Honor Him.

We often forget the grand task our fathers are burdened to bear. They can only show strength - as it's unforgivable for the head of household to appear weak - but be conscious and empathetic when we cry. Lest we not forget that our fathers came home with sore backs and tired feet from working enough to keep us warm and sheltered.

Travel and Protection
Respect and Honor

When your mother coddled and protected you, your father nurtured your sense of independence and survival.

When your mother insisted you join teams and clubs, your father worked tirelessly to provide the means for you.

When your mother gave you a seed and helped you cultivate it and watch it grow, your father taught you to take it by its stalk and tear it down and use it to nourish one thousand other things.

Your mother taught you to carry peace in your body to settle the unruly. Your father taught you to put up with bullshit only once.

He is the gear that shifts you from resolution to determination. You cannot make your own family without carrying the weight and the honor of his name. And you can't look in a mirror and not see him looking back, assessing his work.

Your father granted you shelter.
Conditioned your strength.
Made you fearless.
Except for spiders.
Rooted your stability.
Demanded your integrity.
Made you better.

Honor Him.




Related...
On Separation and Kagare
Kegare

Fade to black.

 "Cast of Characters"...

------------------------------------------

Two flight delays, one transfer and one engine-trouble-halfway-there into this trip. I calculate that I've been on 23 flights this year if I include the transfers and r/ts. And every airline is different. American Airlines loads you up with all kinds of carbs, but you have to promise to name your firstborn after a Delta Airlines flight attendant to get just a shot of Pepsi.

Old school goodness.

Seriously. In a shot glass.

And Spirit Airlines..omg. The flight attendants won't even answer a call from the button thingy above your seat unless you're waving your credit card in the air.

But there is one constant.  The passengers. This crazy band of carnies are payload for people watching. And every passenger belongs to a specific subset. And you are one of these people.

Yes you are.  Deal with it.

It's like going to see a play. The show's the same; only the actors have changed.

Here's the cast of characters...

The Lingerer

These are the folks who loiter around the boarding gate when the plane arrives.  The check in people haven't even started calling zones, but apparently someone told these anxious people that the plane will mysteriously disappear before they get to board it. So they hang around the door feigning indifference and blocking my damn way.

Look bitches. I'm in Zone 1. Take your Zone 3 asses to the back of the line and gtfo of my way.

The Litterer

Ugh. THESE clowns. So I'm watching this mother and her two teen sons at the counter in front of me. I can already tell that they're both brats and in dire need of ass whippings. But this little demon spawn doesn't even look up from his game. His mother sees the wrapper (it's white on dark carpet), KNOWS her spawn did it, and does...nothing. Lanky kid is facing me, so I cock my head and weigh my options for the appropriate (most humiliating) response. I really don't get why the  whole Spartan-kids-are-thrown-out-to-fend-for-themselves-and-can-only-come-back-if-they're-not-mauled-by-a-bear thing never stuck. Anyway, my mother hit my knee and told me to stop whatever I was thinking. So now I have to sit here and try to summon the exact logic that will redirect the synapses in my brain to spontaneously develop a special laser eye beam mutation that will burn a hole in this kid's forehead.

Little bastard.

The Shady Preboarders

It is my firm belief that some women get pregnant just to get first dibs on boarding a plane. Seriously. What's this shite? So, if I had a baby stroller, I could board the plane before the service men and seniors? What the hell! You're the one who didn't use protection, not me!

Oh and speaking of babies...

The Baby

Sweet. Baby. Geezus. The Baby. Maybe you're lucky and there's only one baby on your flight. But of course Murphy's Law decided that the little demon spawn should sit directly behind you, preferably on a red eye and/or long flight. Sometimes a glance and a sneer at the mother will keep The Baby in check. Other times, no amount of visible disdain will stop the thing from screeching. And in any enclosed space, The Baby's cry is the audible interpretation of its recent destruction of its mother's womb incurred when its nails shredded the walls as it clawed its way out. 

Sweet geezus indeed. #ijustcant

The Potty Poopers

I may need to come back to this one, as my nose is still burning from whatever just happened in the restroom 3 rows in front of me.

