One Schilling and Noe More

I picked him because his last name was Bragg. He sounded kind of gangster even though he'd been dead for more than 250 years and he was a white plantation owner from Virginia.

More specifically, he's Joseph Bragg*, alive for a full century from 1647-1747. Bragg finally got rich/desirable enough to leave behind bachelorhood when he was 42 by marrying Mary Tapp, who was just a blushing 19 year old. Despite actuarial odds, he outlived his wife by 16 years. 

This is how I imagined their wedding day.

I was doing family history research for a Church Youth activity and pulled up the family tree that my grandma from my dad's side had lovingly created. We Mormons are obsessed with tracing our ancestry and have a forest worth of family trees because we believe that families are connected forever. So I sat cross-legged on the floor, zoomed in and out throughout the centuries of our family tree and clicked at random census files of my ancestors just to look like I was doing serious genealogical research.

One kid yelled out that according to her genealogy chart she was actually some distant descendent of the King of Franks (a fairytale kingdom as far as I'm concerned but a real person according to Wiki). Huh. I figured that I would google my guy as well just to see if any living Braggs out there work in the rap music industry and sport oversized bling.

And Holy King of Franks, he's online. As in my Joseph Bragg is online.

I looked through quite a few sources, which all differed slightly on dates, to start piecing together his spunky/controlling personality and contentious family life. He owned at least 500 acres of land, five "negroes," and a tobacco plantation. He did not go to Church and was called to court for it. 

"On July 7, 1715 at Richmond County, Virginia, it was noted in the court records; "Joseph Bragg of North Farmingham Parish being summoned to answer the presentment of the Grand Jury against him for not going to Church for two months, but not appearing when called. It is ordered that he be fined one hundred pounds of tobacco and that he pay the same to the church wardens of the said parish with costs."

Yeah. Back then, they fined you tobacco for not going to Church. The Catholics should try that sometime.

I also found his will. What a gem. He probably scrunched up his wrinkly old face and gleefully penned his last words to spite some of his kids. 

"Joseph Bragg Sr [9648] left a will on January 26, 1746 at Lunenberg Parish, Richmond County, Virginia. "In the name of God Amen I Joseph Bragg Sr of Lunenberg Parish in the County of Richmond being very sick and weak but of perfect sence and memory thanks be to God for the same do make and ordain this to be my Will and Testament in the manner and from the following: that is to say first and principally I bequeath my soul to God and that gave it my body to the earth to be decently buried in a christianlike manner at the descretion of my Executor hereafter named.'

A. I give and bequeath to my son Joseph Bragg my negro girl named Mariah to him and his heirs forever with her increase only the first child of the of the said nego girl shall have that lives to be two years old it is my will and desire my young son Joseph shall have delivered to him at the age of twenty years or without lawful heirs to my son Newman Bragg and his heirs.

B. I give and it is my desire that my son Monroe Bragg shall have the plantationtha he now lives on. Together with my negroe girl Hannah to him and the lawful heirs of his body begotten and if in case this my son dye before he should without such heirs of his body to fall to my son John Bragg and his heirs.

C. I give to my daughter Elizabeth A Bragg on cow and calf.

D. I give and bequeath to my daughter Catherine Bragg one Schilling and noe more.

E. It is my will and desire that my two sons Moore and Newman Bragg should have three years schooling out of my personal estate.

F. If please to God my negro wench Whinney should have anouther child after __________

This will was probated May 4, 1747 (Ref: John Emmett Suttle, 13462 Photo Drive, Woodbridge, Virginia 22193) (Family Search)"

One schilling and noe more. John even left his daughter a pathetic momento to remind her of him. Classic.

----

Want to learn more about your own mean-spirited ancestors and figure out where that crazy streak in you comes from?

Just head over to www.familysearch.org for a free and super cool way to search for and create your own family tree now!

Telling Stories

I come from a heritage of storytellers.

My waipo captured hearts and rallied the morale of many Chinese soldiers fighting in the Korean War as night after night she starred in White Hair Girl, an epic Communist opera, and belted out the woes of the village girl who suffered at the hands of incredibly evil and fat landlords. Many years later, she still told the best war stories, with sound effects and all.

