ONE MORE EXAM UNTIL SPRING BREAK

Home for Thanksgiving!

I made it! It is splendid to be home with my loving parents, backyard cats, wonderful friends, and warm weather! These three and a half months have been some of the longest of my life, and certainly the longest I'd ever been away from home.


I'm recuperating daily, but have a few more checkups before I can return to Iowa with (hopefully) a clean bill of health. It's been a rough few weeks, and I'm excited to be a fully functioning being again, without my "sick station"--purell, tissue box, hot water, cough drops--following me everywhere.


My dad gave me a freshly cut rose from the garden this morning, and my mom cooked me my favorite dishes. I've been seeing friends in this beautiful (but was it always this congested and trafficky?) city and it is wonderful. If I don't catch you this time, I'll be home in another month for winter break!

Care Packages

 

Without fail, my parents have mailed me a large care package every single week that I've lived in Iowa (that's 8 if you were counting, but I think I was the only one). Each box weighs as much as my mom dares to fit into the biggest fixed rate Priority Mail box, which she packs meticulously with no gaps. When I get the magic key for accessing the USPS package locker, I always run-walk excitedly up to my 4th floor apartment, arms aching from lugging a 20-lb treasure chest.

My mom has mailed me everything from shacha sauce, canned lychees, grass jelly drinks, canned roasted eel, bamboo shoots, Pocky (lovingly bubble wrapped), to rubber bands, vitamins, and velcro strips. It's funny what mothers can think of!

I am so grateful for my parents, sending their love in the form of food as only Chinese parents can.

This week has been extremely emotional

Leaving home was as hard as I thought it would be, and then some.


My mom flew back to SF on Monday after spending a week on the road and helping me settle in. Saying goodbye was two-part: the first was a talk about life at a nearby coffee shop in which we held hands and wept (we never do things like this). The second was lunch at the airport in which neither of us ate anything and tried not to cry. It didn't matter that we stood by the security checkpoint for what seemed like hours, because it only takes about ten minutes to get from parking lot to flight gate at Cedar Rapids Airport (CID). I wrote her a card for the flight home, and she left me with a long list of things to remember ("health first") and a red lipstick stain on my cheek.


Today was my last day with my dad. He has been around in Iowa since we got here, visiting old friends from his alma mater and staying with Aunt Vickie and Uncle Byron 100 miles away. He stayed for my white coat ceremony even though his own school year starts on Monday. I knew that my dad was having a hard time this morning when he picked me up at my apartment, since he kept clearing his throat and talking in a strained, deeper voice. In his Dad way, he made sure that we filled up my gas tank before he left, got a car wash, and went over topping off fluids for the car one last time. He walked me back to my car after getting his boarding pass (since you can do things like that at CID) and insisted on seeing me off. So I drove slowly until he could no longer walk alongside me. I said one last goodbye to my dad in the rear view mirror, and cried the entire drive home on unfamiliar highways through the countryside.


For the first time in two years, I'm on my own again. Only, this time, it seems that nothing is familiar. I need to learn how to drive on highways with 75 MPH speed limits (most people go at least 85-90 by my guess), how to be single, how to use a Mac, how to drive in snow, how to ride a bus system that isn't Muni or BART or SamTrans, how to make friends with people who don't look like me, how to become a doctor. I guess I haven't thought much about that last one, since I've been so preoccupied with everything else. I've spent so much time thinking about what it would be like to finally get to this point in my life, that I don't really remember why I'm here...


But through the transition from big city to small town, God has been so faithful. He's provided me with a loving family and family-away-from-home whose support I'm able to appreciate more now.  When I was stressing about unexpected expenses this semester, I found out that my rent has been paid for the rest of the year. I cried when I heard that, for the fiftieth time this week. I'll most likely be able to go home for Thanksgiving now, since we get 9 days off. How is it that I'm on the receiving end of so much goodness when I am so undeserving? These are the things that I want to remember when I become a doctor four years from now. These are the things that I promise to pay forward.

