Umbrella - ella - ella- eh -eh -eh

8th grade. Life Skills class. Probably the most useless class ever. Except the class in Senior Year where they taught us how to iron a shirt and make guacamole for a beer party to order to prepare us for college.

This particular class was about strength in diversity. Good topic since we were in an international school where kids hailed from all corners of the world. In order to get us interacting, our British teacher called out different countries and asked the kids to stand up when their home country was called. 

Turkey.

India.

Korea.

UK.

Pakistan.

The cheap black chairs were screeching from kids standing up in a hasty attempt at patriotism, a brief moment of solidarity with their motherland, which they have long since abandoned for the metropolis of Hong Kong.

China.

Only one chair was pulled back. And one girl shakily stood up. That was me.

Our teacher looked around the room, dumbfounded. He pointed to nearly half of the class. "Aren't you . . .  aren't you all . . .  Chinese?" The group of black eyes stared back at him. 

A tall boy from the track team, my neighbor who I had had a major crush on since forever, shook his head emphatically. "No. No. We're Hong Kongers. We're not like those Mainland Chinese."

After class, I was surrounded and taunted. "Sisi, you have to pick a side. You're one of us. You were born here. You're lucky. So why did you say that you are Chinese?"

Maybe they did not know, or maybe they did know, but my mom was from Mainland China.

------

Around a month and a half ago, the world watched as tens of thousands of people spilled into the busiest main streets of Hong Kong and demanded universal suffrage where they can freely elect their Chief Executive (equivalent to city mayor) without any pre-selection from the Communist Party which runs the PRC government seated in Beijing.

The protest was started by a group of high school and university students, but when the police used tear gas on them, tens of thousands of Hong Kong citizens joined in a rare moment of solidarity and indignation. A movement was born. The propagandistic China Daily newspaper angrily called it a "bad Color Revolution" that the United States conspired to spark. The Hong Kongers proudly labeled it the "Umbrella Revolution" - a nod to the umbrellas that protesters brought to protect themselves from the tear gas. People were chanting "Our Hong Kong. Ours to Save." and wearing pollution face masks in lieu of gas masks.

There's something powerful in that statement. It is not "Our Hong Kong - because we don't want to be  Chinese." But rather, now it is "Our Hong Kong - because we are willing to fight for our democratic rights."

Magic happens when the young are galvanized enough to take action. Now my generation is increasingly well-versed in the Basic Law, our "mini-constitution" that governs Hong Kong after the handover from China. We are no longer apathetic and only concerned about buying the iPhone 6. We are finally awake and aware.

I cried when I first read about the protests on the news. I was in Greece and felt like my childhood home was calling to me to return and take a stand. I followed all the major news thread about Occupy Central and imagined myself on the streets with my rainbow umbrella.

After six weeks, A. and I finally went to Hong Kong this weekend and walked around the Occupy Central zone. The protesters still have the major highways and roads under hostage, stacking makeshift fences to delineate their territory. Whenever the police have tried to storm in and retake control of the road, more crowds will rally to the cause and push the police back. So that's how Hong Kong is stuck in this uneasy impasse, the police always alert to an opportunity to move in and the students and protesters at large carry on life within the bright tents that line the highway.

The protesters do not show signs of letting up. Many have brought their sofas, clothing racks, and juicers. They erected a study hall with wifi access and wooden tables so students will not fall too far behind their studies. Most leave during the week days to go to school or work and return on the weekends to continue the sit in. Parents bring their children to the tents on the weekends and eat McDonald's together while leaning against a road block.

While the society at large respects the patriotism underlying the cause, not everybody appreciates the inconvenience caused by the protests, cutting off a major traffic artery to the heart of Hong Kong. The taxi drivers grumble at the lower demand for taxis because of traffic and the nearby small shopkeepers also feel the pinch in their business. The local mafia (first time I knew that they existed outside of Jackie Chan movies) even incited a group of anti-protesters to go and tear down the barricades because they couldn't operate in their usual under-the-radar zones with all the students camped there.

