Bridal shower day

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People always say that on days like bridal showers, rehearsal dinners, and weddings, there’s a thick emotional charge that clouds the air, and at any moment, it can be burst with the slightest thing said or alluded to. I guess that happened today when we had a “memory” activity, where all the attendees were asked to write down a fond memory they had with me. One of my cousins’ wives shared the memory of how she asked Ed and me to be candle sponsors at her wedding in July 2007. She said she remembered us walking down the aisle together to light two candles to become one for their future path together, and that she was thankful to have us to take part in this special ceremony on her wedding day. As soon as I saw Ed’s name on the card I was reading, I couldn’t help it and just burst into tears. It’s one of those extremely awkward moments where you know you have 15 other people literally gathered around and watching you, but you can’t do anything to control the tears from flowing. I had to keep taking deep breaths to control myself and prevent myself from needing to run out of the room. It was also a trigger for my mother, clearly, as I heard her sniffling and getting choked up with her own tears. That wedding was over eight years ago now. It’s still hard to believe he’s not here anymore, and these events only magnify that for me.

I’ve written this in my blog quite a number of times, but I feel like I can’t say enough how lucky and blessed a life I live. I had friends and family fly in from Phoenix, Seattle, New York, and even Singapore for my bridal shower and bachelorette weekend, and though I didn’t really need or ask for them, received extremely generous and thoughtful gifts and cards from them all. But as great as it is to have all of their love for me under the same roof at the same time, it’s hard for me to ignore the fact that my brother won’t be at home afterwards, asking me what gifts I got and what food he missed out on for being a guy who couldn’t be invited to a women-only bridal shower. I can even imagine his face and his exclamation if he were to see some of the lingerie our cousins-in-law got me as gifts. I know if he were here, he’d be excited for me, even through his own inner suffering. It’s as though every day that passes is another day of missing him and seeing all these things happening around me that he will never get to experience. I miss him the most on Thanksgiving, Christmas, his birthday, my birthday, our dad’s birthday, and the anniversary of his passing. Any wedding-related day can also now be added to that sad list.

“For my sister on her birthday”

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Every time I come home to San Francisco, I find myself reorganizing yet another one of my drawers in this house. I guess it goes to show that I’m not as neat and “organized” as I thought I was if I am constantly reorganizing and discarding things.

In my nightstand by my bed, while rummaging through old photos I put on the walls of my old dorm rooms, I found the only card Ed has ever given me. It’s a humorous and silly Hallmark card, and this is what it says:

For my sister on her birthday

(Front):

I’ve done all the things

siblings are

famous for —

I’ve bugged you,

I’ve embarrassed you.

I’ve made your life

a living nightmare…

But now that we’re older

I just want to say…

(Inside)

I was only doing my job!

It is dated January 22, 2007, five days after I turned 21. It’s dated that late because that year, our parents took me on a Hawaiian cruise as a birthday gift, and Ed as per usual refused to go because he hated traveling with them anywhere. That was the day we got back from the cruise.

Waiting for me when we arrived home was this card, a massive bouquet of multicolored flowers that Ed had delivered to the house, and a birthday cake for me. “21 is a big deal,” Ed said when he proudly presented the gifts. “Read the card I got you!” I obediently read it and chuckled a little and thanked him. He was clearly so proud of this card. “Isn’t this card so funny? That’s exactly us! It’s so great!” He was obsessed, and I could tell he obsessed about it at Walgreens or wherever else he picked up this card as he went through many cards.

After I read it today and stared longingly at his hand writing, I looked up at the photo of him on his old dresser in our bedroom, and I felt sick. How the hell is he not here anymore? Look at that innocent smile of his. It’s like all he wanted was a bit of encouragement, and he could barely get it from anyone other than his pastor and me. Every time I am back home, his absence is more painfully apparent because his photos and his bed and his dresser are here, but he is not. That bed just beckons him to come back, as it stares at me and asks, who will sleep in me? Will Ed ever come back? And I have to silently tell it that no, Ed will never be back to sleep in you again. The last night he ever slept in you was July 21, 2013, and that was the final night ever. I bend down to smell the sheets, and it smells just like him. You smell just like Ed, I tell the bed. Maybe he’s just hiding in the bed somewhere? Or maybe with that large framed photo from his funeral, if I wipe it down hard enough to get rid of all the dust, maybe he’ll pop out and hug me again?