The Iowa Decision

Hi friends! So I allowed a select few to see my updated school status on Facebook...and chances are that you're reading this because the two lists overlap.

This fall, I am going to attend the University of Iowa Roy J. and Lucille A. Carver College of Medicine. I think most people shorten it to simply UI, Iowa (it's the only medical school in the whole state of Iowa), or Carver College (which also happens to be a Bible college in Georgia). Not sure what I'm going with yet.

The decision was made soon after I departed to vacation in Hawaii. So you can imagine me standing on beautiful tropical beach sand, absentmindedly glancing at sea turtles sunning while on the phone with my dad. It went something like,

Me: Hi Dad! Iowa gave me the Dean's Scholarship today. I think I might take it...
Dad: That is excellent news, Connie. I am very proud of you.
Me: Thanks, Dad. Uhm...I have to go now, we're going snorkeling! Call you later.  

It was a pretty fantastic day. Although not a full ride, the scholarship definitely lightens the heavy burden of impending student loans. And if you were wondering, yes, my father does tend to speak quite formally--he once sent me a text message that started with, "Dear Connie," to invite me to lunch. Those are stories for other times.


Anyways. Then sunk in the realization. That I was going to move to Iowa. And live there. For four years. At least.


Here's what I knew about Iowa when I made the decision: 

1. There are lots of cornfields.
2. It snows in the winter and gets blazing hot in the summer. It also is subject to raging floods and tornadoes.
3. It has a very prestigious ophthalmology program, according to all of the ophthalmologists that I worked for. 
4. The medical school is ranked 28th in the US, right behind the Mayo Clinic.  
5. There are lots of cornfields.

 So...yeah.


When people used to ask me about where I wanted to go to medical school, my only wish was to stay in California. Iowa was never on the list of schools that I could envision myself attending. Although I have strong ties to Iowa through my parents (it was their first US home state), I attended the interview mostly for the novelty. Funny how every time I try to pull something like that, God seems to change my mind completely about my intentions and stir up my comfort zones. Like, really stir them up. With tornadoes and snowstorms. Equally funny is that when I want to settle for one thing, He gives me something better. Like, a scholarship for four years? Are you kidding me! It seems like just yesterday when I felt like medical school was the farthest thing from my grasp. 


Now that I am coming to terms with attending Iowa, at least logistically--I have a roommate, put down a deposit on a terrific apartment for August 1 (Bay Area folks, you won't believe what I'm paying!), am starting to pack things up for a cross-country road trip in my little Corolla--I am trying to find peace in my heart with what my life will become.


The Facebook group and school demographics released online suggest I am going to be one of perhaps four Chinese-American students in the entering class of 140, and one of 40 non-Iowa residents. Having never moved more than 25 miles away from my birthplace of San Francisco, I find these statistics to be mind-boggling. I cannot imagine a school more polar opposite to UC Berkeley. It is both terrifying and intriguing at the same time! Who are my friends going to be? Where will I buy my Asian vegetables? How will I present myself differently to my peers, if at all? I suppose now would be a great time to re-explore all of those cultural-racial-identity issues that IV touched on years ago.


For now, I'd love advice on moving and adapting to another state, or just to chat in general. I have about one month or so of unemployment to enjoy, and would love to hang out as much as I can before I leave!

Any Way the Wind Blows

March is not only a long month with no holidays, but also signifies the beginning of the end of the medical school application cycle. Typically, schools stop interviewing in March. So when I got news that my last California school--also my dream school--was a no-go, I was disappointed, but not surprised. It was the last school on my spreadsheet that I cared about. I went to work in a glum mood yesterday, but Russian Lady Technician told me, "Vat should we do, zis is life."


