Three Confessions and a Funeral

My Uncle Paul died on July 3, 2014 at the age of 91.

I got an email from my dad asking me to go to the memorial service.

First confession: I didn't want to go. If I'm honest, that was my first thought.

My second thought was this:

"You're selfish."

I showed up to the memorial service. I was late and wearing heels that inappropriately CLACK, CLACK'ed their way down the aisle.

[I can't really walk in heels--even comfortable, conservative size 8W heels purchased at Payless.]

Selfish. Selfish.

I sat in a pew in Sky Rose Chapel--high vaulted ceilings, stone floors, over-cranked AC--and listened to an account of my Uncle's life narrated in Chinese. My Uncle Paul had served as pastor of South Bay Chinese Christian Church for 33 years. He became a Christian in 1950 and moved from Taiwan to the United States in 1969.

I read the bulletin.

Printed there were these lyrics in Chinese and English:

What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit, oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer! 

Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged--take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful, who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer. 

Second confession: Shoes.

I once "borrowed" my Uncle Paul's Nike sneakers when I had no comfortable shoes to wear home and "forgot" to return them.

Selfish.

But sitting in that freezing chapel, hearing and reading about my Uncle's life--and not only that, remembering the kind of man that he was--

Gentle. Incredibly gentle. Kind. Patient.

We weren't close, but I can remember him sending me off multiple times over the years after a visit or stay at his and Aunt Mona's house, always walking me outside to the driveway and praying to God for me in Chinese.

For my protection. For my blessing. For my safety.

A father's blessing. A father's gentleness. A father's forgiveness.

I cried. I cried because I'm me and I was at a funeral.

I cried because I had carried this burden of SELFISH for a very, very long time.

I cried because I had accepted this burden from someone that I loved (and it can be so hard to refuse burdens from those that you love).

I cried because in that moment I felt the gentleness and forgiveness of a God who does not condemn me. Who knows my every weakness and forgives me.

I cried because I felt like, "Hey, God wouldn't want me to carry this burden of SELFISH and I don't think my uncle would want me to either."

I cried because God is my father. And he is gentle with me.

Third confession: I'm still struggling to lay down this burden. And that's why I'm writing this.

Why is Church Cliquey?

Why is church cliquey? I suppose I have a few theories about this--and I'm not just talking about my own church--reports have come in from far and wide about the cliquey nature of church, primarily from people my own age. Specifically, what makes the church foyer such an awkward place for new people? Why does it seem difficult to "break in"--to a conversation, a circle, a tight-knit social group?

Some theories: 

Theory 1: We respect your right to disengage more than we value your desire to be engaged.

Theory 2: The rise of irony makes it difficult to express sincere, unabashed interest in something or someone.

Theory 3: Church is "home" and we want to talk to our "family." 

Theory 4: Church is a series of loosely connected social circles. Maybe you're new, or maybe you just belong to one of the other social circles. Either way, I don't know you and I probably won't talk to you unless our circles intersect.

Theory 5: In LA especially, it seems like everyone wants something from you--sex, a date, a pitch meeting, a job, the secret of how you got your hair to do that crazy poof thing. Or they don't, in which case, why are they talking to you again?

What does the opposite of cliquey look like? I'm not sure, but I can hazard a guess, or rather, an experience: Black churches. I can remember going to one or several with family when we were visiting from out-of-state. To say that we were welcomed with open arms (literally) would be an understatement. We were "loved on." Hugged. Called "sister" or "brother."

My own history with church cliqueness is complicated. I was the awkward kid at the church party. Scratch that, I still am the awkward kid at the church party. 

When I was 9 and attending grade school in China, of course I didn't fit in. I was American, a foreigner, a lao wai. When I was 12 and started going to my international church's youth group, of course I didn't fit in. Most of the kids were older and "cooler." When I was 15 and we moved back to the states and I started going to youth group there, of course I didn't fit in. I was still reeling from the move and my parents' divorce, still adjusting to a new (old) country.

Whatever it is that makes fitting into social groups effortless (or at least non-awkward) never clicked for me.

I've blamed other people. I've blamed church for being cliquey, when the only thing I had to blame was my own lack of social skills. Blessed are the awkward, for they shall inherit all of the spinach dip.

"[T]he foreigner excludes before being excluded, even more than [s]he is being excluded."