The Most Important Guy on the Plane

This is always the one guy in the wrinkled suit with the 5 o'clock shadow who has 20 meetings scheduled once the plane lands. How do we know he has 20 meetings? Well, cuz he spends the entire preflight boarding time proudly (and loudly) proclaiming it on phone calls. He's so important. In actuality, he most likely isn't. But he thinks he is. When the flight attendants instruct you to turn off your devices, he ain't budging. He's too important. He's got things to do. Places to be. More importantly, he wants to remind you that he does. 

The Security Underminers

These jackrabbits take approximately 5 years to load all their carry on crap on to the security checkpoint scan conveyor belt thing. Their liquids are all over the place, their laptop is still in the carry on. Did you really need to wear all 3 belts, 12 nose rings and a damn crown?  Did you really??

Hurry the hell up. Geezus god.

The Older Couple

These are my favorite characters. They make me happy. They're quiet, their settled, they're not trying to smuggle an entire bag of stinky Burger King onto the flight. (Don't do that.) Older couples are so cute and cuddly, I spend the whole time staring at them. I just wanna squeeze their cheeks so much.

The "End of the World" Glutton

This is usually the last guy to board the plane. He had to run the 2 miles from the Burger King station to his gate. Once he's finished abusing the person next to him with his seat belt, he'll tear into the giant bag of oniony grease. Don't get me wrong. I'm all about the #3 combo. But to do that to people stuck in a small enclosed space like that for 2 hours is pure torture. And he's always the guy who orders the extra everything (Seriously. Don't do that.) and leaves the plane smelling like Satan's toejams. 

The Clappers

Sigh.

Why do you clap when we land?  Why? Just...why??  

--------------------

People watching at the airport in Seoul. I texted the above post during my flight here. Not sure if or when I'll post again. I don't know what my new arrangements or freedoms will be. I'll likely have more access to texts and skype than blogger. Seems like everyone is texting or skyping and smiling or laughing with friends back home.  I think my people watching past time has become an obsession. I've been watching this cute little senior couple in my line of sight so intently that when broke contact and glanced in my mother's direction, I jumped because she was staring at me. lol  So I'm texting out a last post. Working on a title. "Scene from a Flight" or "Cast of Crazies". Meh. 

I just finished Game of Thrones. Sons of Anarchy is next. It is ironic that I return to Japan on the day of my parents anniversary. Also ironic - I'm leaving almost as friendless as I was when I arrived 25 years ago. This is my own fault. I seem to subconsciously befriend "iffy", spontaneous people who will spontaneously leave my ass lonely. Granted, the Canadian exbf with Yellow Fever was a blip on an otherwise spotless record. But that's another post for another day. Or life I guess.

No better time to begin anew, oui?

My mother is seriously embarrassing. She keeps taking photos of me doing [literally] everything. I can't walk on the runway walk thing or wash my hands in the restroom or order Starbucks without her loud ass iPhone snapping another photo. And someone's taught her how to post photos instantly. There's no telling how much of her IG space I'm taking up.

She's acting like a damn Japanese tourist.

"The dwarf lives until we find a cock merchant."

Binge watching & waiting on my flight.

Best line in a series in the history of the universe. Ever.

Seriously. It should be up there with "Frankly Scarlet, I don't give a damn."


#gameofthrones

#ihatetoday

隠し彫り

Checking out my tattoo mid-laundry day. I swear I've somehow doubled my loads. My mom is here, but she washes her own stuff so that's no excuse. I've donated at least half of my clothing.

Part doodle-by-an-8-year-old,
part tattoo artist's rescue,
pre-clean up

Idk. Maybe I forgot how to wash clothes.

I was just trying to come up with how I would explain my tattoo to a random person if they asked about it. Considering the fact that the only people who will ever see my tattoo are a husband and maybe doctors - none of whom will care - trying to shape my thoughts into some form of logic is just for fun.  