I am mixed. Sometimes my chest burns with youthful idealism and hope that somehow all the umbrellas will be enough to bring democracy and solidarity to Hong Kong. Other times, I am worried that this will just deepen the fissure between Hong Kong and Mainland China for a pipe dream of true democracy that logically the PRC Chinese government will never relent to. And if universal suffrage will never happen, then maybe we should just let go and try to mend our fences with Mainland China so we can build a unified country?

. . . What was that line I learned in American politics 101? "Give me freedom or give me death" - Americans always made the pursuit of democracy seem so natural.

Santorini Sunset

Santorini, Greece.

I have been waiting for this moment for a long time. I have waited ever since I sported those round glasses in third grade that Harry Potter hadn't made cool yet (or that he never did). I used to hide under the especially pink blankets, picked by my mom's interior designer friend to match our unfortunately pink and green persian rug, after lights out to read all about the ancient Greeks. The moment mom's worn slippers slapped their way back into her bedroom, seemingly on constant patrol of kids who had snucked out of bed, I pulled out my mini flashlight and scurried under the covers with my latest novel. I shoved the flashlight into my mouth and shone the light on my precious book. Ever so often, I took out the flashlight to gulp down the saliva building up in my mouth. I always told the librarian that I accidentally flicked water onto some of the pages. She bought it.

When I got to college and watched a movie about two old men on their death beds making lists of things they wished they could have done, I made a bucket list too. Item #5 - Walk among ancient ruins of Athens. Sometime in my junior year, I crossed it out and replaced it with Watch a sunset in Santorini. Still in Greece, just a more sophisticated version, that's all. I thought it was one of the most romantic, adult thing to wish for and was slightly mortified to find that this specific item was also on the list of almost every pedestrian Most Stunning Sunsets You MUST See!! travel/ honeymoon magazine column.

Anyhow, I am here now.

Despite the throngs of adoring tourists, the Oia village of Santorini sits untouched. She doesn't dress to impress because she doesn't need to. White washed walls, churches, and cafes are offset by the brilliant hue of royal blue that colors select rooftops, evoking childhood memories of fine China. Everywhere you turn, there's another prime location for a bridal shoot. The well-worn cobblestone foot paths, every creaking door, the occasional surprises of auburn neighborhood walls, the hanging balcony restaurants that serve up ocean fresh octopus and warmly baked moussaka all add to its beauty -  heck, even the dog napping by the rustic turquoise school gate is photogenic.

There is something in the air too. A sense of light airiness rests gently on the cliffs, greatly enhanced by the soft ocean breeze and the almost tangible expectations of the crowd waiting for something magical to happen. This is Santorini after all and it must deliver.

As the orange sun dips slowly, the crowd moves urgently toward the tip of Oia, to the edge where the best sunset views are promised. No more lingering in front of the jewelry boutique that sells handmade crystal pieces. No more posing thoughtfully against a ledge. This is the culminating moment, the one that will grace many instagram accounts.

I hurry in my Grecian leather sandals. A guides me gently along, expertly fielding away those bumping from behind us. Tugging at my navy jumpsuit, I am nervous. What if the sunset isn't what I have always imagined it to be?

And what if it is what I have always imagined it to be? I chased the sun in the last three years and have been fortunate enough to watch it light upon many famed sights. Purple and pink dawn like berry blush in Ankor Wat, Cambodia. Burnt almond sunset in land of the 4000 temples in Bagan, Myanmar. Brilliant specks of every color on the shores of Maldives. Majestic and lonely osage orange on the Masai Mara plains in Kenya. A casual and dark disappearance around the Eiffel Tower in France.

Each sunrise and sunset evoked different emotions in me. Grateful. Peaceful. Lonely. Happy. All beautiful in its own way.

I am nervous because intermingled with the awe and wonder of nature while watching the last few "bucket list" sunsets, I felt that I wanted more. I wanted somebody to share it with. I was always with great friends, family, or "a boy", but I could never shake that feeling. I was afraid that I was getting ungrateful. That I was growing up and getting bored of sunsets.

But I shuffle onwards, because I am still curious about the sunset of Oia and because I am pushed forward by the crowd.