My mom had a similar reaction to me, but with much more theatrics. She was anguished that I most likely will not attend a med school in California. She wondered if things would be different if I had gone away to Johns Hopkins for undergrad; perhaps then I would've gotten into a UC for medicine. Or maybe if I had taken that full scholarship to another "easier" UC, my GPA wouldn't have been "Berkeley low," and then I could have had a better shot. My dad scoffed and said that she watches too many Korean dramas and thus lives in an alternate fantasy land.


As I was listening to her musings and what-ifs, anger and bitterness started to bubble up inside of me. I asked her why it wasn't enough that I worked hard in college, made straight As in several semesters, and still lived a well-rounded life. Why wasn't it enough that I have been invited to interview at nine schools? Why wasn't it enough that I have three acceptances so far? When will it ever be enough for her?


My mom replied that she wasn't criticizing me, but only wanted me near to her. I told her that I appreciate that, but I've lived in the Bay Area my entire life of twenty-four years. Medicine is something that I've always wanted to pursue despite my parents. They've tried to dissuade me because it's hard work and a long road, and they want to see me live an easy life. But for once, this is something that I am doing for me. I might not end up in California in the Fall, but maybe the change will be good. 

 
I told my bestie yesterday that I am scared of picking the wrong med school. I never thought that I would actually have options, and now that I do, it is terrifying.

Asian Massage

I once got a spa massage as a birthday gift from two of my friends. It was heavenly.

This year, my mom treated me to an Asian massage. It was recommended to her by a friend after her car accident. My mom bought a package deal of 10 massages, and we went in together as a mother-daughter experience. 

Technically, we went in for the 60-minute foot massage/reflexology session. I had already read on yelp that it's actually a full-body massage with a concentration on the feet. Cool.

Upon entering the spa-looking lobby, we were led into a dimly lit room with six beds in a three-by-two grid. My mom and I were led to opposite sides of the room, since there were other customers already on the other beds. Our session started with a foot soak, which was nice and warm and relaxing. I did my best to tune out the other patrons grunting, and the sound of banging (?!). 

My masseuse was a surprisingly strong petite Chinese lady. She covered me (fully clothed) with a blanket, and then sat at the head of the bed. I heard oil being pumped, and then suddenly her hands were kneading my face--forehead, cheeks, chin. Oil. On. My. Face. Who knows what kind of oil! I could only think of washing my face as soon as I got home. I would really, really like to not be broken out for my interview later this week. Another weird thing was my masseuse stuck her fingers in my ears, and then gave me a scalp massage. Huh.

After the face and scalp massage, a towel was placed over my eyes so I could only see a sliver of light if I looked down my nose. Then my masseuse started working on my shoulders. It was actually really nice, as my shoulders are tense probably 90% of my waking hours. When she started working down my arms, I let out a little yelp because my left arm is still not 100% from my snowboarding accident. She reduced the pressure a little and then both arms were kneaded without incident. I think that covering the eyes was supposed to make a more relaxing experience, but in all honesty it only made my ears more keen to sounds of a man groaning nearby.

The 'foot' part of the foot massage was interesting. I'm not normally ticklish on any area of my body, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing uncontrollably in that room full of other people. While my masseuse was rubbing and kneading, I thought about dungeons. I thought about the MCAT. I thought about how sad Anne Hathaway looked in Les Mis (which Danny and I watched yesterday). I got through the foot massage with only a stifled chortle and clenched fists. It could've been much, much worse.

I was told to flip over, and to put my face into the face donut thing, you know, for breathing. But this face donut wasn't particularly well designed, because I couldn't breathe. With every knead on my back, my chest was compressed and my throat pushed against the bed. I'm fine though, because I learned very quickly to alternate my breaths with the kneads. Normally, when Danny gives me shoulder massages, I make a huge scene and sort of noisily laugh-cry because it hurts and I have a low threshold for muscle-related pain. But I resolved to keep silent during this massage, even when my masseuse used her elbows to scrape my shoulder blades. I amuse myself.


My mom and I emerged slightly out of breath. She beamed, "Good, huh? Too bad you didn't get a man. Mine had so much strength! Maybe next time."

