

If you have the travel information such as flights and hotels you booked for the Prague trip, please email me so that we can keep track of where you are. In case you run away with a rich old man, we can go and look for you and claim our share of the money.

Dad


UPDATE:
Dad sends another email:

Just want you to enjoy your European trip. Be careful about your purse and passport. On Chinese TV, we've heard about two cases of a Chinese tour group being robbed in Europe in broad daylight.

Dad

Fung Safety

Like, I think, most immigrant parents, mine have instilled in me a healthy paranoia about the world. In spite of raising me in a very safe and relatively affluent neighborhood, mom and dad never let me go outside unaccompanied. Even stepping to the mailbox could result in me getting kidnapped.

So when I told my mom that I was planning a trip to Prague with some friends this summer, her first response was, "Don't go anywhere alone! I read a story in the newspaper about a Chinese girl who got kidnapped while she was traveling there." Similarly, when I was in Pittsburgh for a conference, my mother said, "Be careful! I just read a story about a Chinese girl who was on vacation in L.A., and then somebody killed her and dumped her body in the hotel water tank."

Perhaps my mother is particularly morbid, but my aunt launched the exact same warnings when I told her about my travels. Perhaps they're subscribed to a Dead Chinese Girls news feed or something.

All jokes aside, these incidents are indeed real, and being a petite Asian woman does mean I have to exercise caution. The trick is to figure out what amount of caution I should apply in my day-to-day activities. In fact, as of this moment, I'm waiting for a guy to pick me up on a date. I am now thinking that I should have planned to meet him at the art museum we're planning to go to. I should probably take a picture of his license plate and send it to some close friends in case he decides to kidnap me, chop up my body, and dump it in the river.

Fung My Valentine

I began this Valentine's Day with an email from my dad: 


Hi Kids,

I just came across an oldie that I haven't heard since teenage years. It's like finding an old friend. It still sounds so good. Check the lyrics too if you have time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmRG0Y5N8lg 

Dad


While I grew up loving much of the music my dad listens to, I can't say that I'm a fan of this particular ditty. But I can see why the refrain, "It's true, good timin' brought me to you" speaks to my dad. He has always said that it was precisely timing that brought him and my mother together. Dad's visa was expiring, and he had yet to secure a steady job. Meanwhile, his mother was dying in Hong Kong, so he knew that he had to leave the US and risk not being able to come back. The prospect of having to live in Hong Kong, a place he had always hated, terrified him. Through family, he met my mother, who had a green card. After a 3 month courtship, they got married in Reno. He went to Hong Kong, saw his mother's passing, and then returned 3 months later to begin his new life. My father likes to say that he met my mother just at the right time, and that saved him from a life of misery. 

My mother doesn't talk much about how she met and married my dad. But the pieces I've gathered of her side of the story make their courtship an utterly unromantic one. She had never wanted to come to the US or get married. To this day, she says that the happiest year of her life was when her ailing parents had been sent to the US by her sisters, leaving her alone to live as she pleased. Immigrating was very traumatic for her. A shy and sensitive person to begin with, she never could get over her inability to speak English and adapt to American culture, which she regarded as hostile. I don't know if she left behind a love in Taiwan. My aunt says she cried herself to sleep every night for a year. By the time she met my father, her life was confined to taking care of her parents, a duty she never complained about but must have also longed to escape. My dad, a graduate of UC Berkeley and the University of Chicago, looked like someone who could provide for her. With encouragement from her family (who probably worried about what other prospects a 30-year-old woman with little educational capital would have in a strange country), she agreed to marry my father. I've long known that their marriage was based more on security than love or romance. When I ask my mom what prompted her to get married, she says, "It was timing." 

I often think about how much of my own life has been indebted to timing and countless factors beyond my control. The fact that my parents could settle in an area that they would not have been able to afford were they starting their life now, the fact that I went to college at a time when tuition was still affordable, the fact that my job opened up just at the time I was finishing my degree, the fact that interest rates were low at the time I bought my first home... All these things led me to where I am now, and they all have to do with timing. 

When it comes to matters of the heart, however, I've never given timing much thought. I've had relationships end because I discovered that the person wasn't right for me. My own stupidity, rather than timing, led to those heartaches. Recently, however, I fell in love with a very good man who, due to what could be called "bad timing," had a harder time figuring out where I fit in his life. I may never find out if we could be very good together if timing were better, or if he would have turned out to be the wrong person for me regardless of the timing. Should either be true, I suppose I can try to find consolation in telling myself that the right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person.

