The Country of California

Earlier today, I went to Lowe's (on Hanley) to purchase a couple of items for our gardening venture. While browsing the aisles of plants in the nursery, I decided to look for a pink-nerved or silver-veined fittonia. Several months have gone by since I left Berkeley, and while I'm here in hot & humid St. Louis, my two little fittonias are still sitting on my old desk in my old office of my old job. Alas. (Those two were purchased at Target for almost nothing -- I think I paid like $2.99 for each of them. They were the size of my hand.)

So, I went in search of those wee little plants in the nursery of Lowe's. Couldn't find them, so I asked the little old, white lady who was unloading a bunch of orchids. She seemed really friendly, asked me how I was doing, and if I liked orchids. "Oh yes, I love them," said I, "but do you have fittonias? Silver veined or pink nerved ones?"

The little old lady looked at me and said, "What are they? Are they annuals or perennials?"

"Um, I don't know the technical name, but they're fittonias."

Then, my friends, she asked: "Are they from your country or my country?"

She then proceeded to explain to me the definition of "annual" and "perennial", and she spoke the words very slowly in case I had trouble with English.

My sister was mumbling something in the background about "not our country or your country; it's OUR country"... But my hearing was blocked by my bubbling irritation.

Somewhere during her spiel, she suggested hanging plants (they're on sale for $8.99, folks). I'll look around for something else, said I.

So I went to two gentlemen who were unloading other kinds of plants; I thought they might know more. I approached one and asked him if the store carried fittonias. He looked at his coworker, half laughed, and then turned to me and said, "Never heard of them before." Then went back to his work.

Friends, I'll admit to a bit of brusqueness, and frankly, I was not a happy customer at that point. WHY does this still happen? My goodness, I'm in St. Louis, but it's not like I'm in the country of idiots! Or maybe I am?!

So, to prove that fittonias do in fact exist, and that I did in fact have TWO fittonias in my country of CALIFORNIA, I hereby post a link to the blogpost with a photo of my dear silver-veined fittonia.

And, if you go here, you can find photographic proof that fittonias do exist, and not just in MY country. Also, if you go here, like any commoner, you can find the genus, family, and order of this little plant.

For now, I'm going to steel some silver-veined nerves and go write a note to Lowe's telling them that the fittonia does in fact exist and that Lowe's employees need to learn their plants.

Tuning in: Same HAT Time, Same HAT Channel

Those of you who have been to my apartments over the past few years prior to cable would remember the wonderful little tinfoil rabbit ears that I used for my little t.v. antennae. They served me well, in most cases, because I didn't even have basic cable, and with those little gadgets, I've had a lot of luck tuning in to many great shows. Whenever there was a threat of rain or wind which could weaken the signal, I would stand next to the aluminum rabbit ears and the screen would clear up. If things were pretty bad, I could touch it with my finger, or reshape/recast the tinfoil around the cheap-o t.v. antenna and everything would be fine.

It happened quite often (in Arlington, in Wilmington, and for a short while in Berkeley) that I would have to stand next to the t.v. to watch something clearly on the screen, but it was worth it just to get the strong signals (it's my compulsive need to see the end of all shows, which is why I had shows that end in "To Be Continued"...Hmmph).

Several days ago, I would have gladly used my body as an extension of some sort of antenna just to finish hearing the game between Nederland and Uruguay (in the semifinals of the 2010 World Cup). While driving back to STL, I listened to the game on ESPN radio. As we ventured further and further from the city limits, the signal became weaker and weaker which, naturally, compelled me to continue turning the dial back and forth to find the right signal strength. No matter what I did, though, the station was gone. (Perhaps that was a good thing -- otherwise I would have heard the news and would have been an unhappy traveler the rest of the way.) It was silly thinking that I could turn the dial this way and that in order to get a clearer sound of the game. If I could have, I would have stuck my head out the window holding tinfoil rabbit ears as we traveled along I-80/94. But, the channel was lost.

In Chard de Niord's interview with the poet Ruth Stone (in the July/August 2010 issue of The American Poetry Review), Stone said the following about her writing process and her muse:

Even as a child, I would hear a poem coming toward me from way off in the universe. I wouldn't hear it. I would feel it, and it would come right toward me. If I didn't catch it, if I didn't run in thehouse and write it down, it would go right through me and back into the universe. So I'd never see it again. I'd never hear it again. I've lost about ninety-nine percent of my poems this way. Sometimes I would catch the last line and write it through the bottom up. I have to say. I never thought they were mine. They weren't mine. They belonged somewhere else.

That never happens to me. Or, rather, if this sense of universe-streaming (like webstreaming?) had happened sometime in my past, it was such a long-ago time that I no longer remember ever being a conduit of such burning poetry, the kind that sinks into your soul and your consciousness and you can recite lines from heart-memory as if they were ingrained in my veins. No, I don't think this has ever happened.