Med School Interview #5: The Homeland (part 1)

Once upon a time, two students immigrated separately from Taiwan to a little town in the middle of the United States for graduate school. They met and got married and had a little boy after obtaining their degrees. They enjoyed viewing drive-through movies and having ice cream at the Dairy Queen.


Those grad students were my parents, and that little town was Waterloo, Iowa.

And here I am, interviewing! This is my first time setting foot on my parents' first real US hometown. Last night, I stayed at a hotel the first night near the school that served freshly baked cookies and coffee 24/7 in the lobby.


For the rest of the weekend, I am staying with my mom's host family: Grandpa Clifford (who my older brother is named after), Grandma Marcie, and Auntie Vickie (where my middle name is from). Auntie Vickie actually stood in the delivery room with my mom when she gave birth to my brother, since my dad was already in San Francisco by then--they're the family that always mailed us birthday, Christmas, and graduation cards without fail. Even though I've only met them once when I was probably 9 years old, I am a now guest at their spacious home!

This is the downstairs floor, which I have to myself.

They are just about the nicest people in the world. Meet the family!

L to R: Auntie Vickie, me (surprise!), Grandma Marcie,
Grandpa Clifford, Cousin Brooke and husband Drew,
and Julie (Drew's mom)

Can't forget this cutie, Trinket. She snuggled and licked my hand the entire 2 hour car ride from Iowa City to Cedar Falls. My host family declared that Trinket loves me as much as they do. 



We had a "soup supper" at Julie's house. It was delicious. Afterwards, we went to a "dessert theater" which is hosted by a local church group. The title of the play was "Toys in the Attic," and featured dessert. I chose the caramel macchiato cheesecake. Mmm.

L to R: Byron (Auntie Vickie's husband), Auntie Vickie, Cousin Brooke,
me, Grandma Marcie, and Grandpa Clifford). 

And man, it was SO HARD packing for this trip. Let's face it, people in California dress a certain way (San Francisco, I'm looking at you). Other than my interview suit, pounds of See's Candies, scarves, and other gifts for my host family, I had to actually pack clothes that are presentable to Midwesterners AND warm enough. I even bought a pair of riding boots right before I flew out to trot around comfortably on the Trent Farm.

Stay tuned for farm explorations tomorrow! 

Parents and technology

My little brother's Facebook status: 

Mom just sent an email: "you should drink lots of authentic orange or watermelon juice (not soda, you need lots of Vitemin C). Not to wear Flip-flap all the time---it is not formal at all. mm"

In college, I would often get emails with these nuggets of wisdom:

1. Drive carefully when back on Sunday (23). Do not Over draw your money.

3.  You guys need to inform each other where you go or when to come back. So connie know how to prepare dinner. Clifford, I want you to stay home more for dinner as possibe as you can for you are not home for a long time. I want you to chit chat with your silbings and spend time together and talk more.

9. Just come home to relax, sleep and enjoy food.

mm

In case you didn't catch on, "mm" is not the sound of delicious approval, but her abbreviation for "mom." 

On the flip side, here is my dad's text message to me today: 

Dear Connie, I have Office Hours at five and will be able to pick you up after 530, for I would like to buy you dinner.

My dad always starts texts to me with "Dear Connie" as if writing a letter, or "Hi, Dear Connie" which is pretty cute too. My brother and I chuckle at how adorable my dad is at texting, because we know it probably took him minutes and minutes to send a single message.


I hope you laughed, because I did.

Baby brother leaves for college

When my brother left for college just a few days ago, I didn't know what to do.

Earlier that morning, he suggested the two of us go eat brunch at Denny's before my parents drove him down to San Diego. I decided to honor his wishes and squeeze in a last meal. We each ordered a coffee and the same breakfast combo (mine without eggs, of course). I had already exhausted my stores of 'college advice' and so instead we talked about silly things like we always do. We took our sweet time and only left the restaurant when my mom called us to stress that they needed to hit the road.