These are my silly hopes and delusions, that I will see him again on earth, that he is still out there somewhere. My one wish in life is one that cannot be granted with even the all of the money and power in the world. I just want Ed back and healthy and happy. It’s so lonely to think that one day, you had a sibling, and the next, you don’t. It’s not fair that good, innocent people like him are gone.

4.5 hour chat with a stranger

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About a minute before boarding my connecting flight from Chicago to San Francisco yesterday morning, I got notified about my upgrade to first class, so I hurriedly went to the counter, grabbed my updated ticket, and headed onto the plane. What I have found in getting upgraded to business or first is that the guy sitting next to you will inevitably never want to talk to you; not only does he not want to talk to you, he will barely want to make eye contact with you, let alone give any acknowledgment that there is another living thing he is sitting next to in his plush seat or large cubby station. And yes, in my experience, about 90% of the people sitting up there tend to be men in suits.

So I was surprised when the guy sitting next to me this time made eye contact with me as soon as I got settled into my seat and said hello and smiled. I smiled and said hi back. But then what started as a quick friendly exchange of greetings became a chat that lasted the entire duration of our flight – four and a half hours. This has never happened to me before.

He is a 63-year-old man who just lost his wife to cervical cancer last December, has five children, came from a strict Catholic family of seven children, and has spent his entire life in the Chicago area. He’s a conservative Libertarian, can’t stand Obama and his Hawaiian vacations and “excessive use” of Air Force One, is pro-life, and is the president of a staffing company based in a suburb of Chicago. Well, who would have thought I would be interested in speaking with someone who fits all those conservative ticks? But I did, and I actually found myself agreeing with a lot of the things he said, particularly when it came to Trump and his no-BS attitude when it came to calling out politicians on the left and the right.

I think I liked him because he seemed so human and honest, and he was very thoughtful when telling me about his late wife, who it’s clear he loved very much. Superficial and shallow is what this man is not. He spoke about her as though she were still alive, and I’m sure in his heart, she really was very much still alive. He told me about their discovery of her cervical cancer at stage 4, how the doctor kept gently saying that this could have been caught earlier had it not been for their resistance to seeing doctors. “When you say ‘I do,’ on your wedding day, you should also take it a step further in your mind and promise each other you will agree to annual health exams,” he said to me, pensive. “If only I could turn back the clock, I would.” He told me about her struggle, her pains, even to the extent of her emergency room visits, particularly the one where one of her intestines burst, and they didn’t think she was going to make it, but she did.

I shared with him quite a bit about my life — where I’ve lived, studied, worked, what my family is like, where they’ve come from, how I was raised, my attitudes on life and living in general. And then of course, it got to the siblings, and when he asked about my brother, I said he passed away two years ago. His eyes grew sad, and he asked gently if I’d be willing to share how he died. I hesitated and gave him a hard look.

“Do you really want to know?” I asked him.

“If you are comfortable sharing it with me, yes,” he said.

“Suicide,” I responded simply with a straight face.

He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said, looking completely anguished. “But I will tell you that I think suicide is just one of the most selfish things… I mean, it’s like they don’t even think how it will affect the people they love around them.”

I could feel my face grow hot as soon as he said the word “selfish.” I thought for a few seconds about what I wanted to say and said, “Do you really think it’s selfish? Really? Do you have any idea what it’s like to struggle with a real mental illness all your life and to also have to be constantly criticized and told you are worthless? It’s not selfish if that’s the life you lived. You cannot make a statement like that unless you know what that person went through, to feel completely powerless and like every day someone’s trying to crush every little effort you are trying to make.”

He looked at me and clearly regretted what he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that and I had no idea that your brother went through that. For those who have mental illness, of course it’s not selfish. I’m just saying that for those who do not, it is.” He then shared the story of his best friend who hanged himself after he found out his wife was cheating on him with a mutual friend for the last six years. His three-year-old son found him in their basement.