My mom's brand of nighttime stories steered clear of overt propaganda. Instead, she melded Kung Fu + musketeer + Book of Mormon heroes and made them fight each other for the love of a stubborn aristocrat who dressed as a beggar.

Where my waipo and mom can whip a mystical story up from thin air, I can only tell my own.

I hoard my stories like a jealous little squirrel hiding away its nuts. I wait for the perfect time to tell it so I can see people's expressions, that moment when their eyes open wider in surprise or when they toss their heads back and laugh out loud. So I'm torn when it comes to blogging. When I write stories down, I feel like I've somehow given away that moment of engaging with others and that I can't tell it in person anymore because they've "read it somewhere."

As a result, my list of "To blog" stories grows longer and lonelier.

When I read the afterword from The Lizard Cage by Karen Connelly (I always read the afterword because it is so important to know the person behind the book), I stopped upon this line - "While writing The Lizard Cage, I came to understand that the most useful thing I could do as a writer was contribute to the history of kindness."

Wow. What self-awareness. What a beautiful mission.

Last week, a speaker in Church also admonished that we should tell our stories loud and often, because in a country like China where we can't proselyte among locals, we can still share the core principles that guide our lives through stories that touch people's hearts.

I have a nagging feeling that I've neglected to tell many stories - not necessarily the silly-cute trivialities or the glossed over travelogues, but the important ones, like the heart aching but character strengthening experiences from the summer or the faith-building realizations from hours of study.

So . . . who's up for a story (or a bajillion)?

Dare Greatly

While walking aimlessly around Hong Kong with a dear friend one night, I spoke passionately of taking deliberate risks, especially in early career decisions.

Then he looked at me earnestly and said, "You can say all that about taking risks, but you've never really failed, have you?"

I paused.

I have been asked that quite a few times recently. Sometimes by siblings who feel the pressure of the supposed precedent. Many times by friends who are in a frustrating job-seeking low. Other times, it is implied by colleagues who speak with a mix of awed respect.

I am never sure how to respond. I know what they see. They see Sisi Messick. The girl who delivers time after time.

My reality is very different from theirs. In my mind, there are many days when I have failed. Then there are some worse days when I feel like I am a failure.

While potential investors praised me, my boss promoted me, my friends loved me, few of them understood how in the past two months, once my family took off to vacation in America like impatient migratory birds, I started having a hard time breathing. I would have a fantastically productive day when all of a sudden I would be seized by a cloud of debilitating uncertainty, weighing on my chest like a Gestapo boot coming down against the iron-grey concrete. My heart would beat faster, faster, faster!, until I felt that I physically needed to hold it down with my hands. But my hands were occupied, covering my face, encasing me, protecting me, trapping me, and there I would sit like that, torn between shielding my face or saving my heart. At first it happened only after 6 pm, when the office emptied out. Then it started happening between meetings. Finally, I had to run to the bathroom so people wouldn't notice that their boss was cradling her shreds of self-confidence so precariously.

Regardless of how things really turn out that day, to me, sometimes, failure is such an intensely physical  and tiring reality.

As a perfectionist, I feel the magnitude of each mistake, each weakness. So when people think that I don't know how failure tastes like, I pause and fumble clumsily for a polite response because the real answer is much too raw.

I won't go into it because this post isn't about failure. It's not even about perfectionism (that's for a different time) or being gung ho confident in your natural self-worth.

It's about how despite feeling so weak, I still dare. More importantly, I still dare to do great things.

I get up on stage and speak passionately about our solutions for blue collar workers, in Mandarin, shortly after I threw up in the bathroom. I own up to being wrong in front of my whole team to show them what it means when everybody is truly equal. I keep smiling when the potential client just yelled at me in front of her boss and our investors because we really need that sell as a startup. I lay bare how I feel about him even though that leaves me exposed and uncomfortable. I still dial that number, trembling, and leave cheerful invitations on her voicemail despite being hung up on more than five times. I choose to believe that love can be so fulfilling, regardless of how many marriages I've seen disintegrate into flames.

No matter how vulnerable I feel, how much I want to stay in bed, I consistently show up. It is a constant choice, day after day, but I show up and when it comes to it, I stand up too. In the grand tally, it's not about how I did, it's about the fact that I simply did.