Here is a typical conversation with my brother:

C: "Hey Con, what's the best industry to go into with a degree in chemistry?" 
Me: "I don't know."
C: "Like a poot?"
Me: "On a monkey."
C: "Yeee-es!"

So okay, 90% gibberish. But it makes total sense to my brother and me, or at least is hilarious to us. We have mannerisms that just feed off of one another. You might find this hard to believe (because I'm so mature and dignified--hah!) , but we burp and roll around and giggle like little girls, all the time at home. Especially when things are tense at home, or my ailing, elderly grandparents are staying with us for an extended period of time, we resort to humor to get by.


He has said repeatedly that in a crisis, I'm the first person he would call. College brings up a lot of challenges. I wonder if I'll get any of those calls...


I had joked to D that because UC San Diego School of Medicine put me on hold, my dreams of following my brother to college were dashed. But I'm actually quite proud that he is going to venture on his own, and to forge his own college life as a chem E! I made him promise to check out a fellowship or two, which isn't on his list of priorities ("Con, I'm a social guy. I don't need clubs"). He really is a social guy--extremely funny and witty. I like to think I challenged him throughout his childhood to think critically and formulate his own opinions. 


It's weird to think that if I go to medical school, this might be the last time we ever live under the same roof. I guess in this upcoming year, I'll get to experience what it feels like to be an only child for a change.


That morning, when he left, I didn't know what to do. So I vacuumed the whole house, washed the sink full of dirty dishes, folded laundry, and then cleaned my brother's room. Here is how I made his bed:

It's like he never left.

Baking at age 8

One of my first memories of baking was with my dad, when I was 8. I loved frequenting the Ortega Library in San Francisco as a child and would often bring home cook books. The colorful pictures dazzled me so.


One day, I decided that I wanted to bake a chocolate cake from one of the books I brought home. In reality, it wasn't a chocolate cake at all. It was a savory pumpernickel bread made with cocoa powder. I even asked my dad what the word "savory" in the description meant, and he didn't know. I thought it meant delicious, and that was good enough for me.


I read through the ingredients and ordered my dad about the kitchen. My dad certainly isn't a chef now, nor was he fifteen years ago. So we fumbled around, trying to gather ingredients. I used to drink Nesquik, and thought that was an adequate substitute for cocoa powder. Same color, right? Check. We didn't have a loaf pan, and so we used an aluminum jello mold that looked like a flower. Good enough. And what in the world was baking powder?


So off we went, mixing things haphazardly, making a mess in the kitchen. After it came out of the oven, I was so excited! The cake was a brown, chocolatey color in a pretty flower bowl.


The cake didn't come out neatly from the pan (we probably didn't grease it, and uhm...jello molds aren't made for baking) so I scooped out a little chunk and tried it. And it tasted so, so bad. It was salty and a bit sweet from the Nesquik, with an awful dense, dirt-like texture. I remember being incredibly disappointed. I had waited patiently for it to bake in the oven for like, a whole hour! Maybe even two! Okay not, but time feels like is passes slower for children. 


My dad also tried the "cake," and said approvingly, "It tastes like bread." He smiled and chewed it some more, and even offered me another piece. Later that day, he secretly scooped out the entire mess and dumped it in the trash before my mom came home. I saw the flower tin soaking in the sink, clumps of crusty failure clinging to the sides. 


That was the first and last time I'd ever baked with my dad. I actually didn't bake much until my second year of college, when I moved into an apartment and had a fellowship group to feed.


Today, as I was baking chocolate cupcakes, my dad said, "Wow, they look so good. You could open a store."  I wonder if he remembers the failed chocolate "cake" from fifteen years ago. If he does, he has never brought it up, nor reminded me of my impulsiveness and know-it-all attitude. My dad remains to this day, the most patient man on Earth.