But the crowds! The travel magazines never warn you about the pesky crowd who also wants a slice of your bucket list moment, especially when everybody seems to be taller than you, barricading against any hopeful glimpses on tip toe with the wall of smartphones and tablets. The hum of the tourists crescendoes as the sun slips ever lower in the sky. I resign myself to watch through the screens, with the single solace that I will be watching through a high res iPad screen.

A looks around and drops his cotopaxi backpack. Without waiting for my ladylike protests, he hoists me onto his shoulders, heads above the tourists. And there I sit and watch as the sun kisses the horizons, casting a lingering splay of soft coral and plum glow. The crowd, hushed for a brief moment, breaks out in a spontaneous cheer and claps for the appreciation of beauty that unites us all on the tip of that cliff.

And then I feel -

Fulfilled.

I stay sitting on his shoulders and playing with his familiar sandy hair for an extra moment as the waves glisten with the day's last remaining rays below.

A Provincial Province

Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.

My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.

My boss

Hmm. You don't look like us. 

Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. 

Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?

I know! You must be German. 

No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.

My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.

--

Fujian is also known for its food.

A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.

After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for Panda Express. Everything I was eating was just so . . . ugly.

These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.

 Worms writhing wearily in the water. 

Fish breathing thing.

 Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.

Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. 

A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.

My colleague brought it back to our hotel room

 and I stayed up all night gagging.

Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.

Definitely not a first date dish.

Discussing Love on a Lake

We discussed love while rowing on a freshly painted boat on Phewa Lake in Nepal.

He rowed. And I pretended I knew how to.

In the far distance, we could make out the faint outlines of the Annapura, the more accessible mountain range of the mythical Himalayas, which stood proud and silent on that hazy spring day.

Alex steered our boat around the small island that held the non-descript Hindu temple, dressed up like a blushing schoolgirl for the tourists, while we gazed upwards towards the pearly white Buddhist stupa planted up on a neighboring hill.

Sandwiched between the two symbols, we talked of love in the abstract. In the practical. In the religious.

I asked Alex what he knew about Buddhism. He shared with me the few tenets that he knew, most notably that of non-attachment.

I leaned back and frowned at a memory of a dear friend who recently embraced Buddhism. A year ago, she was bitterly and vocally unhappy with her marriage because of a void of understanding, touch, love, and common ideals.  She had dreamed of something different and contemplated divorce. Now, with the smile of the recently converted playing on her lips, she preached non-attachment to me in a crowded, cheap Italian restaurant. While her rambunctious 7 year old son screamed and kicked for his mom's iPhone, she patted him absentmindedly and explained to me why she was happy now. The key was letting go. All couples, regardless of the quality of their relationship, would end up apart at the end of mortal life. So why obsess about the journey? If she stopped hoping for love, then she would not despair over the deafening silence between them. Or the late nights she waited up for him to come home. Or the lack of gentleness.

If she stopped being attached to her husband, then she would be happy.

I swirled around my cream of mushroom soup with the tin spoon, hiding the torrent of anger behind my masked attempt to understand her sentiments. I wanted to scream that she was giving up. That she was settling for a shell of a happy life. We ended our lunch early because her son whined about going to the arcades and snatched my spoon to drum out his demands. I also grew weary of my curious burst of anger.

Alex listened quietly to my story and disillusionment with the concept of letting go.

I passionately argued that at least for myself, I either cared all the way or didn't care at all. Despite my parents cautioning temperance and 'it's just a job' whenever I cried on the phone because I wasn't sure how much more I could physically/ emotionally give to my work, I would still dip into my bank of inner reserve and drum out more energy to find solutions to never-ending problems. Or how I kept reaching out to a family member with a hopeful tentativeness even though she's hung up on me multiple times.

Isn't that what love is? I asked urgently. Not letting go?

In between a few more gentle paddles to maneuver us to a quiet alcove, Alex mused that love, in its ultimate form, is one of letting go of expectations of outcomes. It is the unconditional love that Christ spoke of, because He still loves us eternally regardless of our actions. He brought up the example of a proverbial modern mom who became angry because despite repeated reminders, the daughter was not practicing her instrument. The motive was love and hope that the daughter would develop her talents. But the anger arose because the daughter was not conforming to a set image the mom had crafted. Love, within the context of our conversation, would be for the mom to let go of the story she had weaved in her mind about her reality and instead persevere in love through the difficult, messy, and wonderfully unplotted life she ended up sharing with her daughter.

