"Tran" completes the HAT

This here is one of my favorite moments during our five days of Christmas in Portland. These are my grandfather's hands (dad's dad). His name is Tran Lam (or, Lam Tran, in the American way), but all he remembers is Tran, the family name. And so he writes it repeatedly: Tran, Tran, Tran.

The name Tran is the only thing we have left from my great-grandfather (dad's dad's dad), who was a merchant from China, whom we believed to have married great-grandmother as a second wife. Great-grandfather died when grandfather was three years old, and great-grandmother was pregnant with another son. So there is really no memory of a father in grandfather's life. Because great-grandfather was Chinese, his entire family lived in China, and we had no connection or relations with the Chinese side of the family. After great-grandfather died, great-grandmother raised two sons alone, with nothing.

It is beautiful, and sad. It strikes me that when asked to write his name, Ong Noi (vietnamese for dad's dad) writes his surname. It is the family name that is most important, and most valued. The heritage, patrimony that he received from great-grandfather. Not this individual name, not the "I" but the "we" of a family, a community. He remembers the title that calls all of us together, whether or not we wish to be called, and his memory of it is still strong, even if everything else is beginning to fade away.

I recently posted some rantings about my name. It isn't hard to realize that I've been too fixated on establishing my identity as first person me, as the individual, as HAT. But, I've always taken for granted that Tran is a part of me and have never dwelled much on the family name. It is the easy part of a rather differently spelled name that I carry with me. Seeing Ong Noi write his name, I am reminded of my connectedness to other Trans. It's not so much the H-A part but the Tran part that makes a complete HAT.

Naughty or Nice

This year, I've been doing a lot of things the easy way.

(1) This Christmas, I took the easy route and ordered Christmas dinner from Whole Foods. I even ordered La Buche de Noelle from Whole Foods (this was not a good idea, b/c it turned out dry and unappetizing, and a great disappointment, considering that my mother used to bake and sell Buche de Noelle during Christmas -- so there I was serving bad cake to my mother the baker of Buche de Noelle).

(2) I ordered (most) gifts online for Christmas.

(3) I even paid for cleaning service -- the two nicest ladies came and spent 3 hours thoroughly cleaning my house. I AM THAT LAZY.

There's more! But, I can't reveal all my vices at once.

I try, most of the time, to keep perspective. It doesn't succeed always. I skip the baking, the cooking, the cleaning, and the selecting of certain gifts in person. But, on the whole there have been other things that hopefully will redeem me, somewhat.

(1) Christmas cards AND Christmas gifts. A pretty big feat on the whole. I stopped making my own Xmas cards years ago, but it still counts to write them, right?

(2) Personally wrapping gifts instead of merely shipping them off in their prepackaged containers. Hours of gift wrapping. (all the while being mindful of greening)

(3) Single-handedly decorating the entire house for Christmas. By myself. All alone.

(4) Kept the new (greener, anti-consumerist) Christmas purchases under $300.

So, 3 to 4. That's not that bad, right...?

Christmas in Portland

Recent trip to Portland: 5 days. Freezing cold. Rain. More rain. Constantly raining.

Visited with Grandfather for 8 out of 12 hours of the day. Ate. Slept. Talked. Reminiscing with great gusto.

Thank you, Lord, for hotel rooms that you don't have to clean and sweep and for rental cars that you have to maintain.

Thank you, Lord, for mind-numbing, sleep-inducing cold medicine.

Saw falling snow for Christmas this year, and didn't even have to go into the mountains!

Powell's book store in Portland sits on its own block of the street. One entire block. Four levels of rooms filled with books. You can only imagine what the poetry section in the Blue Room was like! Bibliophile's delight.

The Japanese Garden is the sweetest thing to walk through on a chilly, wintry day. Rain drops on bare branches. The moon bridge over slowly rippling brooks. Wisteria arbors covered with crawling branches. Poetry stone along the gravel pathway.

