Tonight, I had a mentoring session with the foster kids at the program I participate in, and our activity tonight was making healthy holiday treats. The program hired some ladies from a nutrition company to come in to discuss healthy eating habits during the Christmas season, and provided food to assemble little dishes and bites. Some of the foods they brought included Quaker Oats rice cakes, plain and red pepper hummus, cucumbers, cream cheese, grapes, strawberries, and honey ham. Two of the kids had never heard of hummus, and one of them said it looked and sounded absolutely disgusting. He initially refused to even try it, but after a little coaxing from a few of us (“don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,”) he finally gave in and put some on his rice cake. And he ended up loving it and making seconds and thirds, topping his rice cake not only with hummus, but with vegetables he normally never eats.

It was a different world to be in at the moment; I forget how picky children can be, and to see these kids completely change their minds about something like hummus in a matter of 20 minutes was such a reality check for me. These are kids who aren’t exposed to foods of different cultures, and because of that, they have very fixed views of what they like and dislike. With a little coaxing, though, they relented and found something new they all enjoyed, and I think that’s what a lot of parents fear doing in general. We cannot just give up on people who say they don’t like things, especially as growing children. We need to reintroduce to them and explain why these things are good in not just taste but also in nutrition. And maybe they don’t like the hummus with the cucumber, but they’d like it with something else like the rice cakes. These kids had never even been exposed to why vegetables are actually beneficial to them, much less a whole variety of vegetables that exist out there that they have just never seen. Habits are learned, both the good and the bad ones.

I have a whole drawer full of Christmas ornaments. This is kind of sad because the last time I had a tree to decorate, it was December 2008 in Cambridge, and my then-boyfriend and I bought a tree from a church charity and decorated it together. It’s been eight years without a tree of my own to decorate. Yet, I’ve still been accumulating ornaments that have been given as gifts to me, not to mention ornaments from traveling to areas that are famous for their Christmas markets, like Austria and Germany. These ornaments look up at me every year, wondering, when are you going to hang me up? When are you going to make use of me? Get me outta this drawer and let me breathe!

I’ve been passing by lots of corner street Christmas tree sellers, inhaling that magical pine tree smell. Passing by these streets makes me wish I had my own tree to decorate. I have no idea how much these trees cost because I’ve never been in the market, but I just heard that there are some 6-ft. tall Christmas trees in SoHo that are going for $900-2,500 each! New York City is so ridiculous for prices, but I had no idea it could be that insane just for a Christmas tree that would be up and decorated at maximum a month and a half.

At 7:10am this morning, I went to my poll location and cast my ballot. Then, I headed to the gym for my 4.2-mile run.

I think we all vote for different reasons, but this a slight extension of what I posted on my Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter feeds, and I figured I would use this blog to elaborate on why.

As the daughter of an immigrant Vietnamese mother who fled Vietnam during the war to the U.S. in hopes of a better life and an actual education (because she never had one in Vietnam) and an American-born Chinese father who served in the Vietnam War on the American side, I vote. My mother fled communism and had to witness two of her own brothers die right in front of her eyes — they were killed for having skills, one being a teacher and the other being an artist. She came here hoping she’d never have to go through something as awful, nor would her children. My father, as a Private in the Vietnam War, was made fun of for being an Asian soldier serving on the American side and was told not to get confused for Vietnamese. Yes, the U.S. Army was racist and not united at all. It’s funny how people don’t talk much about that.

 
As the sister of a brother who committed suicide in a society with a broken healthcare system that still refuses to acknowledge mental health as an integral part of overall health, I vote. My Ed never voted. He was a victim of the crappy American education system and didn’t think his vote really counted. In his memory, I vote for a better future for people like him who suffered and fell through the cracks of our abysmal education and health systems.

As the wife of a selfless, intelligent, and ambitious brown immigrant who could kick anyone’s ass, including mine (hey, I never claimed to be a history buff) in an American history test, and who is constantly getting extra screenings at airports around the world and in this country only because of the color of his skin and the fact he does not have a U.S. passport, I vote. He is not legally able to vote, so my vote counts not just for Ed and me, but also for him.

As a person of color who has faced racial discrimination and been told to “go back to China,” I vote. I don’t care what all these ignorant people who live in bubbles say; racism still is prevalent in society, and anyone who turns a blind eye to it will never have even an ounce of my respect.

As a woman who is painfully cognizant of the fact that women in this country have not even had the right to vote for 100 years yet and is angered by apathetic American females who take this for granted, I fucking vote. I barely want to be associated with women who actively choose to NOT exercise their right to vote. It is a privilege. I cannot say or write that enough. And it’s so sad to see so many people ignore that. I get very, very angry over women not voting.

As a human being who hopes for a brighter and more progressive tomorrow for my future children and yours, I vote.

Today, Chris and I went to have our annual facials together at my favorite and relatively affordable skincare spot in midtown. Every year, I wait for the esthetician to tell me that my skin is congested around my nose, cheeks and forehead, and to give me tips on how to get all the gunk out between facials. I don’t indulge in monthly or even once-a-season facials the way facial spas recommend because I am cheap and don’t want to indulge myself too much, so I usually will use scrubs and masks at home. The two clay masks I got in Paris and Seoul seem to be working very well for me, as for the very first time, the esthetician, after examining my face thoroughly, declares, “Your skin is actually quite clean. I don’t see any problems here, and no congestion.”

Maybe Korean and French skincare isn’t just all marketing after all. I love it when I buy something and it actually works the way it says it’s supposed to. 

Chris got told he had good skin, but that he needs to start moisturizing because of dryness that his esthetician detected. “My skin is perfect,” he replied in defiance. Sure, it is. No one is getting any younger here.