And that's how I really want to explain it to people when they ask me why great things just seem to happen to me.

A History of Kindness

He ran his fingers through his hair, shiny with grease, and brandished his practiced smile. Let me be your tour guide. Your bodyguard. Your little brother. Just follow me, I'll take you to the best shawerma places.

The teenager bounced along, constantly hovering next to Mike, protectively guarding us away from other begging children and shooing them along to find their own foreigners. He could hardly contain himself, his bits of English phrases spilling out of his lop-sided mouth and his hands always patting, edging, pulling, beckoning us constantly into dark alleys and overpriced cafes.

I hung back with our German friend, Nina, and watched. Even though I had flown into Bangladesh with wads of US dollar bills prepared to hand out to begging children on the streets, I was vastly unprepared for the overwhelming want. At every stoplight, hordes of the previously invisible swarmed the vehicles, peddling books/posters/maps/tupperware/giant baskets and cupping their fingers together at the mouth to indicate that they were hungry. I tired of putting my wallet back into my purse because I would be pulling it out again five seconds later. And beggars could be choosers. Often, the hand that took would shoot out again and ask for some more. A lot more.

So at the end of a sticky, dusty day, I ran out. Out of small bills. Out of patience. Out of get-out-of-skeptism-free card. And I watched carefully and felt anxious the more Mike clapped his hands on the little bodyguard's shoulders and asked about his family and laughed at his jokes. I mentally starting calculating how much each extra minute would cost me.

Am I a good bodyguard, no? You be my bigger sister, yes? 

And at the end, I steered Mike and Nina towards our actual destination, paid the little bodyguard, told him no, we wouldn't pay you three times more and relaxed.

Little bodyguard telling Mike about his music.

As I kneeled at the edge of my hotel bed that night, smelling the cheap laundry soap from the white-grey sheets, I realized I was in the box about the whole situation (re: "Leadership and Self-deception"). Even armed with good intentions and a seemingly bottomless wallet of small change, I did not pause to engage with them as people. I saw them as objects that constantly needed something from me and that by giving, giving, giving, I was merely fulfilling a social obligation and justifying a personal moral high ground.

When I paused to give freshly-picked strawberries and a little pocket change to the old man on the street in front of my China office, I felt genuinely happy and fulfilled. I talked to him about how nice the weather had been. I smiled and felt what it meant. But somehow, when I was in Bangladesh, perhaps because of unfamiliarity or a sense of being overwhelmed, I was acting charitable but not feeling charitable.

So that night, I prayed for true charity. I begged for an open heart. I pleaded to see the goodness of the people around me and let it change me.

The next morning, Mike and I cruised around on our rickshaws down the forgotten alleyways and looked out for good places to buy some local garb. Then, in the midst of a sweaty crowd of onlookers, in one of the densest countries in the world, our little bodyguard waved to us enthusiastically. Hey! Big sister, remember me?

Something whispered in my heart - This was the second chance you asked for.

I got off the rickshaw looked at him in the eyes, and smiled.

How's your family, little bodyguard?

Ah man. You're my family now. Come, come. I'll take you to buy a beautiful dress. 

They were forcing a little fluffy yellow chick to open its beak.

And they were dripping clear liquid through a plastic syringe into its mouth.

It was a street exhibition but I couldn't figure out what

 they were doing with the poor thing. 

Can't wait for spring so I have an excuse to put flowers in my hair again.

"Are you formed yet?" 

Bangladeshi tailors often marveled at my lack of curves.

Life Before a Riot

Vengeful batons. Crippling strikes. Decaying acid. Consuming fires.

That was the picture that our wedding hosts painted for us when we wanted to venture out to Old Dhaka - the poor parts of Bangladesh's capital . . . or rather the real parts. One of the wedding events was scheduled to take place in the safer diplomatic zone, but was ultimately delayed because of a concern for guest safety.

The hotel receptionist looked at our faces for once and dropped her carefully practiced smile onto the scattered notepads on the concierge table. You want to go to Sardarghat? No, no, no. Hartal - strike and permission to riot - starts at sun down. You read the newspapers? What happens if you get stuck when it all begins?

We would be back before sun down, I promised.