It’s something people still think, that suicide is selfish, that a lot of people who commit suicide did not suffer any mental illness or depression and that they were just thinking about themselves and their own lives. “Selfish” and “suicide” should never be in the same sentence. I will make sure anyone who ever tries to tell me otherwise is swat down.

 

Breaking in

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I flew home to San Francisco today, and my parents picked me up from the airport as they usually do. When I got into the car, my mom said to me, “Don’t get mad about this, but we locked ourselves out of the house, so we need to get the ladder from the garage and climb up to the bedroom to get in.” Great. The dysfunction begins already. Today, I had to break into my own house.

The reason this is “dysfunctional” is that we typically keep a spare key with my aunt, who lives upstairs (they live in a duplex in the Richmond district of the city). Because my aunt used to house a black woman who my parents couldn’t stand (my parents are racist. It’s just a fact. They claimed she was loud and disruptive; she was not), my mom took back the spare key from her, saying she feared that “the black people upstairs” (meaning, that black woman and any of her black relatives and friends) would break into their space downstairs and steal everything. Even after this woman died from terminal cancer in July, my mom still refused to give my aunt back the key because “the blacks are still up there” visiting. That’s just lovely.

We would never have gotten locked out if it hadn’t been for my mother’s paranoia and my parents’ shared racism. The ladder in the garage ended up not being tall enough to get to the second floor bedroom, so I went up the back porch staircase, propped open the kitchen window, climbed over the outdoor staircase banister, and plopped myself onto the kitchen counter and jumped onto the kitchen floor. The entire time, my mom tried to put a death grip on me, but I had to shoo her off, scolding her and telling her she’d be more of a distraction than a savior if I fell.

After we got in, I told them both it was stupid and that they needed to get over it and just give the damn spare key back to my aunt. “What if I weren’t here?” I admonished them. “Neither of you could have done what I just did! It’s not safe for you!” Dad said next time, they’d have the taller ladder there because they left it at the apartment, but I told them that there will not be a next time because they will be logical for once and give the spare key to my aunt. It’s family dysfunction and paranoia like this that drove Ed away, and they still just don’t get it.

 

David and Goliath surprise

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I came back to the office today to move seats, as our office space has expanded, and with a bunch of desk and screen cleaners, I also found a hardcover copy of Malcolm Gladwell’s David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants sitting on my desk. Well, that’s kind of funny because this book was actually on my reading list. No one’s name was in the book, and since no one claimed it after I went around asking, I decided that I’m taking it with me to read while I am in San Francisco. Gladwell’s books are always easy reads for me while at the same time still being thought-provoking.

The reason I wanted to read this book is that my friend recommended it to me when I told him Ed’s life story and how he thought he was doomed for failure. “He should have red David and Goliath,” he said to me. “Maybe it would have given him some strength.” Maybe. But now that he isn’t here, I guess I will read it for him. The book’s basic gist is that sometimes, people who are the “underdogs” whether through status, what they have, or what they don’t have, can sometimes use that to their advantage and prevail with more creative problem solving skills and other crafty responses to life’s questions and scenarios.

To be honest, just from reading the book’s description, I’m not 100 percent sure it really would have helped Ed. It would be great to have books to read like this, but it’s a completely different thing to have people around you who actually will encourage you and not just put all their energy towards crushing your soul, calling you worthless, and criticizing you as much as they possibly can. That’s what causes people to jump off bridges — literally.

Bridal shower gifts

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In the last few days, I’ve been getting emails and text messages from friends, asking me what I want for my bridal shower. The truth is that I’ve never been in a situation of my own making (as in, a voluntary birthday party that either my family or I have thrown) where I would implicitly be asking for gifts and then have to open them up in front of everyone. As my mom used to say to me when I was growing up and would ask why all my friends had big birthday parties I could occasionally attend but I did not, we supposedly didn’t have enough money for that (now I know that it’s not true, but whatever — now we know it was just cheapness and lack of desire to organize). The one birthday party I ever really had was a surprise thrown for me by one of my best friends today, organized at the Olive Garden (then, it was nice, but now clearly as my tastes have changed, it would be funny). Now that my bridal shower is coming up this Saturday, I realize I again need to be in a room full of people who want me to open my gifts and get googly eyed with gratitude. I know I should be grateful; I’m lucky that I even have friends who would be willing to travel for me and be a part of my wedding festivities, and I’m also lucky I have family who are alive and healthy and can celebrate. But I am awkward with the idea of asking for gifts, so I have been giving non-answers.