Dad's home

My dad came home from China today. It has been nearly two months since I've seen him! The only person that I will have not seen for longer this summer is Danny.

It's strange to think that both of my parents, and all of us kids, will be under one roof in two days! Living at home has been a gradual transition; first acclimating to the location, then the people. I'm thankful that it worked out that way; I needed some time to get used to the fact that I will be living at home for at least one year, probably two.

I woke up with the feeling that I should keep Sabbath today, and I'm thankful that I was able to. The whole afternoon, my dad was doing little tasks around the house to keep himself awake and combat jetlag. He watered the garden, did the sink full of dishes, and washed his laundry. He even cooked dinner, which was a quite delicious salmon miso soup. We shopped at Ranch99 earlier (and ran into Glenda and Mama Tam!) and bought salmon filets. It never occurs to me to buy fish or steak, two things that my mom insists that we cook every week. I still have a college student mindset when it comes to purchasing groceries.

This is what my dad brought me from Japan! Can you guess what it is? It's an umbrella! Super cute. He also brought me cookie cutters. :)

Over tea after dinner, my dad told me a funny story. My parents and my mom's parents had gone to 算命 ("suan ming"), or see a fortune teller, at the request of my grandpa. It's a pretty normal thing to get your fortune told in China or Taiwan. My parents don't believe in that stuff. But the fortune teller asked my dad how many kids he had, and what their zodiac signs were. My dad replied with "Three. Rabbit (my older brother), dragon (me), and dog (my younger brother)." The fortune teller said, "龍女是最好的." Which means, "The dragon girl is the best one." My dad chuckled as he told this story, and gave me a hug.

Yep, still daddy's little girl.

I am a soccer mom

When I moved back home, my parents were both out traveling. While it's been nice to have my own space, much as things were when I lived in my own apartment, the trade-off is that I have to look after my little brother and be head of household this summer.

In two days, my mom is leaving again, this time for Da Lian, China. She's going to meet my dad, who has been in Taiwan visiting family since two days after my graduation. During dinner, she instructed me on replying to her Jury Duty summons for her, paying bills, watering the plants, and turning off the stove. While I munched on blueberries, she showed me where she kept the security deposit box key and living trust documents. While she jogged on the treadmill, I folded laundry and listened to her list emergency contacts that I could call.

As a kid, I thought it was fun when my parents were gone for a week (Canada), maybe two (Europe), perhaps four (Taiwan). It meant that my friends could come over and we could make a mess and be loud without feeling guilty. As I'm getting older and assuming more responsibilities, the more I dread these long absences.

Sure, I can take care of business at home pretty well, even though I'm in a fairly intensive program this summer. But it's my little brother who really drives me crazy (hey if you're reading this, I'm picking you up in half an hour).

When I say that I'm a soccer mom, I say it with amusement tinged with dread and dejection. It means that I have to wake up at 6:45am to drive my brother to class, get to class myself, make dinner for my brothers when I get home, park on the right side of the street so I don't get a street cleaning ticket, clean the lint out of the dyer, call my brother incessantly when he's out past when he said he was going to be (17 year olds, ehh), then pick him up wherever he is. At the end of the day, I do my homework and study and fulfill my hospital duties, have some quiet time, talk to a certain someone, and then go to bed in a timely fashion so I can repeat the cycle.

It's nice to know that I can run a household in my parents' extended absence and still maintain some (minimal) level of social functioning. This can be practice for the future, when I have a family of my own. I said when, and not if. So there.

But... I am only 22 years old. And I have the life of a single working teen (young adult) mother, who also goes to school. It is very, very sad.

Living at home

Yesterday, after four days, I already disliked living at home.

A big part of it is because I feel like I have no freedom at home. When was the last time you shouted, "Hey Mom, I'm going out, I'll be back by ten!" as you left your apartment in Berkeley? Exactly--never. Well, sometimes, I would say that to my roommate. But she never called incessantly at 10:01pm asking where I was.