Mike and I hopped into the car, grabbed a shawerma at a stand with the least number of flies swarming around it, and headed into the gridlocked traffic. Cars in Dhaka crawled because even the wealthiest diplomatic zones were riddled with random pot holes. Many times, while bouncing along the uneven alley ways perched on a rickshaw, I had nearly bounced off and fallen into the 12 ft deep holes filled with suspicious curry/urine yellow rivers.

Apparently, a guy once become famous for trying out all

 the most dangerous forms of transportation around the world.

 Dhaka ferries made the list.

 They capsize.

Regularly.

You may not have clothes, but you can

 always make a boat out of trash.

The heart of Old Dhaka was thumping constantly with angry rickshaw horns blaring, men shouting while balancing thirty watermelons in baskets on their heads, and ferries bellowing their impatience to cross the diesel-black waters. We breathed Dhaka in the oil-fried fritters, the lazy entrails of incense on Hindu Street, and the pervasive stench from the freshly decomposing trash.

We knew we were spoken about in rapid Bengali because of the finger pointing, the confused looks, and the occasional jokes in broken English. When I was buying neon holi powder in a small corner store, laborers crowded around Mike and pointed to me and asked him about his "Chinese housewife." Whenever we insisted that we were just friends, they nodded with mock seriousness and jabbed his side, smirking ahh special friends. 

Buying holi powder so we could recreate the color

festival on a lazy afternoon.

Armed with only five Bengali words and a comedic bargaining act,

 I teased, I entertained and I got the price I wanted. 

You couldn't out-bargain a China girl.

In contrast with the wealthier zones, where cars were perpetually at a standstill and ladies chattered as they strolled into beauty parlors, Old Dhaka was the nervous cousin who couldn't stop twitching because he was always anxious about something he had to do. But the general frenzy entered a fever pitch when the sun started to set. Rickshaws competed even more aggressively for moving space in the densest city in the world, trapping us at one point in the middle of an unholy triangle of three rickshaws, unable to move until we physically pushed aside a rickshaw and carved our way out.

I was bold and felt the strength of my youth when I laughed at the receptionist's caution. But I shrank a little bit as the sky grew dimmer and unconsciously huddled closer to Mike. I pulled on his sleeve and asked if he noticed it. Noticed what? I motioned, sweeping the street with my arm, where are the women and children?

The men stayed tense on the streets. They were no longer joking.

It was time to go.

-------

I wondered if some of my friends would still treat me as an equal if I didn't hail from a similar economic background. Some had commented, bored, about how inconvenient the hartal made everything. They raised their eyebrows when I was eager to see Sardarghat. Why? That's just where the poor people live.

On the banks of Sardarghat

The Mother in the Manger

The stories have the bright star shining overhead, Baby Jesus gargling happily, and Mary royally beaming at the reverent wise men, angels, shepherds, and coalition of animals.

I wonder what Mary really felt.

Was she simply overwhelmed with emotion for her son, her first?

Did she watch closely, for the miraculous rise and fall of life in each inhalation, and unconsciously check under His nose with her finger when the next breath came a little late?

Did she know how to bathe Him? How to swaddle Him with her blanket by tucking one ear over His right arm and then gently closing the other over His left?

Was she exhausted because she had to entertain wise men and shepherds while waking up every three hours to feed her baby?

Did she feel the wonderful weight of Him in her arms and smell the earthy milk scent that bound Him to her? Was she nervous at His newborn fragility, especially in the large hands of the adoring masses?

Did she laugh when His eyes rolled around, with difficulty focusing on the light, and His lids twitched rapidly in his dreams?

Did she cry just a little bit because He was hers, but also because He was God's - and the world's - and for that there would be wondrous and painful responsibilities for them?

Did she marvel that somehow she had done something so right to be called the chosen vessel? Did she doubt herself at all because she was also aware of her own weaknesses?

Did she feel the full power of her femininity because of her essential role in the Plan, not only as a mother, but also as a role model, a nurturer, a protector, a teacher, and a supporter of the Christ child?

Whenever I watch Chelsea tenderly stroke the mop of black hair on newborn Liana's head, I am sure that Mary must have felt the similar emotional tug of motherhood.

And because of that, Christ was one lucky baby.