Portland's art museum. Van Gogh's The Ox Cart. Tiny oil lamp dated from 1-99 CE. Silk prints for kimonos.

93 y.o. grandfather remembers my name, but forgot what I look like. He loves origami cranes! Why wasn't there a dictionary to decipher Grandpa Aphorisms and Declarations?

Thank you, also, for home. Sweet home. Coming home is the best thing ever. Second only to arriving home to a delicious home-cooked meal -- cooked by younger brother!

Monica de la Torre on Thursday, Dec. 6th

She plays with language. She chews up those words and then smears them on the page with ink. She rolls those words around and pounds at them and bends them and puts dents in them and squeezes them, then packs them in hard then stretches them out until no elasticity is left then hurls them back at us sitting in the audience. She mixes them up, English with Spanish and something undecipherable but still sounding magnificent, and then she utters them with relish, with punctuation, with hiss and energy and coercion.

I'm sitting in Morrison Library in Doe on the Cal campus. I've forgotten completely that the great Robert Hass is nearby somewhere, almost tangible. I forget I am at a Lunch Poems event. I've been sucked into the words and music and poetry of Monica de la Torre. I am a listener, a Talk Shows participant, and a part of the unpublished manuscript that she is writing, a member of the daffy, crazy, topsy-turvy world she has inverted and subverted.

She says "saliva is not interchangealbe with ink." She transforms storyline into scenes into paragraphs into absence into loss. Narratives are invented, rewritten, erased. Language is twisted, substituted, melded, so that Si and Non are almost interchangeable but not but all singsong, lyrical.

She bends rules, bends lines (great poem!), changes planes of interiority and switches contexts w/o blinking. She takes people's responses to a question on a radio show and translates them. She takes another poet's Spanish, translates it into English, then finds the Spanish poet with similar lines and mixes them and retranslates them. She makes me wonder about language and believe in language. She forces me to think of the tranmutability of language as well as the limitations of language.

She stuns us all.

would Jesus buy an enchanting country for old men's retirement?

What movies have I seen recently?

What Would Jesus Buy?
Wild and crazy comedic documentary that shocks more than delves into the serious conversations about curbing consumerism. Amidst horrible revelations about America's over-spending and rising debt loads, Reverend Billy and his Stop Shopping Gospel Choir travels cross-country exorcising people from their consumerist tendencies. He calls Mickey Mouse the AntiChrist, and he absolves people of their sins while sitting in a makeshift "shopping confessional" booth. Lots of funny moments, but also plenty of jaw-dropping data -- especially the interviews with parental figures who willingly admit they would max out 2-3 credit cards just to purchase Christmas presents for their children, b/c the children want them. Documentary doesn't question or probe into ways of being better consumers, neither does it plant questions of how we can provide better models for parenting. The best moment for me, which I felt was sadly lost in the documentary, was when Reverend Billy's wife spoke out loud her weariness and doubt -- she essentially states that it would be so much more worthwhile if they could at least know that their trials have affected some change. And there are trials indeed. They travel for 30+ days and get broadsided by a semi, Billy gets arrested, they get kicked out of stores, cafes, Disneyland, etc., and they endure a lot of painful and ridiculous publicity demeaning what they do. If only the documentary went just a bit deeper than the pockets of the consumers they were trying to stop...

Lingering Q: How did they fund this cross-country trip?

4 points for taking on the subject.
3 points for being so creative and funny.
2 points for glossing over the potentially rich conversations.


No Country for Old Men
Creepy, heart-wrenching, nervy story that kept me on my toes and which prodded me constantly with this unceasing restlessness, nervousness, fear. I admire that the movie was so wonderfully scripted. The deadpan way in which the characters live and play out their lives parallels reality but also parodies it in a way. The entire time, there was a throbbing unease that never quite settled but just was passed on from scene to scene, from image to image. Sort of like greed. The money that's being passed on from person to person, from place to place, infuses everything with greed and corruption. It's like everything becomes tainted. Odd and scary in a slow, quiet sort of way.