Another thing I discovered yesterday, is that my mother and I don't know how to apologize to each other. Over winter break, we argued about whether I should do a Master's program in some sort of biology, or apply to Pre-Health Professions Certification Program. She wanted me to do the former, but I chose the latter. The argument ended with me retreating to my room, stubbornly refusing to appear at family mealtimes. The next day, she wordlessly came into my room with a black shoulder bag, as a peace offering. This is how I know that we reached a truce. Yesterday, we argued about my freedom, or lack thereof. It also ended with me retreating to my room (the guest room, actually), and ignoring her for the night. When she dropped me off at the BART for The Hospital today, she mentioned offhandedly that there was a watermelon in the fridge. My way of reaching a truce was doing the dishes, laundry, and cutting up the watermelon for her when I got home after my shift.

I can't remember the last time my mom and I said sorry to one another.

My mom and I substitute acts of service and offering gifts for saying hard words. I suppose this is why my two strongest love languages are just that--acts of service and gifts. It's been hardwired into my system that when I've done something that disagreed with someone, I can make up for it with a peace offering. Sometimes, this is a good thing. But when it's all the time, something is missing. I hope this is something that this is something I can change over the next year of living under my parents' roof.

Even as I write this, I realize how childlike I can behave. My parents show me so much grace--even after we argue in the car on the way to somewhere, they'll put a $20 bill in my hand as I open the door to leave. Perhaps I dislike living at home is because I see how undeserving I am of all of the support my parents give me, and how I really couldn't survive a day without them.

This is what home is like for me

I stayed in Berkeley last night for a post-Large Group Life Discipleship hangout with Life Sciences Small Group, during which we made ice cream sandwiches! (Imagine picture here) A considerable amount of time was also spent snuggling with Katrina and laughing at my coleader's hilarious singing.

This morning, there was a senior class prayer meeting, which was uplifting. Then we went to lunch after at Rudy's Can't Fail Cafe. I was the only one at my table who didn't order anything egg-related, but that will be a post for another time. (Imagine picture here) The 51B came as I rounded the corner of Haste, and I only had to wait 4 minutes for the SF/Daly City BART train. This kind of smooth connection never happens on a Saturday!

I'm now home!

Here are the first six things I did when I got home:

1. Kiss my mom
2. Open my Set card game that I ordered on Amazon
3. Teach my brother how to play Set
4. Dominate my brother in Set five times in a row
5. Laundry
6. Climb into bed and nap....

...and then I awoke to the sound of unfamiliar voices laughing in the living room.

Whoops. I had forgotten that my parents were hosting a dinner party for some international students from Beijing tonight. My first thought upon waking was that I hadn't helped my mother cook dinner at all. I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. My house is routed so that I can go from my room to the kitchen, bypassing the living room (sounds complicated, but those of you who have been to my house understand). I set up ten place settings of dishes and chopsticks and teacups, with just enough time to clear my throat of my sleepy frog voice and greet our guests.

Growing up, I never thought it was weird that my dad, who is a professor, opened up our home to college students. I don't know about you, but I've never had dinner at my professor's home before.

I was hoping that I would come home to a small, intimate family dinner so I could catch up with my parents about the last month. I don't call home often, and I've only sent my mom about three text messages since my birthday. But dinner parties are nice also. My parents like doing this kind of thing. Maybe this is where I get my penchant for hosting events and literally serving people (food).

Anyways, I've got to go wash dishes and serve 湯圓!

Another story about my mother

As some of you might know, I'm pretty busy this summer. I take IB141 Human Genetics in the mornings, work in a research lab in the afternoons, volunteer at The Hospital for a full day once a week, and am co-coordinating Summer IV. Seems like a hefty load, right? Right. I've been frustrated, emotionally spent, mentally exhausted, low on BART fare more than once. But it's also been humbling, exciting, groundbreaking, relationally rewarding, affirming, interesting, and fun.

