My Parents Hate My Haircut

Over Thanksgiving, I got a rather drastic haircut. I went from the non-descript, medium length, standard woman-in-her-thirties hairdo that I had kept for the last four years to this:

(Needless to say, this is not me. This is singer Kina Grannis.)

And I LOVE my asymmetrical bob. The short length feels liberating. I can just just crawl out of bed, spray some product, and walk out the door. And the edginess reflects my personality better than the borderline soccer-mom thing I had going before.

My parents, however, have yet to get used to this look. They maintain a continuous commentary on it:

When I came home from the salon--
Dad: Did the stylist forget to cut the other side?

While I'm getting ready in the morning--
Mom: This haircut will make your neck hurt because you have to tilt your head to the side all the time. 

After I declared that I was drunk while we were in Mexico--
Dad: Was your stylist drunk too when she cut your hair?

While at immigration line at the San Francisco Airport, upon returning from Mexico.
Dad (gazing at the pretty Air Japan flight attendants): The hairstylists in Japan must be more skilled because all of those women's haircuts are even.

This morning--
Mom: I'm making a hair appointment for Saturday morning.
Dad: Are you taking your daughter with you?
Mom: Her haircuts cost $60. Mine cost $20.
Dad: If we pay another $60 do you think they'll cut the other half?
Mom: No need. I'll just cut her hair in her sleep.
Me (from the hallway): I'M UP! I'M UP! DON'T YOU DARE!


I am THIS close to getting a mohawk just to see what Mama and Papa Fung would say...

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.