One friend asked me if I wanted an object or cash or a gift card. Another friend straight up said, I know I’d personally prefer cash, so guess what? You are getting cash! And then a third friend said, I know you like to bake and cook, so can you go around your kitchen and see what you don’t have or would consider a “nice-to-have”? And I’m not being rude when I’m asking you to do this, am I? She is so cute and practical.

I’m really excited about the weekend. I’ve never had a weekend where it was a celebration all about me, and I feel all at once happy, excited, awkward, and emotional about it. It seems so self-indulgent, but I don’t care anymore as long as everyone is happy and has fun. I still can’t believe I managed to get 15 women in my life in the same room in the same city at the same time. Not everyone I’d like to be there will be there, unfortunately, but I guess that’s the way life is. You have to take what you can get and enjoy it for what it is…. Because soon, those amazing moments will be over and replaced with new and different events. For the ones who couldn’t make it, it’s really their loss and not mine. And I feel the same way for those who won’t be attending our wedding.

Stranded

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The last time I had to stay overnight at an airport, I was in college, trying to get a connecting flight from Atlanta back to San Francisco on the way home for Christmas. I was flying stand-by on Delta with my uncle’s buddy pass, and because I was a non-revenue flier, they would not pay for me to stay at a hotel overnight. And because I was not only cheap but also on a student budget, I just laid my clothes on some seats at the airport and slept on the uncomfortable chairs overnight. I asked the security guy to watch over me. And he nicely did.

This time, our connecting flight to Chicago from Minneapolis was four hours delayed, resulting in us not making it to Chicago in time to board any New York-bound flight. So they put us in the nearby Crowne Plaza for the night and gave us each a $12 dinner voucher and a $7 breakfast voucher for our inconveniences.

You’d think I would be grateful, but I was more annoyed than anything. All of these delays were just because they were trying to fly us in an old plane where it took four hours to fix the air conditioning. When I was in college, I would have been really grateful to get a free hotel stay at a Crowne Plaza. I guess this just shows how priorities change and maybe even how much more impatient I have become.

Minnesota State Fair

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Today was state fair day, and it was absolutely ridiculous — everything you could think of in America’s largest state fair was there: endless amusement park rides, games, and arcades; cotton candy and multicolored sweets everywhere; live music and entertainment; the sale of everything from actual trailers (from the extremely basic to the borderline luxurious, but is a “luxury trailer” an oxymoron?) to tall and loud lawn mowers; and of course, the most amusing element to me: all things possible you can think of that are “fried,” “on a stick,” and everything that encompasses both of those lovely terms. The usual culprits were there that people always joke about, things like fried oreos, fried candy bars on a stick (we found out that is the single item that the most caloric food sold at the fair – who would have thought that would be above any of the fried meat items?), and fried Twinkie. But there were even some items I hadn’t even imagined and were even representative of the increasing diversity of the fair attendees: fried baklava, fried alligator on a stick, fried fruit on a stick (I wonder if that was also gluten free?), chocolate covered nut roll on a stick, and fried cheesecake on a stick.

The state fair was really educational — there were a number of exhibit halls where you get to learn about everything from the different local trees grown in the area and what their bark is used for, local honeys and how bees make them, and all the things that make Minnesota unique, such as it being the state with the most active “hybriding” system of creating some of the country’s most popular apples; the honeycrisp apple, which is my absolute favorite apple, is a hybrid of the “people” and “keepsake” apples and was patented in 1988 and released to the public in 1991. Unfortunately for me, it has a short season in September, and so it’s the only time of the year you ever see them at farmers’ markets and grocery stores. To me, it’s the best combination of sweetness, tartness, and crisp and crunchiness. No other apple really compares.