I see things in images so my reasons were more like memory captures. I remember how I hated the States when we moved here. I remember my brother mowing the lawn with this loud old rickety lawn mower. And I remember the weeds that would grow right back up after he mowed them.  He would be so angry that he would try to cut out the roots with scissors, but they'd just pop back up the next day. My father called them "wildflowers", but I think that was just for my sake because I tried to make bouquets from the clippings. They were weeds. The whole neighborhood was plagued with them. I remember doodling on my scratch pad under my blanket because the room was so cold. I was obsessed with wildflowers. They were like little superheroes standing up to my brother's persistent oppression.

Anyway, I decided to get a tattoo and found the old book in some boxes in the basement. I decided on my rib cage for a few reasons, partly because I incurred a small scar there recently. It was a pretty random resolution, but not.

I took the page to a tattoo artist in Ferndale on a friend's recommendation and he did this cool thing with a giant printer and turned the drawing into a stencil. The needle on my rib bones made my teeth rattle and I had to cover my mouth a few times but I was a good girl and stayed silent.

Okay that reasoning still makes no sense...it makes perfect sense in my head, though. I'm trying to unshuffle the images into a storyboard but it's not working. So if ever asked, I'll just say that my tattoo is a thing of great personal significance.   

Omg. "300" is on.

Alien Nation

Friends who visited me with coffee routinely every morning now look the other way when I wave hello. People have completely omitted me from their lives. 

Kristyl barely talks to me at work and only responds to my texts after work. 

I have made new friends. Not because I'm losing the old ones, but because I sort of do anyway. But even they treat me as though I come with an expiration date. Like I'll spoil soon. 

Not sure what I might have done to avoid it, but the very glaring reaction has left me feeling sad and alone. People who've been my rock are now distancing themselves. 

Band-aids don't fix bullet holes.

This song is for the coward who abandoned me when I needed him most. After all this time, I still can't believe I trusted you implicitly.

I was just going to post a few lines, but I couldn't find a specific set of lyrics that are more apropos than another. Every single line describes exactly how I feel.

This song is for you.

Asshole.

On Meiyo and Jigai

"You are your father's daughter 

and he raised you and favored you for a reason.

Because you are strong and independent.

Don't do the expected, do the unexpected."

- A True Friend

Honestly, I haven't decided what my Father would think of my proposed new life & lifestyle change. If I thought he truly supported my wishes in spirit, I would absolutely risk disbandment from my own family to follow what I consider the right path for me instead of the inertia of the path an honorable daughter will follow. I know what "unexpected" is for the family I have. I'll never know what "unexpected" would be for the one family member to whom I'm most loyal.

Made more hygiene kits for the homeless
just in time to find one of my favorite people
in the world, Rog (Roger).
He's moved to a different underpass.

Is it odd that friends and coworkers are suddenly giving me things? People who are unaware that I'm leaving are giving me really cool stuff. One older coworker boxed up and gave me her earrings just because I'd complimented her on them the day before.  A friend's friend - who I always considered kinda mean - gave me a hot pair of shoes because they're too small for her.  Another person gave me his Starbuck's reward card because he's dieting. He has gold status. That's like 1 million free white chocolate mochas.  I'm receiving these gifts through the kindness of others. It feels like there's a message or lesson or direction in there somewhere for me, but the "screen" is all foggy and will continue to loop around until I figure it out, or it dissipates. Makes no sense, but better explained in an earlier post. 

Whoa. I just remembered  - last night I dreamed that my Father warned me that my car's gas tank was almost empty. He was sitting in his favorite chair in the family room. 

Odd and random. 

Addicted to terraforming in Second Life. Stop by for a visit.
I've quite lost my mind.

Last Days

I'm really gonna miss my evening drive home.

#stupidducks

#badsinging

#crackedwindshield

Honor Him

We often forget the grand task our fathers are burdened to bear. They can only show strength - as it's unforgivable for the head of household to appear weak - but be conscious and empathetic when we cry. Lest we not forget that our fathers came home with sore backs and tired feet from working enough to keep us warm and sheltered.

When your mother coddled and protected you, your father nurtured your sense of independence and survival.