Lingering Q: Which country are we talking about? Should I read the Cormac McCarthy book?

5 points for the whole movie all put together.
3 points for the script and cinematography.
3 points for acting.


Enchanted
An interesting attempt at the subversion of fairy tale narratives. Funny characters, beautiful costuming, nice singing, but no real substance. Too heavy handed with the theme and moralizing. Susan Sarandon as a witch? Patrick Dempsey? Way cute. But beyond the handsome face? Script was unimpressive. Graphics was good -- applaudable. I appreciated the opportunity to get away from reality and to let my mind turn to mush while watching it. It has some teachable moments for kids.

Lingering Q: How do I get animals to clean house like that?

3 points for missing plot, good score, interesting graphics.
2 points for pretty peopling of storyline
1 point for depth.

HAT's boring, random 7

I've been asked to post seven random +/or weird facts about HAT, which in my mind always means it's supposed to be interesting. I don't know how I'll be able to do it, considering how I'm completely, utterly, thoroughly, undeniably, irresistibly boring. Weirder than you know, but boring. But, I will try to find at least one interesting thing. For Pen's sake.

1. I have a scar on the outside of my left ankle, from when I was perhaps 4 or 5, and we were still living in Saigon at the time. We were visiting my grandparents' house and we had to ride home on a bike (imagine it: my dad biking, my mom who was at the time pregnant w/ my brother sitting in back w/ my sis in the middle, and me up front with the handlebars -- crazy, isn't it?) and somehow, somehow, I stuck my left foot into the wheel, twisted it in some strange way so that the heel didn't get mangled but the ankle bone did, which is where I got the scar. If I died and you couldn't identify me from my dental records or my fingerprints then you could find the scar. Left ankle.

2. I dream in color. Last night, I dreamt a rather elaborate dream which I've completely forgotten, except for one pair of yellow sandals. I saw it was yellow, and my feet felt like they were squished inside strappy sandals. Plus, I was sitting in a a public bathroom stall. That is all I remember. (Don't ask me what it means, b/c I'm clueless.)

3. I dream in Vietnamese and in English.

4. I like to eat salt w/ my fruits, especially sour Granny Smith apples. And, (G, avert your eyes!) I also like salt w/ my watermelons. Heehee.

5. I hate driving. I really, really, really hate driving a car. I've never wanted to drive. I'm the only person I know who did not want to drive at 16. We share one car among the three of us, and even on days that I have the car, I would prefer not to drive. I don't like the enclosed space. And I don't like the fact that I get aggressive when I drive. I don't think I border on road rage, but I get particularly irritated when I'm behind the wheel.

6. I like to know how stories and movies and plays end. Sometimes, I have to flip to the final page just to view the last sentence. Then I begin from the top.

7. I own at least 50 purses, book bags, clutches, shoulder bags, etc. For some, this may not be a large quantity, but even I feel guilty when I look at the boxes and boxes piled in my closets. Consumerism, aaack! I've not been able to kick the habit.

8. One extra random fact for good measure: I used to have a wart on my middle finger on my right hand. It was to the left side, right where I used to hold my writing utensils. I had to use a wart remover, and now that it's gone, my middle finger is just slightly crooked compared to the others. You can barely tell, but if you looked closely, you can see that it tilts a bit towards the ring finger.

The Rules:
1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

I'm not quite certain anyone I can tag would do this, so I'm just going to urge Daily-M and Object Constancy to do it.

half a HAT

Ya'all know I have issues w/ language, and w/ my name. Perhaps that's why I keep running into irksome situations related to my name. Why, tell me stupid, crazy world why is it so difficult to get a name correctly spelled? Hmmm?!