I even learned that the U.S. has a designated “honey princess” every year. I guess based on that name, it’s a bit sexist and can only be filled by a woman. But her role is to travel around the country, educating the masses at schools and state fairs about honey, how it is made, how to cook and eat it, and of course, its health benefits. We watched the 2015 American honey princess today make a quick Greek yogurt/peanut butter/honey dip for apples.

The overall focus on education and the push for local, public Minnesota schools was very clear, as well. It was definitely a fried food and education filled day that brought out the true American in me.

Minnesota

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Today, Chris and I are headed to another state as we attempt to see every state in the country, and this time, it’s Minnesota. It’s the 37th state I’ve visited, and I think Chris is around the same number, plus or minus one or two. Off the top of my head, I have visited Arkansas and he hasn’t; he has visited New Mexico and Indiana, and I have not. For those who haven’t done much Minnesota research, the things that people generally know about it is that it is the home of the Mall of America, generally is a swing state, and has the largest and most popular state fair in the country. We’re visiting during the state fair time, so of course, we are planning to go there tomorrow to indulge in the Americana life of fried food and all things on a stick, as well as seeing live animals, which Chris just cannot wait for (actually, he hates animals unless they are on his plate). Also on my list are representative foods of the area, including Scandinavian, Vietnamese, Hmong, and “local” new American places such as Piccolo.

Based on what we have read so far, the culture of Minneapolis and St. Paul feel a lot like that of Milwaukee in Wisconsin. There’s a big culture of locavore eating as well as microbreweries and micro distilleries. The very first sake brewery in the United States called Moto-i opened right here in Minneapolis and has been an active brew pub since 2008. After visiting Gekkeikan in Kyoto during our Japan visit and being exposed to a number of different types of sake, we’re still in Japan withdrawal and hope to get exposed to other types of sake during this visit. People grow maple trees and sell maple syrup that is local to Minnesota here, and also similar to Wisconsin, they have their own cheese culture here that is just less well known than Wisconsin’s. I love visiting places where local food is highly valued and there’s a culture of supporting other local foods and businesses.

A message for a message seven years later

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Facebook has its pluses and minuses. However you’d like to categorize it, being able to message people in your Facebook “network” can be a plus or a minus. Yesterday, it felt like a big plus. Seven years ago, a former high school classmate experienced the death of her father. She was clearly stricken with grief by it, and posted the eulogy she wrote for him as a note on Facebook. I saw it in my feed that day in 2008, which was the year we both graduated from college, and I felt so awful when I read it. I could feel myself tearing up, my face getting hot while reading through it, wondering how terrible and alone she must have felt while delivering that speech at her father’s funeral. I knew I had to say something to her, even if we were never officially friends in real life. So I sent her a Facebook message, expressing my condolences, and I told her that I really believed her father was watching over her life now in another form, and that in another form, he’d always be with her.

Yesterday, after I uploaded my Facebook/Instagram post about Bart representing Ed on Ed’s birthday, this same person reached out to me to say how moved she was by my post. She said that because Facebook stores all old messages, my message to her all those years ago immediately came up when she started typing in my name to message me, and she remembered how happy and grateful she felt that I’d reached out to her all those years ago. Honestly, if she had never messaged me today, I never would have remembered ever reaching out to her and writing this message. This was part of her message to me yesterday:

“I saw the photo you posted for your brother’s birthday and I wanted to tell you I’m very sorry for your loss and that you’ve been so strong. I think it’s wonderful that you bring Bart with you wherever you go. It’s really beautiful and I’m sitting here with a couple tears in my eyes looking at your Instagram photos with Bart everywhere with you around the world. Ed is so lucky to have you as a sister, because he can still see the world through you. I think you already know without me saying this that it’s totally fine to cry, even after years have passed – because I still cried this year on my dad’s birthday, too! No one will forget. Thanks for sharing with us all.”

Facebook forces us to remember the thoughtful messages that others have written us, which I guess is sort of a nice thing. It also allows us to reach out and be supportive to others who may not be close to us, but sort of still know us, because sometimes when you least expect it, you can get support from those you never really thought cared at all. That’s pretty amazing sometimes.