Travel and Protection
Respect and Honor

When your mother insisted you join teams and clubs, your father worked tirelessly to provide the means for you.

When your mother gave you a seed and helped you cultivate it and watch it grow, your father taught you to take it by its stalk and tear it down and use it to nourish one thousand other things.

Your mother taught you to carry peace in your body to settle the unruly. Your father taught you to put up with bullshit only once.

He is the gear that shifts you from resolution to determination. You cannot make your own family without carrying the weight and the honor of his name. And you can't look in a mirror and not see him looking back, assessing his work.

Your father granted you shelter.
Conditioned your strength.
Made you fearless.
Except for spiders.
Rooted your stability.
Demanded your integrity.
Made you better.

Honor Him.

I am not a Stencil.

Random thoughts here that have nothing to do with the heavy load on my mind, but needed to go somewhere. Three things that are swimming around in my brain in that way my thoughts do. Right now, it "looks" like three widescreen movies spinning around in a circular motion.  The fan belt effect again.  So I gotta get them out, and then the loop will stop.

The loop in my head.
Perfect circle courtesy Starbuck's
amazing coffee cup.

I'm very casual about relationships in the way that I can never have too many friends. And I will do whatever it takes to make you happy.  But when a more personal relationship threatens to expose my heart, I end it. It's too intense. And if I shed my decorum, things could get ugly. Even I don't know what's under all this. And possibly might put the real me on full display. So I shy away. 

I'm a storefront display. 

If you find me in Second Life, don't be afraid to say "hello".  I'm not online chasing guys. I don't even flirt in SL. If I wanted attention, I'd go out somewhere. Actually put some effort into it. I'm not lazy, and I don't have canker sores.

Okay, no, I don't actually know what canker sores are, but they sound gross.

My point is that I don't have a problem actually leaving my home to meet people.  I don't use SL to hunt for emotionally-stunted men who feign alpha stances but can't even get their own shit together let alone help guide someone else's shit. Gone are the days of pining for closeted yellow fever freaks who pretend to see more in me than just the shape of my eyes or my pedigree against the overlay of a 1920s stereotype.

I'll be building. Or at a group discussion.  Or in a whole 'nother window with SL in the background. If it's late, possibly sleeping and forgetting my mic's open.  No, really.

Say 'hello'. I'm right there. And I have nothing to hide.

So in the amount of time it took me to write all that, I forgot the third thing. But hey, and I can think again now. Sweet.

Journaled for posterity.

More Californication. Chasing a cute guy up a hill.
And failing.

WORST PICK-UP LINE EVER:
Guy: "You ladies got all your gear?"
Me: "I'll gear you."
Guy:"..."
Bff:  "Seriously?"
Me: "Shut up."

On Promise and Obligation

I wrote this post last week, but was this close to deleting it instead of publishing.  My thoughts happen in images that have to be translated into words. In this instance, they’re on this nonstop circular loop, so I don’t know where to jump in.  There’s no real beginning or end to the reel. Just a million little clips that are synchronously independent and interdependent. 

Like trying to cut a running fan belt with a pair of scissors.

So here's my 20th rewrite. It starts somewhere mid-loop.  Take it or leave it.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke up with a start this morning. I swear I heard my father close to my ear saying “do-itta" in his usual stern tone. Have you ever imagined that someone who’s no longer with you is whispering in your ear? It made my ears ring, and his voice echoed in my head for the rest of the morning.

I hated school when we first moved here. I pretended to be sick every morning for the first two months. My father finally got sick of it and would lean in close and say really simply, "Do itta." (Japanese for "get up") and drag me onto the floor by my hair. The loss of my warm comforter would jolt me awake, because we kept our heat very low to cut costs.

We were teased ruthlessly. And walking home from school in Detroit was a true test of humility. I was okay with snowballs to the head, the mocking about our used clothes and the standard push-to-the-grounds. It was the promise that I'd never fit in that stung.

It's interesting that we (my brother, sister and I) clung to the parent we most favored physically, and we began to mimic their respective dispositions. I don’t think it was on purpose, just ironic. My brother and mother both have fair skin and classic Japanese features. And he clung to her ridiculously. And adopted very traditional Japanese mannerisms.