Thursday night, I went to the Sprint store on Telegraph looking for a new phone b/c the current phone's battery is dying a quick death, and b/c I wanted to buy a new phone for a friend (story later). (Don't tell me how bad Sprint service is b/c I surely know very well how horrible it is, but can't get out of it unless I pay the wretched $200 early termination fee and since my entire family is on Sprint and I get free mobile to mobile and family seems like the only people who'll talk to me, I'm sorta stuck.) After an hour, I finally purchased the new phone, set up a new account, and paid for everything. Deciding on a new phone for myself was hard, but I finally chose the Rumor.

Unfortunately, this particular phone was out of stock, so I had to leave my name and phone number in order for the sales associate to call me back. (Even as I'm writing this, I'm starting to get all riled up. sheez.)

She writes down my phone number and then asks how to spell my name -- this after an hour of her working on my account, and seeing my name on the computer screen, and after hearing me spell it at least twice.

She's half listening to me as I spell the letters "H, O, A..."

and she's half looking at the contract on the table which already has my name written on it, and then I say "...and then a hyphen, then..."

at which point she stops writing and says "I'll just write that."

Come again? Excuse me?

There's only 8 letters in the name! (ok, plus a hyphen, but so what?) And, I'm spelling each letter, goodness sakes.

I have issues with this b/c it wasn't her way of writing shorthand or even writing initials. She couldn't understand how to handle a different spelling name. It confused her, and in her baffled state simply decided to cut it short. And, it was like she was in a rush to get it done and over with, to quicken the pace and speed up the process, she'll just cut out the rest of my name as she writes her note. (I can't wait to see how she's going to figure out how to pronounce half my name when she calls me to say the phone's arrived.)

First of all, that's not my name. Second, leaving it as is my mother's name. And I am not my mother. Not. Third, who does that? I mean, when I meet someone named Laura Grace or Mary-Anne, I wouldn't just decide to cut them off in the midst of spelling their name and write "Mary-" as if that's enough. Oh, yeah, was that your full name, oh sorry about that, I'm "linguistically challenged" and didn't learn my alphabet so I'm just going to change your name for you so that I can better deal with something so different from my own context.

It was like having a limb cut off. Am I exaggerating? Yes. Am I just a *tad* upset? Yessss. Do I feel like something personal has been taken from me? Well, sort of. It's illogical and unreasonable, but it feels that way. What right, I ask you. What right allows them to do that? Or, what ignorance allows them to do that?

Where I come from, names are important, and you don't just change people's names (well, not like that you don't). In customer service, I'd say that's not a smart move.

I would not presume such liberties. Or, I hope I would never do that. In my angry haze, I feel like you have to demonstrate a modicum of respect and courtesy for one another through the use of proper names and titles. I mean, you great one another with certain names and titles -- it is a way of addressing each other with politeness and respect.

Plus, I would know that some folks would get really pissed off. I would also know how to spell someone's name, especially while they're spelling it out loud for me.

I didn't bother correcting her b/c it would embarrass her and would be a moot point b/c she would have no idea how significant this is for me.

I just muttered things in my head. In Vietnamese. Which she would never be able to spell out.

After this, I better get my phone.

lost control

At work today, I discovered that I misplaced something. It doesn't matter what it is, nor how I managed to lose it on a desk that is completely clear of papers.

The frustration is this: I still can not find it anywhere. It frustrates me. It angers me. Plants seeds of doubt. Uncertainties about how I do things, about how I handle situations.

I would feel the same if it were a check or a watch or an earring. But it's not the same because this item disappeared from my domain. I have control issues, yes. I like to know that I have relative control and oversight of my office, of my own work space, which has been arranged according to my own organizational paradigm. Mine.

It's gone. The item. And my sense of control of my organized office. Completely, utterly gone.

C'est la vie.

is it done yet?

During this season of Advent, I've asked myself to be mindful of moments of waiting, and to be cognizant of how I respond while writhing in the midst of that agonizing anticipation. To see if I could, hopefully, arrive at a calmer, more spiritual, meditative, reflective sense of being during Advent. Hopefully inhabit my moments of anticipation with more poise and elegance, with more maturity than recently displayed.