On our way paddling back to the muddy shores, I scanned the lake for the attachments in my life and saw them splayed out across the rippled surface of the the deepening water. Tangled in my thoughts, I decided to throw my stories, chained to their imagined endings, overboard and just let them sink to the bottom of Phewa. I decided to try to love in the best way I knew how and let things happen as they may. I would let go but not give up.

Across the lake, a proper Nepali storm was rolling in, a harbinger of the monsoon season.

Two Minutes Away from Being a Gypsy's Daughter

I was two minutes away from being a gypsy's daughter.

Let me explain.

One cold Toronto winter, my mom sat huddled on the bus, her mind stumbling over the accounting concepts she had just barely learned, and noticed two shiny black tags. The tags were worn by two girls, young and bright eyed, as they animated Jesus Christ and salvation with their excited hands, deep in a conversation with an indulgent Indian woman.

My mom, who could never mask her facial expressions particularly well, simply stared. The girls must have noticed and smiled. They eagerly pulled out their notebooks and asked for her phone number. My mom, who had recently awakened to her blossoming yearning for higher meaning, started reciting her familiar digits. All of a sudden, the bus pulled to a violent screech and the girls got up to go. It was their stop. They hurried off the bus, while twisting behind to catch the last of my mom's number.

The door closed with a stubborn finality. My mom shrugged. She never did finish telling them the last two digits of her number.

--

Another frustrating accounting class. Another bus ride.

This time my mom plopped down tiredly beside a large woman. The woman looked at my mom intensely and asked her if her birthday was May XX. Spot on. My mom whipped her head around, frowned, and consciously checked to see if her ID was exposed.

The large woman with the fleshy hands and the exaggerated rings ('a really gypsy type' as my mom later explained) patted her and told her to stop checking. She nonchalantly explained that she had looked into the crystal ball that morning and foresaw that she would sit next to a person that day who was born on May XX.

For the next few stops, my mom sat, spellbound, by tales of stars and tea leaves. She promised that she would make it to their large convention on divination later that week.

And she tried. Through trains, buses, crowds, she made her way uptown after class one day, racing to catch the shuttle that took everybody to the convention. She arrived, panting, just to see the bus pull out of the parking lot. Through the blue-tinted window, the gypsy woman pursed her lips and gestured resigned acceptance with her large palms face up, shaking her head at my mother who was standing pathetically on the lawn.

Two minutes. She was two minutes late.

A little down, she retraced her steps back to the temporary house she was staying in. She had barely sat down when the tired old phone rang.

Hello? Hi, we're missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Saints! Did you happen to meet some sister missionaries on a bus around a month ago and start giving them your number? Well they relocated to a different zone, but er, if you're this woman, we would love to teach you more about Jesus Christ.

There were 100 combinations of the phone numbers. There were endless number of scenarios where my mom could have missed that fateful call. There were two minutes that could have launched my mother, and our family, down a completely different path.

But God chose this particularly curious sequence of events. And that was how my mom became a Mormon.

Vacation Philosophy

Once upon a time, a little sheepish with guilt, I asked my boss if he thought I was taking too many days off to go on random backpacking trips.

He smirked and scribbled a signature on my leave request form. His philosophy was that while it's good to be passionate about your work, it's even better to have a job that allowed you to enjoy other things that you were also drawn to. The only way to maintain the drive and the love for what you do was, ironically, to take time off from it once in a while.

He also believed that my trips were an investment back into the company because I always came back brimming with ideas for my team.

Clutching my form, I wasn't about to argue with him.

The next year when I got promoted, he added another two weeks to my annual paid holiday count.

I was so happy that I cried. Now even I have a hard time burning off my holidays.