Baby Glow

Some women throw up. Some throw tantrums. Some throw their husbands out.

All in all, what this single girl observes from real life and the media, being pregnant is hard. As in, you're fermenting this bundle of cells and it's the happiest time of your life, but oh-my-gosh you just dissolved into tears because you can't control your emotions or appetite.

Um. Definitely puts a dent in my rosy five kids plan.

But my sister Chelsea defied that stereotype. She was the living cover of all those baby/mother magazines. She radiated the "glow" that many women pined for.

And the second birth in a row, she just laughed through it. Or maybe giggled.

I missed the first birth because I was stuck in a three hour final during my senior year in college. But my family, half way around the world in Shanghai, dialed in and participated in the birth on Skype. According to my mom, who also joked through her labor while holding my dad's hand, Chelsea smiled a toothy grin and said that "giving birth was so easy!"

Well, she had done it again. Two days ago, Chelsea gave birth to another cute little thing and looked like she was just chilling at home when we called in afterward.

7 pounds and 4 ounces.

Apparently the hip new thing was to buy a high-tech cooler space for your baby's fresh umbilical chord just in case medical advances in the future open up possibilities of saving its life with the cells from the chord. Sounded like a fantastic business plan to me.

A few things were clear:

1. Epidural was king. Forget all natural, midwife-induced birthing.

2. I better prepare a bomb joke in the delivery room just to live up to the family tradition.

3. Somehow, babies could pull off being pruny and adorable at the same time.

Welcome, Liana. I'm still helping grandma learn how to pronounce your name.

Alley Cats

We begged. We smiled. We reasoned. We flirted.

We did everything to persuade the gatekeepers to put out their cigarettes and sneak us into Tiger Hill after closing.

In China, where there's a will, there's always a way. And we willed our way in.

Playing host to my brother's mission companion, Shelby.

Tiger Hill at dusk.

The dark finally kicked us out of the park. We prowled around the underbelly of the bridges to the rumbling din of traffic overhead; our conversations of US military presence in Iraq echoing. The pedestrians had all pointed us to the same direction to the tourist lanes, straight down the cobblestone path, but we faltered mid way because we were unsure of all the run down houses with screeching doors that lined our sides. There was so much life, raw and unadorned, in the dinner time TV gatherings, in the butcher's call of end-of-the-day prices, and in the giggling children as they ran out for fresh air once last time before being tucked into bed.

But some lights were not dimming, probably not until late into the night, because the ladies inside were busily sewing beautiful evening gowns for those who would buy them without a second thought, threading through their exhaustion and stitching together hopes and possibilities for the little ones.

We also looked up and paused. While the sun illuminated all to show harsh reality, the moon was kinder, softening the rough edges of the crumbling rooftops, casting warm, rich halos on tired bridges.

Nights like this gave romantics of old more courage to write poetry. I relied on my lenses instead of words.

Guardian lions. I need one of those.

Shelby + Lesley. Best wandering companions.

After traveling to Mexico, Cambodia, and the US in the last month, switching desktops for backpacks or presentation microphones, home -- Suzhou -- still reminds me what catching my breath feels like.

Water Children

We hopped onto a tuk tuk and headed down a dusty road, zipping by houses on stilts, to search for the Floating Village. And after driving on a creaky boat for 20 minutes, we found it. True to its name, the people there lived on boats. It was a whole community that bobbed on the calm waters, raising pigs and ducks on buoyant pens, buying dinner ingredients from mobile supermarket canoes, passing Friday nights at the pool table hall, and going to class on school boats.

At the wheels (paddles? motor?)

Home sweet home.

Door to door supermarket. Fruits. Leafy greens. Fish of the Day.

That little boy loved his pink school bag. Flaunt the barbie pride bud.

Oh yeah. They raised crocodiles near their schools as well.

And yep. That's a python. Just playing with the baby.

Don't have a second boat at home?

 Just hop in a GIANT BOWL

 and grab a paddle (and a snake).

Office Portraits

Marketing department decided that I would be part of the "Leadership Profile" portion of our company website (still under construction). Of course, I'm her boss, so maybe that's a factor. Definitely one of the funnest part of my job since the promotion four months ago. 