I inherited my father’s dark skin and monolids. And I stuck to my father like glue from the moment he walked in. I helped him change spark plugs, and practiced putting worms on hooks. After dinner, I'd try to put barrettes in his hair. Or bobby pins. Or bows. It didn't matter. His hair was so heavy and silky that whatever I would clip to his hair would immediately slide out and fall to the floor.  He never complained. He would just sit there watching the game silently. He tolerated my ridiculousness.

So when faced with the school bullies, my brother did what my mother would do. He soaked in the insults and decided to silently hate the world.  I did what my father would do: I faked the local accent (urban with a southern twang) and laughed at all the jokes about my broken English until they forgot I was different.

So, our parents both worked two jobs to put me through private schools. My brother and sister went to public schools. I don't know why it was me and not them.

I once hid in the closet and watched my father whip my brother for something he'd done wrong. I can't remember what. But it was a really hard beating that left red criss cross welts on my brother's rear end. When my father left, I snuck the lavender oil from my mother’s drawer and tried to cover the welts while my brother said mean things to me between the sobs.

The last thing he said that night stayed with me until now. He said something like, "I can't wait until I'm Head of Household. Then you'll finally know how not special you really are."

“Head of Household” is the oldest adult male in my family. Since my father is no longer with us, and I am unmarried, my brother is my Head of Household. And my mother’s. He has absolute influence and decides what’s best for the family as a unit.  If I marry, my husband will replace my brother as my HOH. What he says goes. If I don’t want children and he does, we’ll have children. If I want to work and he disagrees, I won’t work.

That night, I stood on the couch behind my father in his favorite chair and tried yet again to fasten barrettes on his hair.  I think he’d heard my brother’s threat, because he sat silently with the TV off. The only noise was the clink of the lock on the plastic barrette fastening to his hair, and a light thud when it slid out of his hair and onto our hardwood floor.

And here we are, two decades later. My brother has his own family. My life is in America but my loyalty is to a teeny, boring prefecture in Japan. My happiness is secondary to humility and kenjouu, and doing what a respectful daughter is supposed to do.

And as I move closer to the moment I give up my existence as an independent liberal gangsta American trekkie, I realize that my brother is finally exacting his revenge. 

Oh, shut up.

Stupid fortune cookie. 

Konoyo furui

Sometimes, my family's values and proclivities disturb my sense of intellect.

#gored

Robot supports "Go Red for Women" campaign. News at 11. 

 

1 out of 3 women die from heart-related issues. Show your support for this program this Friday by wearing red. 

1.25.15 Dailies

SUNDAY 

Watching the Miss Universe pageant makes me want to eat a whole cake. 

 

A thee-layered cake.  Made with extra butter. With a giant layer of frosting.

 

Sigh.

WEDNESDAY 

I live next to a small community park.  

 

Well, it's not so much an actual "park" as it is a block-long patch of trees with a couple of park benches thrown in.

 

There's my house, the street, then the park.

 

The "park" is becoming more and more  popular with people from neighboring communities. It's really quiet (my community is pretty much all older Jewish people) and there's lots of shade. Plus, it's really close to the shoreline. 

 

Lately, there's been a person sitting in a car parked in front of my house (which is the edge of the park) as I leave work in the morning. Not the same person. Always a different car. Young, white male or female. 

 

This morning, I woke up early and watched the news downstairs, and peeped the front of my house.

 



How to gawk at your neighbors.

Turns out, it's a prime location for drive-by drug deals. Here's how it works...

The buyer will park and make a call to his/her seller, and wait.

The seller will drive up in the opposite direction, driver-to-driver.

The buyer and seller will extend their arms and make the trade.

Both cars will speed off.
I saw this in action twice this morning and actually said aloud, "Oh, no you dit-ent!"

 

So here's what's up. 

 

The next car that pulls up, I'm walking out there to take their picture (making sure they see me do it), or I'll go off on them. Or both. Either way, they're about to take their shit elsewhere. I am not spending my last few months in the U S of A staring at druggies making buys. Take y'all asses back to the trailer park.