But that's not satisfying either, especially when I think about my parents' marriage. I would never want to emulate it-- The differences in their temperaments, habits, and upbringings, would suggest that they were always wrong for each other. But in spite of the tensions in their relationship, they've managed to build a life together for 35 years and raise me and my brother, who both turned out as well adjusted and independent people, in a loving and healthy environment. I would stack up my parents' commitment to each other against any other couple that got together in more romantic circumstances. And while I would want more romance and affection than what appears to exist in their marriage, I have also come to appreciate more and more the loyalty, fortitude, and constancy that sustains their relationship and, in turn, our family. 

So is it so much timing that determined their staying power, or the choices they made in the face of timing? After all, my parents could have each submitted to the troubles facing them-- Dad could have returned to Hong Kong and stayed there, and mom could have decided to return to Taiwan after her parents died. And at all the points of trouble during their marriage (the financial crisis of these past few years being one), either one of them could have made the decision to call it quits. Not necessarily for any better or worse, the course of my family history could have been entirely different had timing prompted them to make different choices. I would like to think that choosing to bear things together is, in itself, love.

So perhaps timing isn't a matter of "good" or "bad," but of how one decides to take advantage of it. After all, the person who's willing to stand by you at the worst time in your life could also be the best person to share it with. Maybe that's the upside of the rather depressing circumstances that brought my parents together. I suppose, when the time is right, I'll find a partner in life who will stand by me during good times and bad. 

So I wish a Happy Valentine's Day to Mama and Papa Fung, who are always teaching me life lessons whether they mean to or not. 

Happy Year of the Snake

When I was growing up, Chinese New Year was always the biggest holiday. In the days up to the new year, my mom would take me shopping to get new clothes. (She said that when she was growing up, that was the one time in the year that she got new clothes.) She would clean the house spotless in order to make room for the good luck of the new year. My dad would warn us of things we shouldn't do once the new year arrives, like cut or wash our hair, because hair symbolizes fortune. We would drive all over the Bay Area to visit the houses of the elders in the family. At every stop, there would be tons of relatives to see and red envelopes to collect. And of course, there was the food, symbolic of (or homonyms of-- Chinese people love puns) wishes for the new year-- noodles (long life), fish (abundance), sticky rice cakes (increasing prosperity year after year), seaweed (fortune), tea eggs (fertility), onions (intelligence), celery (spirit for hard work), fruit (luck), whole duck (healthy family). The new year celebration was an all-weekend affair, and I loved it.

As I got older, the celebrations shrunk in scale as the elders passed on, aunts and uncles moved to the suburbs, kids went away for college, and each branch of the family tree curled into its own nuclear unit. That, I think, is such an unfortunate part of Americanization. I could always count on my immediate family getting together for a big dinner, usually prepared by my mom. But for years now, there are always members unable to attend, because Chinese New Year always happens during the academic schedule and doesn't come with its holiday weekend. For as long as I'll be living across the country, I will always be missing Chinese New Year with my family. And I will always be missing my family the most that day.

I've managed to find friends to celebrate with. And I suppose once I start my own family, I'll construct traditions of my own. I am aware now, more than I've ever been, of the kind of effort it takes to keep a family together. I can only hope that as my cousins, brother and I grow older, and as take the reigns in planning these holidays, we'll figure out a way to maintain the happy spirit that makes these holidays meaningful.

Fungs Do Not Like Snow

My dad's ticket of entry into the U.S. was his admission into Washington State University, a school he knew nothing about except that tuition was cheap. For a Chinese kid who grew up in Saigon and Hong Kong, to be plopped into Pullman, with its corn fields, red barns, and white faces, must have been quite a culture shock. He experienced snow for the first time there, which was a thrilling novelty at first but soon became the bane of his existence. To this day, my dad attributes his lifelong troubles with arthritis to that first winter, when he played in the snow without covering his 110-pound body, which up until then had only been exposed to 80 degree weather, with the proper attire. He says that the morning after that first frolic, his joints were in so much pain that he couldn't move. His right leg remained swollen for the rest of the semester. Chinese medicine would attribute my dad's ailment to "fung sup," or "wind and dampness," which throws off the equilibrium of your body's "life energy" or "qi."  (The opposite would be "yeet hay," or "hot air," which results in a different set of ailments.) It's no wonder that, after one semester in WASU, my dad decided he had to transfer to UC Berkeley. There, still limping around campus, he got referred to a Dr. Lee, a Chinese American doctor, who drained his swollen leg and prescribed a regimen of aspirin. Eventually, the pain and swelling went away, but he always got some flare-ups during cold weather. Two years ago, he had to get his right hip replaced, and he was still cursing that fateful snow day in Pullman.