-Kristeva

I'm not claiming that church is not cliquey. I'm not claiming that people aren't excluded, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

If you think that church is cliquey, if you feel excluded, judged, put down, ignored, insignificant--I'm sorry. If you've stopped going to church because you feel like you don't fit in--I'm sorry too. But one thing I've learned is that as much as I try, I can't separate my relationship with God from my relationship with other people. I can't love God and hate his church. I can't pursue God and cut off my brother, my sister. I can't harbor resentment and bitterness in my heart and claim that it's all okay, because God and I are okay.

I'm not saying you should attend a church that spiritually abuses you. I'm not saying you need to reconcile with those who excluded or ignored you. I'm not saying you need to agree with everything a church teaches. I'm saying, in a deeper sense, there is no in-crowd.

Whatever the point of hurt is, whatever the wound--it matters to God. For me, that would be feeling like the church doesn't care about my gifts and talents. It might be different for you. But don't give up. Be awkward. But don't be a stranger.

I attended a church-related holiday function alone recently, and as I told my friends, "I'm worried it will be awkward." The party promised to feature such cringe-worthy activities as "singing Christmas carols" and "eating white chocolate popcorn." But, impending awkwardness be damned, I went anyway, fruit tart in hand. And guess what? I was the awkward one (I know. I was surprised too).

I got there, promptly ignored the host when he introduced himself to me, in my nervousness drank large quantities of what turned out to be not-ice-tea, and generally faux-pas-ed it up in admirable fashion. And I had a great time. People went out of their way to make me feel welcome. When asked by one guy I had just met how I knew the people at the party, I replied, "I don't really know anyone here."

He said, "You know me."




Want more?

Why is church cliquey? Part 2
Why is church cliquey? Part 3
Why is church cliquey? Part 4
Why is church cliquey? Part 5

Dear 15-year-old me,

You are fat.

Just kidding. Sort of. Later on, your family and friends will tell you that you went through a "chubby" phase. Subsequently, you will get a lot of comments along the lines of, "Wow! You've lost weight!" or, "You're skinny now!" Uh...thanks?

This will come as a surprise. No biggie. I'm glad you don't think you're fat. Cause you're not. 

You are pretty. 

Don't act so shocked. Attention from guys will come later, and I know you think you're safe in that baggy black sweatshirt, but it's okay to feel attractive. Dressing in an appealing way is not a betrayal of your identity. Attention is not always a bad thing. You don't have to hide.

Homeschooling is a terrible idea.

You will never get the "normal high school experience." And let's face it, you're not disciplined enough to homeschool yourself. You are, however, extremely stubborn.

Homeschooling is an awesome idea.

Going from Beijing-->World travel-->North Carolina will be one of the toughest transitions of your life. You won't feel like you fit in. At all. You will probably always be ambivalent about NC as a whole. You will probably always feel at least a little bit like an outsider. But, the 6-month period you spend in Beijing your junior year of high school will change your life--an oasis in the desert of adolescence. You will learn how to edit. You will spend the first of many late, lonely nights cutting video. You will love it. God help us all.

You are not a burden.

I don't even know how to begin to convey this to you. You are very independent, and that can be a good thing, but that personality trait is being twisted into something else--something that's not good. You are not on your own. It may feel like that, like you need to be entirely self-sufficient now that your parents are divorced, but that's not the case. Retreating into yourself so as not to impose on anyone is not the way to go. It will only leave you isolated.

You are hurting.

I'm sorry.

You are OK. 

I could tell you all about the messed up way you relate to your family, or how you're judgmental, self-righteous, bitter, and perfectionistic--how you hurt the people you love the most in the most cutting ways possible. But you know what, they forgive you later. You even forgive you. You are OK.

And you know what--I still think "The Outsiders" is a great movie.

Stay gold, kid. 

Sincerely,

Me

Inspiration: http://jezebel.com/5951005/would-your-15+year+old-self-listen-to-you

Love in the Third Grade and How Things Never Change

We're standing, alone, in the middle of a field, just me and the boy that likes me. It's recess. Is there snow on the ground? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm in third grade. I live in Maine. There probably is snow on the ground.

"What do you think?"
"What do I think about what?"
"What do you think about me?"

I pause. What kind of question is that?

"I guess...I'm amused."
"Amused??"

But wait, it gets worse.

"Yeah, amused. Do you need to look it up in the dictionary??"

Emotional confrontations. Never my strong point.

I would say, never corner a girl in the middle of a field during recess and demand to know how she feels about you. But really, isn't that what we all want, to some extent?

Not the recess part necessarily, but the clarity--I've made my feelings clear. Now you can tell me if you feel the same way.

When I was in fourth grade, I moved to China. Do you know what fourth graders think China looks like? Little grass huts, everywhere.