FRIDAY

Mythbuster #239: You don't need a man (*cough*Kristyl*cough*) to shovel your snow.  Get your arse out there!



Sigh...I miss you already,
electric blanket.

SATURDAY

When you gotta shovel the porch for your mailman, but you're too lazy to change from your bed clothes...

 



 

Charity begins on the Holodeck.

Well, my first go at the following paragraph was a longwinded rambling mess. I really need to start proofing my shit before posting. Seriously. It was a mile long. This version's shorter...you're welcome.

I assisted with a sponsored charity event yesterday aimed at supporting the families of teen cancer patients. Each of us had various tasks, and planning the project took 6 months from concept to run-of-show. It was all worth it - even checking things off on a notepad at the counter of a New Orleans bar - 100% of the profits go to the patients and their families. The center played a dedication video to the volunteers all night. Here are the parts I caught with my phone. I'll repost when the full video is available.

 

This vid created with ClipStitch (which is only available 

for iPhone), but isn't viewable via iPhones...

Oh, the irony. Nicely done, Apple.

 

 

My job's executives buy gifts for local kids based on the kids' wishlists sent to "Santa". This year, my dept's exec snuck a copy of the list to me because one of the kids, 13 year old Phoenix, is a Trekkie.

 

I asked Phoenix's "Santa" (an executive chef) if I could help. Okay, it was more like pleading. I stalked him with 4 very unprofessional emails, I slaved over a stove for 2 hours to bring him my mom's special onigiri with wasabi as requested, and I owe him a venti 7-pump no foam white chocolate mocha. He finally caved. He'll take care of the boring stuff (i.e., clothes), I get the good stuff (Trek).

I believe the Latin term for this sort of agreement is "Winnitus of Epicus Proportionalis".

Okay so far I have...

·         Star Trek shirt or hoodie (working on)
·         Star Trek messenger bag (done)
·         Star Trek baseball cap (my stash)
·         Star Trek game for Xbox360 (done)
·         2 Blue Ray DVDs (Star Trek/Star Trek Darkness) (my stash)
·         1 Star Trek Borg Bobble Head (my stash)
·         1 model Bird of Prey similar to this one (may have to be pried from my cold, dead hands)

So, visitor, I could really use your advice.  If you were a 13 year old boy...

 

·         which of these two shirts would you prefer? Shirt 1 - Shirt 2

 

·         what would your size 18 shirt convert to in "small, medium, large" terms? (I can't find the answer online.)

 

·         what other badass gifts would you like?

 

I'm in New York next month, and then Toronto. Colorado in Jan, Jamaica in Feb. I'm still searching for cheap Cali travel deals. Why are trips to Cali more expensive than Cancun? It's so illogical. Seems like a lot of travelling, but I gotta get it all in before Japan (aka, the end of my life).

 

Well, that was random. Nothing to do with charity stuff.

 

Okay, dammit. I'll throw in the damn ship.  Sigh.  It's for a great cause. Gotta support our future scientists.

Edited 11.30.14 for brevity.



 

If you want something done right...

Too many shady contractors. If you're wondering about the outcome with the most recent guy, he decided that 8pm the next night was the best time to start the project.  I decided it wasn't. 

Gonna do it all myself. The plastering, sanding, caulking, taping and painting aren't a big deal. The TV wall mount thing and the weird bathroom shelving aren't too scary, although I forsee shattered glass from a heavy plasma TV in my future. But I can't change the shower arm/head until I figure out where the main water valves are. This house is old, so even YouTube couldn't help me find them.

My life is in mayhem mode. My brother wants me in Japan permanently by August 2014. The guy from the Start Up Grind event a while back wants me on his team. His sweetass team, if I may add.

 

Shoving cotton candy into my mouth and waiting forever for the lecture to start...

Me: "There's my new friend, ready to go."

Krystal: "The chicken is pretty good."

Me: "..."

 

lol

 

 

Talk about perks. His office doubles as a recording studio. I would have a swing and skateboards and robots at my disposal. And a popcorn machine.