As it turned out, I had a terrible time working the professional look. It's supposedly some sort of serene Mona Lisa smile, mixed in with "I'm such a bomb manager" eyes. 

And, you know your eyes must be really small when other Chinese people told you to keep your eyes open while you were already doing your best to stretch those taunt eyelids beyond their God-given max. 

Caught mid-walk. 

Apparently too much attitude for clients.

I wanted to wear my boots at first. Vetoed by everybody.

Luckily, I keep a healthy shoe storage under my desk.

Flowy dresses are so distracting on a gorgeous windy day.

"Finally!" The photographer says. "One that works."

Patriotic Mobsters

On Friday, QQ was buzzing with posters that called for mass protests against the Japanese government's purchase of the disputed Diaoyu/ Senkaku Islands.

National fever burned hot. People were urged to bring their own banners and show their love for China. Most of the posters cautioned the masses to "demonstrate logically" - in small print. Instead, the mobs directed their pent up anger at Japanese stores, smashing and looting in many major cities. Rumor has it that many arrested looters sported ostentatious tattoos - signs that local gangsters infiltrated peaceful demonstrations to cause chaos. J bristled when he heard that his dream Lexus, probably a parked car belonging to one of the demonstrators, took literal beatings from incensed crowds. Apparently even some Japanese branded police cars got flipped and destroyed.

Face to face. Police and demonstrators.

On the main street where I typically go for my hot pot fixes.

Stores hung up the proverbial white flag, professing patriotism, or boarding up window displays to plead for clemency from angry mobs.

Jody's favorite Japanese noodle shop, Ajisan, strung up a desperate banner:

 "100% funded by Hong Kong. Same race. Same patriotism."

"Stopped selling Japanese goods. Please forgive us for any inconvenience caused."

- Suning, an electronics store

Yes. This is a tank. Made up of toothpaste boxes. 

The cutout boldly proclaimed that "Diaoyu Islands Belong to China!"

Oh and the box of patriotism that conveniently cleans your teeth

 as well is only sold for 2.8 RMB.

What a steal.

Tomorrow is 918. I expect even more scaled up demonstrations. Over lunch today, I casually mentioned to a colleague that I wanted to observe the protests and take photos. I had missed out last weekend because of girls' camp. He put his chopsticks down and solemnly warned me not to go. Apparently I looked Japanese. And that's not the most popular look right now.

. . . we'll see if I could get work off tomorrow.

When Girls Grow Up

Just came back from girls' camp where I played camp leader to 60 girls. Jody was there for her first time. I tried not to hover too much, backing off my instinctive older sister slash mother hen role. I cried when she stood up, so confident and strong, sharing her beliefs with the others in front of the glowing camp fire and underneath the sheet of stars. After I had done the same, she reached back, hand seeking mine in the dark, as a show of support, love, and strength. I think that was the first time we've held hands in a long time. 

I went through old files on my hard drive today and was amazed at how much she had grown. Her spirit that shined through each photo hadn't changed a bit though.

(Cody was super cute too. And according to the late night girls' camp gossip, he still is.)

When they were angels

When they were Indians

Those curls kill me

And that smile has killed many mothers at the park.

Repentant Dater

When the bishop gives me an assignment to read church talks about the joys of marriage every single night,

I'm like:

And then, after the 85th talk about how "those who are single should desire a temple marriage and exert priority efforts to obtain it," I'm like

Fine, fine! Being single isn't that much fun.

Please forgive me, for I know not I have sinned.

I will repent . . . and smile at the next Young Single Adult church activity.

Head Bashing

My little brother, Cody, made a new friend. One who had blond locks, polite mannerisms, and a crazy cool dirt bike. Or so I had heard. He didn't even need to ring the door bell. We could hear the vroom vroom from two streets away.

After an animated discussion of dirt bikes and crushed skulls, my parents laid down the law: Our trusty old moped was good enough for Cody, but he could go and pick out a new helmet for his neighborhood rides with his friend.

Cody said that he didn't want the small, "Jewish caps" helmets that we saw in Vietnam.  I'm guessing he meant these.

So, instead, he went and got this (partly because he hoped that a genuine dirt bike will eventually follow):

Even though I'm not quite sure how much protection 20 bucks could buy you, it sure was a good deal for a part-time Halloween costume slash head gear for imaginary practice rides at home.