In third grade, I was in the advanced reading and spelling groups. In spelling, we learned words like "vacuum" and "restaurant."

I told a boy I was "amused."

Years later, and not much has changed. What if your entire romantic future is basically laid out for you in the third grade? I don't like people easily. I'm bad at discussing feelings. I'm a bit arrogant about my large vocabulary. I say the wrong things at the wrong time, in the wrong tone of voice. Perhaps, one day, someone will find these qualities endearing.

You know what China looks like? China looks like a big city where I don't speak the language and there are too many cars and too many bicycles. I will learn the language. I will explore the city. I will write back to my fourth grade class and disabuse them of their little grass huts, everywhere. But not yet. For now, China looks like a big city where I am a foreigner and I don't speak the language.

You know what? There was definitely snow on the ground. Definitely. I'm sure of it.

Life. And stuff.

I want to write about how much I like my new job, but I'm not sure if I can. So instead, a story:

When I was 16, I went to visit my dad in Beijing. A visit meant to last one month somehow stretched into six. For reasons I don't fully remember, comprehend, or wish to think about, I didn't want to go back to North Carolina.

I applied for an internship with a humanitarian organization in Beijing. As part of my application, I sent in an essay I had written for school entitled "Sexism in Paradise Lost" (It started early, folks). Somehow, I got the internship and started translating articles from English to Chinese.

This humanitarian organization also happened to have a media department. Cue life-changing event: I learned how to edit video using Final Cut Pro.

I started editing a camp video. I had dreams about cuts. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was hooked. For the first time in my life, I was truly passionate about something.

I remember editing late, late at night in the empty office. I remember how I felt going in after a weekend away, the mixture of trepidation and elation as I pushed in the door--would they be happy to see me? Would I still feel at home? Did they think I was a nuisance? I remember the huge crush I had on a guy who worked there. He was at least 14 years older than me, and I tried really hard not to have a crush on him, so of course I did anyway. But most especially, I remember Ivy, the director of the media department, and how her enthusiasm, kindness, and dedication to teaching made me feel.

Interning there changed my life. And ever since then, I've wanted to be that same kind of person for someone else.

Because I know that if it weren't for the people who have mentored me and encouraged me, I wouldn't be pursuing filmmaking. I would have given up before even starting.

Maybe this helps explain how strongly I feel about church, production, and mentorship.

I feel very, very grateful, because I know the real world so very rarely bears any resemblance to the experience I had when I was 16.

I've mentioned this to some of my friends, but there have been times and places and people that have made me feel like some of my strongest character traits are a liability. I'm independent to a fault. I'm passionate and a bit obsessive when I really care about something. I'm extremely focused and driven. And sometimes that hasn't gone over well, and I've paid the price for falling outside of the gender norm or otherwise stepping on people's toes (egos).

None of this is true in my current job. I can be independent, driven, and a little bit obsessive, and it's not only okay, it's encouraged (not that I have nothing to learn about being more interdependent and sensitive to other people).

I can breathe. And for that, I am extremely grateful.

Beautiful Ghosts

"I can feel the skin on my forehead tingling, my blood rushing through a new course, my bones aching with a familiar pain. And I think, My mother was right. I am becoming Chinese."
-Amy Tan

I have never read The Joy Luck Club. For that matter, I have never read Maxine Kingston's The Warrior Woman. I am a traitor to my race. 

I went to a literary conference last weekend, and a high school student gave a presentation on the latter. In the discussion that followed, I realized the duality of my name.

My name in Chinese (first name), is composed of two characters:

The first is the character for "beautiful." The second is the character for "ghost" or "spirit."

Together, they might be translated "beautiful ghost" or "beautiful spirit."

So I realized something--America, in Chinese, is called "beautiful country" (same character for beautiful).

So, if you wanted to, you could say that my name contains both identities--my American identity, represented in "mei" (for America), and my Chinese identity (alter-ego), represented in "ling," which means "ghost" (ghost of the past?).

Of course, I'm grasping here. But I was struck by something someone (quoting Derrida about Marxism, apparently) said.

He said, "If you excise the ghost, you erase your identity."

And I thought, huh. Maybe there's more to being Chinese (half-Chinese) than looking like Mulan.

Maybe, in other words, I shouldn't excise the ghost or ignore its haunting. Sometimes I feel like its stalking me. And no matter how much I try to ignore it--it's still there--in a tightness in my throat, a tingling of the skin, an ache I can't place--a pain I can barely name, let alone feel.

When I cry, my eyes swell up and become smaller.

I am becoming Chinese. 

[Written April 10, 2008]