And there's a constant supply of ice cream in the fridge. His assistant advised me of this. This is huge.

But I just got a promotion last December. I came in little under budget for an employee family movie event last weekend. The execution's getting easier. Movie purchase, collateral, announcements, ticket distribution, venue, staffing, and a boatload of movie foods.  850+ attended. I had a photographer take family photos at a movie prop on their way out. The event went smoothly and I had idle time to watch the families rush over to get photos taken.

 

I got A's on my first two Arabic quizzes. I don't want chocolate. I'm kinda Trekked out atm. And the kids at the event were...cute.

My head hurts.

As do my loins.

Familial Fiascos

My family's over. My brother, his wife, my sister, her newborn, and a nest of little hellion womb-punchers. My head already hurts.

My mom will be here in a few hours.

Perfect timing, since my results for my DNA/genetic breakdown just arrived (ancestry.com). You can't see it here because I spliced everything together, but the "trace regions" breaks down to Chinese.

I almost took a chainsaw to 2% of my body.

She's got some 'splainin' to do.

Let the games begin.



 #thereisamissingonepercent

 

 

 

 

 

Does your Man have "Yellow Fever"?

Do you suspect your partner of having "Yellow Fever"? Does he "only date Asian chicks", and refer to us as "the hottest women in the world"? He may have Yellow Fever.

Here's how urbandictionary.com describes "yellow fever":  A term usually applied to white males who have a clear sexual preference for women of asian descent...

That's the nice version.  Here's my own definition:  Yellow fever is the act of some clown...typically an agendaless beta male who can't exert himself outside of the world of anime and jpop...who is solely attracted to women of a specific or random Asian ethnicity based on old skool stereotypes and self-perceived importance. His charismatic deception makes you think you're an individual to him, but you're really just a tiny, broken-English speaking, nail buffing, super quiet in bed baby-maker.

Below are the symptoms of Yellow Fever. Add the points up truthfully, and then check the score card at the bottom.

1. Does your boyfriend refer to you as "oriental"? Does he think you're a rug?

+/-   5 points

2. Does he refer to his penis as "Godzilla"?

+/-   5 points

 

3. Is he a Republican?

+/-   500 points

4. Does he like Star Wars?

+/-   20 points

5. Does he have an insatiable appetite for all things "oriental" (i.e., cultural studies, learning kanji, etc.), because he thinks it makes you-so-horny?

+/-   5 points

6. Does he get a woody at the thought of living amongst the huge Chinese population in Toronto?

+/-   5 points

7. Does he froth at the mouth at the thought of you dressing as Sailor Moon for Halloween?

+/-   5 Points

8. Is he a huge fan of "Transporter"-type movies (white guy saves sweet, innocent, subservient AF from the big bad men)?

+/-   5 Points

9. When you first met him, did he use any of the following phrases: "I love oriental women", "sucky sucky", "but your eyes aren't that squinty"?

+/-   5 Points


10. Did he date an AF before you, and then (while you were in the aftermath of a massive damn earthquake in Japan and frantically searching for your family members, and called him incessantly) avoided you for months, and then (when you came home and tried to reconnect, he'd already) traded up for a shiny new AF?

+/-  500,000 Points

So, how'd you do?

0 points: Does he have a single brother?

10 points: Eh, you're cool.

20 points: Aww, I wanna pinch his little cheeks.

30 points: Okay, wait...

500,000 points: Run. Run fast.


This post is for Iram, who dared me to write a Cosmo-style sex & romance quiz. This is a lighter take on Yellow Fever. For a more serious discussion, check out Mishfish13's blog post. Preach on, sistah.

http://mishfish13.com/dating-2/why-yellow-fever-is-not-ok/

Seriously, folks. It's okay to date anyone of any race. I've never dated an Asian man. Not that I've had 100 dates. But I don't actively seek out men of a specific race. Because doing so would mean I think something's wrong with all the others. And that's just dumb.

Kegare

"When my dad was alive, I didn't really need to find 'the right man'.  Because I had him."