True Story

J always jokes and says that I "never let the truth get in the way of a good story."

Most of the time, it's because I am talking about our awkward first semi-date, which he asked me on in his excited good-interview after glow (he interviewed for an internship at our company). He mentioned that he would be in Shanghai, a neighboring city, that weekend and it was too bad that I would not be there otherwise he would love to take me out for dinner. I thanked him and accepted as I pushed the elevator button for the second time. His smile froze. He stammered. He didn't know that I normally headed to Shanghai to see my family for the weekends.

We had sushi. I suggested an exploratory walk around the colonial neighborhoods afterwards. He wanted a plan and directions for my "aimless stroll". I talked about loving visits to Kenya's Masai villages but being appalled at the female circumcisions performed. In between checking GPS for our location, he told me that he was fine with that lifestyle choice. I blanched and gave him a fiery human rights speech. He was similarly horrified when he realized that he misheard me and thought I meant women choosing to have operations to prevent having babies in the future.

His cheeks flamed under the yellow street light. I did not offer to help as he fumbled around for words. He finally mumbled that going to dinner with me was exceeding his "one date a semester" quota - his usual flimsy exercise to appease matchmaking bishops. Smirking, I asked him if I made him nervous. He avoided looking at me the rest of the night.

(That's what made his later confession so much more surprising.)

------

Anyways, I was thinking a lot about the truth in story telling today. I absolutely love stories. Hearing them. Reading them. Making them. Telling them. There's something special about sharing common experiences through words that, when strung together beautifully, become transformative.

If I can captivate you with the story of eating snake meat Lady and the Tramp style then later realizing it was sheep penis, does it really matter if I said it was this long or that long? Or if I made your eyes go wide at my story of being bitten by a copperhead snake and not knowing it at the time (and hence revenge through snake meat quest), who cares if I mentioned all the details of the three nights in ICU?

But today, I questioned myself. I had blogged about a dear friend and her family's move across the country, filling in the descriptive blanks with my romanticized notion of her story. Except, I shockingly found out, that there was no basis for the story at all. No moving van. No family camcorder. No pouting mother.

I sat there at my office desk, deeply confused and bothered. If I didn't hear that story from her, how on earth did I pull that from the recess of my mind? For better or worse, that story had shaped my perception of her upbringing for the longest time and now I scrambled around to "fact check" against myself on what I knew about her.

And because I could "remember" the exact spot in Beijing where I thought I had heard that fantastic story, I now doubt myself. What if all the stories I have ever told are tainted with my overly active imagination? What if I have been dressing up my truth until what's left is a darn good story and I've forgotten the original? What if my mind automatically selects the interesting, shaves off the accurate and presents the sensational?

What does that say about me as a story teller? What does that say about me?

Alaska

The Pearl. This was our cruise experience.

Our tiny rooms! The girls' room had another bed in the middle of the two beds plus a baby crib. Cozy.

When she was happy, she's like this. Lovable. 

When she was not . . . well, still lovable. Cute girls have it so good.

The Yukon. Felt like we were supposed to break out into a little Sound of Music.

The Emerald Lake. Sort of beats China's Emerald something something at Yellow Mountain.

First the Olympics, now this. At least we're good at math.

 I have a feeling that this will end up on our Christmas letter this year.

Glacier Bay!  Thunderous crashing of ice and fury. This monster moves an average of 6 feet a day.

Global warming here we go.

Totems. 

There was once a guy who did not pay his debts to the chief so

they carved his face into the totem pole of shame. He looked oddly like a white squirrel.

Decades later, his descendants tried to buy back his honor, but by then,

 it gained protective status as a cool tourist attraction.

We had no idea that Southern Alaska was a rain forest.

Until it rained. And rained. And rained.

The lumberjack show. 

Basically men with chainsaws, wood stumps, biceps, and

world records of climbing trees and balancing on rolling logs in the water.

Victoria at dusk.

Americans should stop 'threatening' to move to Canada

 because of Obama or the health care act.

 Just move there for the love of beautiful harbors and the lack of Republicans.

(Chelsea, I kid.)

Kiera likes J more than she likes me. 

It's probably because he's been working out.