All of the things I've listed have just been trumped by a story my mother told me as I hugged and kissed her on the way in the door. (I'm told this isn't an Asian family thing to do, the hugging and kissing.)

First, my mother gave me these two cute strawberry grocery bags almost exactly like the one below:

They're from a former student of hers, who got them in Hong Kong. Cute, right? AND functional! Perfect.

But getting back to my story about the story she told:

The student's father had abandoned their family in China when she was young, and her mother sent her to America to live with a relative as a teenager. The relative treated her badly, didn't give her food to eat, and kicked her out of the house after a week. What's a young girl to do in a foreign country? She found work as a dish washer in a hotel, and supported herself through high school on $30 a month after rent.

I said, "Your student was so ke lian." Unfortunate, ill-fated, afflicted with suffering.

"No! Girls are very nung gan," my mother said. Able-bodied, enduring. Tears had been welling up in my eyes until she said, "Not so with boys. Just look at you and your brothers." (Male readers, please don't resent that statement.)

The story doesn't end there, though. The former student put herself through school, and is now enrolling in a graduate program. She and my mother still get together once a month to eat lunch, chat, and go shopping. My mother is like a surrogate mother to her.

Sometimes, I think about my mother leaving Cupertino High School, with its manicured lawns and safe suburban community, to teach at low-income high-risk schools like Thurgood Marshall High, with its barbed wire fences and security guard patrols. I've always admired my mother for sacrificing prestige and salary for giving herself to students who are in need of more than just a teacher. It might sound sappy, but I want to be like her.

This story isn't unique. My mother is a surrogate mother to a lot of her students. I always joke with friends that my mom is more popular than I am, but it is true. She always thinks of her students who don't have stable families, who don't have dinners to eat, who can't afford calculators. In turn, her students give her copies of their prom photos, signed with sweet messages in the back (addressed to "陳媽媽"--"Mama Chen"), CDs burned with their favorite Asian pop songs (which my mother actually listen to), and little gifts like the strawberry bags. Every time I clean out my closet, my mother sifts through my pile of clothes and picks out items for her students. I'm humbled and embarrassed even, to have so much while others have so little. It's a reminder to me to live out Christ's love for others, and not coveting new things for the sake of accumulating worldly possessions. If there's one thing I want to convey to Life Discipleship next year, it's the sacrificial love that my mother has given everyone who calls her mother.

Chasing the Muni

My mother came back today from Missouri! YAY!

To celebrate, we went to eat dinner at 8 Immortals in the Sunset. On Taraval, there was a Muni to the left of our car. All of a sudden, we hear my mother (who's at the wheel) say,

"Look! That Muni didn't stop for that guy! I want to pick him up right now and chase after it! That driver is so bad. He didn't even stop."

My little brother and I looked out of the window at the hipster-looking young man, running with his fists balled in frustration, furious that the bus hadn't stopped for him. We then looked at each other, unsure of what to say. My dad sat silent in the passenger seat, amused.

My mother insisted, "I want to pick him up! We can catch the Muni! You guys in the back seat, move over."
My brother, embarrassed at her well-intentioned imprudence, said "Uhm...that's weird, Mom. Don't do it."

My mother pulled over anyway. I rolled down my window and said to the guy, "Hey! Want a ride to catch the Muni?"

The guy's face registered confusion. "Get in." I opened the door and scooted over. He climbed into our sedan and my mother put her foot to the gas.

My mother started ranting, "I saw how that Muni didn't stop for you. That driver is so bad! You can take down his number and file a report. I can be your witness!" The guy just murmured and nodded. Our car was flying. My mother was on a mission.

Thirty seconds later, we passed the Muni on 26th Ave and sped on to the next stop, on 24th. By then, my mother had just finished her spiel on reports and witnesses and buses and whatnot.

The guy tumbled out of the car and said, "Wow, thanks so much! That was unreal." The look on his face said it all.

My brother, dad, and I looked at each other, and laughed.

It's good to have my mother home.