- Gwyneth Paltrow

The older and occasionally wiser I get, the more often I think back on my life...what I got right, what I got all wrong, what I can't do anymore because my legs just don't bend that way these days.

I've been thinking about my father. A lot.  Constantly, really. I've offered so much sake and oranges to his kamidana that it's sort of redundant now. 

My father never said "I love you."  He never hugged or touched.  He set rules, you followed them. I can still feel the cut on my brow from the force of him hitting me hard enough that I fell down the stairs. Because I said "nevermind" to him. A blatant disrespect. Never said it again.

I knew that his smirks meant "I love you." His years of overtime to buy us a house in a better neighborhood meant "I love you." When I was 6 and asked him to stop drinking beer and smoking with his buddies because I didn't want him to die, and he stopped that day - that was "I love you".  Letting me get in his way while he changed the spark plugs or alternator or whatever the latest old car issue was meant "I love you." He loved me more because only I could call him "Doddee". ("Daddy" in broken English. I called him that until he died.)

The men at that park when I was little. He could have killed them. They bled. And I was happy. 

My father was a protector. He was fearless. And proud and stern. He protected the weak. He was a superhero.  And I realize now that there is no precursor or duplicate.

My mother still talks about how he yelled at the owner of a kanbutsuya because the store was so dirty and unsafe. She says whatever he told them worked. They closed the store for weeks and reopened and never had questionable issue thereafter. 

I carry so much of him in me, and I try to embrace it with honor and respect. Sometimes difficult, since his character was unconditionally patriarchal. And life inside of the box in which I was born makes that a sort of sacrilege. 

Being like him use to embarrass me, but now the realization empowers me. It makes me brave. Or foolish.

I find it harder to forgive transgressions than most. Like him, I can forgive, but what you've done will always play in my head when I think of you. It's impossible to forget. Third chances are out.

A big guy was texting on a phone with a screen the size of my car in a theater last week. He wasn't in my direct line of sight, but the poor folks around him were visibly (but quietly) annoyed, probably afraid feel he would start some crap if they said anything.  So I called him out. Made sure he knew it was me. And advised him that I didn't pay $15 to watch him play with his janky phone. I stared him down. I waited for him to give me something. I actually wanted it. I didn't have a plan, but I wanted the confrontation. I think I wanted to further embarrass him. I imagined him with a bloody nose. And I smiled. 

A few weeks ago, an elderly lady fell on ice while crossing a busy two-way street in Detroit.  I  tripped through the snow on the median and made it to the other side to help her up. She was so embarrassed, as our elders sometimes are when they think they're an inconvenience. Not a single other person jumped out to help. Ever get one of those instant "anger headaches"? I made sure she took her time to get up, asking her to not worry about anything but being careful. And I demanded she let me drive her home. I purposely took forever to rebag her groceries. I glared at every driver. I dared every one who met my eyes to give me one shady, impatient move. I wanted someone...the larger or louder the better...to give me some sign of their inconvenience. Even an eye roll would've set me off. What would I have done? I don't know.  But it would've started with a broken window. .

And the whole time, I kept thinking, "What would Doddee do?"

But I hurt him. I stayed out overnight. And came home smelling like cigarettes. I shamed him. I told him I hated him. I never told him I was sorry for all the nights he stayed up hoping I'd call and say I was alive.

And as I think back on all my recent self-inflicted hardships, because I've allowed people to make me their fool, offer me the mirage of perfect trust, I'm inevitably back to, "what would Doddee do?"  After beating the hell out the man in question, he would turn to me with an expression of great shame for my indiscretion and naiveté.  Again.  

And so I try to appease his kami. I take care of his home here. And I took care of my grandmother (obviously not well enough, but I gained a special sense humility and honor in bathing and feeding and caring for her).  And my mother back home. I kept two jobs to pay for school here alone in the states. I cleaned up my credit. I have a decent career. I'm not living in poverty like we were at first. I'm not living on the street, though I'm sure he thought I was headed in that direction.  He never knew this me. And every day, I wish he could see that I did okay. It's a heavy tsumi I can't seem to erase.