I just survived my first New England blizzard, Nemo. I sent my family pictures I took while tromping around waist-deep in snow.

My dad's email reply: 

"Holy Shit! It reminds me of Pullman in the winter of 1969. Dad" 

Mama Fung's Pep Talk

One of my favorite movies from adolescence is the 1994 version of Little Women. It's a beautifully rendered adaptation of one of my favorite girlhood novels and appeals to my geeky fondness for period dramas. Also, featuring pre-klepto Winona Ryder, pre-grumpy Christian Bale, and classic-cry-face Claire Danes, the movie is so wonderfully 1990s.

The older I get, the more I realize that what I really love about the film is one short scene in which Jo, after turning down a marriage proposal, rails about how she's restless for a life she can't see yet. Marmee (played perfectly by Susan Sarandon) tells her, "You have so many extraordinary gifts. How can you expect to live an ordinary life?" That might be the best thing a mother could ever say, and I realize more and more how much I needed to be told this when I was 14. Should I have a daughter one day, I hope to impart the same message.

My mother has her own version of this advice whenever my life has taken a turn for the unexpected: "A strange girl like you, hard to find someone who appreciates you. Better to be single and free."

Care Package from Mom

My mom calls me today to say, "I made some Chinese New Year cakes and I will be sending you one in the mail. Also in that package, I will send some tea that helps with constipation. Oh, and it's good for your skin... What's so funny?"

Life of Fung

I took my parents to see the movie Life of Pi, which turned out to be a fitting family activity, given that this past year has given us both great challenges and great blessings. Afterwards, we had dinner and chatted about what we got out of the story.

Papa Fung: "The story is about hope, obviously. Even when the boy thinks he's going to die, something good happens, and he's saved. I thought the movie had a very positive feeling."

...

Mama Fung: "That is what marriage is: being stuck on a boat with a tiger."


END.

Revoking My Model Minority Card

Mama and Papa Fung have been looking after a brother and sister pair, ages 8 and 4, a few times a week. Perhaps because their parents once lived a cosmopolitan life that included living in Japan for a while, they want their kids to become immersed in different languages and cultures from an early age. They have sent the kids to Chinese school, and their previous nanny also spoke to them in Mandarin. As a result, the kids are remarkably fluent, and their accent is spot-on. My parents reinforce their education by speaking to them only in Mandarin and by teaching them some easy words to read and write.

My mother has been reflecting on why she hasn't been as successful in instructing her own children. She had to drag me kicking and screaming to Chinese school when when I was a kid, and quickly lost the struggle to maintain a Mandarin-speaking household the second I started preschool and jabbered in English. (It doesn't help that my father speaks Cantonese, so that was the dialect I was more exposed to growing up.) As a result, I speak Mandarin with the fluency required to order food at restaurant. My Cantonese is only good for petty gossip. And the little Chinese that I can read and write I retained from college, when I finally valued my mother tongue enough to attempt to learn. In sum, my Chinese language abilities are pathetic. My brother's are worse. 

So when Mama Fung told me about these kids she's babysitting, she could only lament: "Can you believe it? These two white kids speak Chinese! WHITE KIDS! What kind of mother am I?" 

My father, however, is a bit more forgiving of himself and of his children. In the time that he's spent with these kids, he has discovered that they have absolutely no musical knowledge. They don't know any songs, and have trouble singing notes on a scale. From the time my brother and I were able to make any verbal noises, we were singing. We sang Mandarin songs my mother taught us, Disney songs, songs we learned from preschool, Beatles songs, Motown songs, songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. Together with our cousins we could have been the Chinese American Von Trapp family. We also all learned musical instruments-- My brother and I both took piano and voice lessons. I played the flute in the school band; my brother played the trombone. There is not a single tone-deaf person in our family. 

Of course, this is just a testament to what constant reinforcement can do. My father, always one to believe in the power of genetics, says to me, "Come to think of it, you and your brother are smarter than these two white kids anyway."