I guess that is to be expected from a boss who graduated with an MBA before becoming a missionary at 19, while defying the nerd stereotype as a competitive skateboarder and mountain biker. Oh, and he's a sailor and certified pilot with his own "toys" (aka a plane or two).

So, a little concerned that I wasn't putting my vacation days to good use this year, sometime late last night/ early this morning, I simply decided that Nepal needed to be in my future.

Hopped online, called up a friend, grimaced at the tickets, and took the plunge.

See you in two weeks, Kathmandu.

Don't Play the Victim

I once loved a boy.

People thought we were really cute together. We thought so too. We would both get so pumped about the same things, volleying our excitement back and forth with wild gestures, and yet get so incredibly mad at completely different things, scattering confusion and hurt in our wake.

Sometimes he would make an offhand comment that would sting in the tender and secret places. I loved him so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I knew he didn't mean it that way so what was the point of brining it up? Since I cared, I would brush it off.

But the comments would continue - not because he knew they hurt, but because he didn't know they hurt. He was just being funny.

Meanwhile, I swallowed one and another and another till I was ready to burst with resentment. Even though I knew that he didn't have bad intentions, I started to question why he wasn't sensitive enough to figure it out. I wondered if that's what he really thought of me. I instinctively flinched every time the topic came up because I was mentally expecting to be hurt. I started to doubt whether we were good together. And so we weren't so good together anymore.

A few years and some growing up later, I realized that I had purposefully played the victim, even though I didn't realize it.

Ironically, in the name of love, I jeopardized our relationship. I wasn't fair to him because I judged him more and more and he had absolutely no idea. When you play the victim, you are turning your loved ones into attackers. That is not fair to them or to you because they didn't even know they were in the arena in the first place.

Sometimes, being faithful to somebody you care about means not giving yourself an opportunity to be a victim. If you really want a meaningful relationship, whether with friends, family, boyfriends or colleagues, you have to be ready to teach others how to love you.

Take the time to carefully explain why a certain comment bothers you and how you prefer they rephrase it. Bring it up (lovingly) right when it happens so it's a low risk conversation. Here are some phrases I try to use:

'Hey, by the way, can you explain to me why you said that? Right now, it makes me feel X" 

"I don't think you mean it this way, but it makes me feel a little judged. Do you really feel that way about me?"

"That kind of hurts. I think it's because I'm having a hard time with ____ right now."

"Honestly, I need some time to process it alone and then I will love to discuss it with you. So can you not ask me about it in the mean time? I feel pressure when people ask me about it."

Hint: it helps when you're saying these things while smiling or touching them reassuringly (except when it's a colleague)

Most of the time, the other person will be genuinely surprised that her comment has that effect and if she cares, she will do her best to change her future approach.

And yes, it will be easier to brush it off this time. But how about the next time? You need to take a stand for your relationships and fight for them. Taking the initiative to have those tough and awkward conversations. Show how you want to be loved. Don't play the victim. You and your loved one deserve more than that.

A Standing Ticket

One.

The man with the weathered face and the large canvas bag launches himself into the ticket office window. On the other side, the intern hears the dull thud, and yawns. She repositions the microphone and tries to explain to him again that without his confirmation code, he cannot collect his train ticket.

But I lost my code and my train is leaving in half an hour! He wails. He slaps down some creased bills and demands to buy a new ticket and even those in the long lines behind him shake their heads at his wishful thinking. During Chinese New Year season, the largest human migration in the world, who can magic up a ticket, especially to the undeveloped regions to which 350 million migrant workers must somehow make their way home?

She checks her phone. No new message, no legitimate distraction. Exhaling dramatically, she turns back to him and tells him that he should have brought his code. Now will he please stand aside so she can help these good people buy tickets?

He pounds on the window with his sun-baked hands, not in anger anymore, but in a futile attempt for her to really see him. I haven't been home in years. I have finally saved enough days off and money to buy them all presents. Find me a standing ticket, anything will do, please - my son, he doesn't even remember what I look like. 

She pauses and calls her boss. Her boss puffs his chest, confiscates the man's ID, and yells for the guards to kick him out of the train station.

Two.

The HR team passed out company postcards, with our smiling faces plastered all over, and encouraged us to write our loved ones during this festive season.