I keep thinking, what if we did not know the beginning of the Christmas story. What if we did not know who was born at the end of that bright shining star in Bethlehem? What if we did not know the road to Egypt and back? What if we did not hear the stories told in the temples, in our ears, in our (aaack!) hearts?

If we did not know, would we be so quick to push to the "end"? If we did not know how the story ends, would we be so eager to reach the denouement? Would we be so excited to find out what happens on "Christmas eve"?

At the office, we used to have the old kettle that my boss always used to boil water for his tea. It works fine, but I would say it's at least 5-6 years old. The inside is so rusted, I'm surprised no one's gotten stomach cancer or ulcer or something from it. Then, the lid cracked, and it was getting a bit disgusting so I brought in a hot water thermos thingy. With this new thermos, whenever you fill it with water, it automatically boils the water without you having to push any buttons and then keeps it warm until whenever you want a refreshing cup of tea. It's great. I love it.

But, the old kettle, no matter how rusted, would click audibly whenever the water's done boiling. I would be sitting at my desk and, *click*, and hot water's ready. I'm ready for my organic blackberry tea, or the occasional Ginger Sun. Boss is ready for his Earl Grey. Lovely.

But, this new thermos thing doesn't tell you when the water's done boiling. It doesn't whistle, it doesn't ping, it doesn't yell. Nothing. I just have to wait and wait and wait. Sometimes, I get up and go check it out, but it's still bubbling and broiling but not done. On several occasions, I would check twice before it finally boils over. It gives me no clues whatsoever to tell me that I should wait 2 minutes, 5 minutes, or even 10 minutes.

What's worse, the thermos thing is kept in this little kitchenette outside my office, and even though it's right there, I can't see it. I know that it's there, but I can't see it to know whether or not it's done. So I wait.

And in this waiting, I've learned a few things to make my tea experience better. I've learned not to expect the *click* from the old kettle. I've learned that no matter how much you time it, sometimes I miscalculate. I've learned to listen for the different sounds of boiling water that you can pick up with just one attentive ear. And I've learned that good tea takes quite a bit of time to prepare, and boiling water is a part of that process.

So, let's make tea!!

coming up next...

So we're in Advent. Most people skip over Advent because the shops are playing Christmas music and the ornaments are hung on the trees and the candles are out and lighted reindeers are faux-grazing on the lawns. Most people skip over the waiting part because we hate it. And most people hate waiting because we associate waiting with things like:

standing in line at the post office
waiting at the dentist's office
waiting in the ER
waiting in labor
waiting at the DMV
who will win Dancing with the Stars
who will win American Idol
Who will win ANTM
waiting for election results

Much of the time we dislike waiting and want to avoid waiting because of what we anticipate at the end of the wait: horrible teeth pulling, stomach ulcers, disgruntled overworked postal workers, evil underpaid DMV employees, endless presidencies with war-riddled legacies, etc.

And sometimes, we dislike waiting because we hate the mystery, the unknown, the variables. We read our horoscopes, we get our palms read, and we get our fortunes told. We get sonograms and ultrasounds to see if babies are boys or girls. We write our wills in order to mark out the exact details of our dying and death. We try, as much as we can, to name all the unknowns, but sometimes we can't do it all. We can't find out everything. So we hate waiting.

It's the anticipation, really, that drives most of us crazy. I for one have to peek at the last page of the book I'm reading -- if only to read the last sentence. I also have to, must, must, must, watch the clips at the end of House that tell me what's going to happen on the next episode. I can't wait. It's only 7 days, but the anticipation drives me insane.

As for Advent and Christmas...

How are we dealing with our waiting in this season of Advent? Can we wait long enough for the answer to the question "what's next"? What is our attitude reflecting during this period of waiting? How do we "live into" this time of mystery and anticipation?

And, what if we did not know how "Christmas" would turn out? What if the "end result" was not a pretty little nativity scene? What if it is much more ominous, cold, harsh, realistic? What if we didn't know what was coming up next? What would we be waiting for?