I wrote to him, thanking him for being the first one to encourage me to deviate from the secure path of a prestigious company and take the plunge into a roller coaster startup life. His was the voice that tipped the balance.

Three weeks later, the soppy words and the shaky handwriting are still on my desk - the cherry on top of the pile of presents I never sent.

He had made it clear that I was no longer welcome at the address on the postcard. I wasn't ready to find out if he was also referring to my mail.

Three. 

The team is trickling back from their Chinese New Year holidays. It's technically a work day, but everybody is still on their holiday high.

This is the part I dread every year. The proud procession of returnees bringing back their local specialty and insisting that you personally try it in front of them. You know, because I'm from Hong Kong and must have never tried homemade sesame biscuits gone stale from the days of train travel/ nameless nuts that break my nutcracker/ rubbery duck neck in spicy sauce/ pickled donkey meat/ suspicious brown goo in a plastic tube (liver paste?).

Later in heaven when God asks me how I've developed my talents, I definitely will show him how I can store semi-chewed pieces of chicken feet in my left cheek for eventual secret disposal while still cracking Chinese New Year jokes.

Christmas Palooza Chinese Style

In some ways, celebrating Christmas in a largely atheist country means that you have to get creative and be prepared for the heart melting moments when somebody receives an unexpected gift and the awkward times when the first-timers take it way overboard.

One of our American interns, Kenton, suggested that we should all go caroling at a nursing home. The staff were excited and started organizing practice choirs during lunch time. And then somehow, the day before our nursing home trip, we realized that they had switched "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to a Communist song instead. "From the East rose a red sun, and his name was Mao Ze Dong. He will save our people . . . " At least they got the Christmas theme of color red right on that count.

The old people were not too impressed with our multi-part rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," but they really enjoyed it when we started handing out biscuits, bananas, and soap. They were so excited about the soap that some started eating it. The nursing home managers freaked out and confiscated the soaps. Luckily, we were not responsible for anybody's early demise. Some old people enthusiastically shared with us the stories from their glory or sad days, depending on whether they were the persecuted landlords or the uprising peasants. Others just wanted their picture taken with us and asked us to send it to their grandkids.

We also had our own Christmas party back at the office. The format was show-off-your-cooking potluck. In the ambitious spirit of Christmas, I made three apple pies the morning of, zipped up my mobile toaster oven in Lesley's gigantic suitcase and enlisted two friends to help me wheel it all the way to the office. Worst/ best idea ever.

People kept running over to turn off my oven because the pie was "getting brown." I explained that that is the point of baking but they would still sneak over to turn the dial. At the end, I just had to park myself as a guardian of the oven and conduct all my meetings there. Went home that night smelling like a pie. When it came time to eating it, people were confused. Then they figured it out. They each conjured up a pair of chopsticks (Asians, I know) and started fishing for the apple pieces through the lattice work. At the end, I had all pie, no apples.

We also did a White Elephant gift exchange at our office. A few days before the Christmas party, when I first explained to them the concept of a gag gift, the table fell silent. But this will be my first Christmas present . . . I don't want somebody's 2012 calendar. Other heads nodded in agreement. So HR came out with an official email decreeing that each present must be sparkly new, professionally wrapped, and worth at least 100 RMB. And they added more rules. Each person must be blindfolded and spun around before they reached the tree to pick their gifts. And they must pick their gifts within 5 seconds otherwise they miss out. Oh and if you wanted to steal somebody's gift, you had to complete a special mission.

It wasn't long before I figured out that all the missions had a similar theme: do something sexy. Yeah. Workplace sexual harassment is a non-existant concept here. I won't even mention my mission. Just something to do with a pole. But that nerf gun was worth it. Later in the day, an IT guy told me that he had never seen me so "womanly" before. Ha. Awkward.

Of course, the best part of Christmas was the constant reminders of what it was really about. It's not only about the wonderful nativity scenes you dressed up for or the retelling of one of the most important stories in our history. It's about being with your family and sharing what you were most grateful for this year - all made possible because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.

Nativity set for a youth activity.