Stone admits, though, that there are times when she really has to revise and revise before she gets something just right, and it's not just about tuning in to the right channel of the universe so that the poems just pour right out of her (p. 50). In the interview, the 95-year-old poet says she "couldn't get the last line for years" for the poem "Things I Say to Myself While Hanging Laundry."

It took her several years to get the last line, however, it was only one elusive line that held the entire poem in limbo, waiting. I, on the other hand, have been waiting my entire life for just one line. One poem. One book.

Mind you, I've been working hard to fashion me some fancy rabbit ears just so I could tune in: All the degrees, all the workshops, all the peer-editing, all the writing groups. Then the writings and editing on the side, perusing and analyzing collections, reading and contemplating. Old poets, contemporary poets, classics and experimental. Fiction and nonfiction. Journals, magazines, reviews. The jazz shows and the art galleries, the readings and the lectures -- all for inspiration, like stretching myself into different shapes, twisting my mental torso into different forms, with my finger slightly outstretched to touch that magic "tinfoil" that will help me channel the right word, the right line, the perfect image.

Alas, alas, although I feel like I've fashioned all the rabbit ears that I could with all the tinfoil that exists out there to channel "a poem coming toward me from way off in the universe", my muse isn't easily found (not like the old Bat-Man t.v. shows which were shown same bat-time, same bat-channel). So I will continue tuning and fine-tuning, and hopefully one day I'll finally get to universe-stream what was meant for me all along.

I wish I could say that we eventually picked up the soccer (ahem, football) game again on the radio that day, but we never did. We drove far beyond the limits, and truth be told, the conversation in the car was much more interesting than listening to the game on the radio. I learned some fascinating history about my dear old dad, and that, I think was much more valuable. A secret (writerly?) part of me was mentally recording our car conversations for future material, I think.

[Also see a fun article about rabbit-ear TV antenna and Photo source]

NCC Eco-Justice Programs Writes Letter re: Land and Wilderness

Dear President Obama, Secretary Salazar, Secretary Vilsack, and Senators,

As people of faith, we understand Creation as the opportunity to be surrounded by the work and being of God. The network of wild lands throughout the United States provides congregations and communities the opportunity to experience God, and to dwell in the beauty of all that God called “good.” As people of faith, we seek to live out our call as stewards of Creation through efforts to protect and maintain God’s great Creation. Through effective and collaborative work we can and must protect these places of intimate connection with God for all generations, and protect these vital pieces of God’s Creation.

Lands, wilderness, and open spaces have played a vital role in the spiritual journeys of Biblical peoples from Moses to Jesus Christ. Lands are an essential part of God's Creation. Through them, God nourishes life; provides the foundation of terrestrial ecosystems and human communities; supplies blessings of sustenance like soil, water, timber, and minerals; and offers natural space for prayer and spiritual renewal. Stewardship of the lands and wild places God has entrusted to our care is a critical part of our call to protect Creation. In a world broken by strife, public lands offer beautiful places to heal and invigorate the soul, which can be enjoyed by people for generations to come.

The public lands in the US embody the ideals of cooperation, community, equitable sharing of God’s bounty for the common good, and preserving the whole of Creation entrusted to our care. Public lands, if cared for appropriately, help us answer God's call to equality among people by providing shared benefits that nurture our communities. But many of these lands - and the life that depends on them - are endangered by human negligence and abuse. As these threats to God's gifts become more pronounced, our need to become educated and involved becomes more immediate.

As part of our call to be stewards of Creation, we have a duty to recognize the importance of the lands that the Lord has provided and minimize our impact, manage it so that it serves the good of all, and protect it for future generations and for all life. It is in this spirit that we ask you to work for protection and upkeep of the Lord’s lands and wild places. By protecting these places, we will ensure homes for many of God’s creatures as well as the ability to immerse oneself in the glory and goodness of God’s Creation.

Sincerely,
HAT

*If you want to sign this letter, too, click here.

Road to Saint Louis

We drove back to STL from GR today (from visiting Ba Me this past weekend on occasion of July 4th), and from I-55 southbound, I snapped some of the following out-the-window shots a Canon point-and-shoot. The sky was beautiful -- right before we dashed headlights-first into two huge, ginormous rainstorms. [There are two shots that I really love and hope you can spot them in the slideshow.]


I didn't think much of these when I was sitting in the car (in the passenger's seat, not driving, thank you) looking out the window. But as I continue to look at these pictures, I see something special about them, and they speak to me about my continued reflection over my recent decision to head out to Saint Louis: I love the ones with gray and blue clouds covering the sun, the ones with small rays of light breaking through, the blurry landscapes mis-shapened and unidentifiable by the blinding rain, the small and picturesque farm houses that jut up from lush green corn fields, and the one shot of the tiny, lonely, empty winding road beneath rain-heavy clouds... Imagine the words that you would hear if these photographs could speak!!

Happy 4th of July, America!

About two years ago, in anticipation of Independence Day, I asked a friend -- at that time, an acquaintance -- whether there were any special plans for his holiday weekend. He responded, with a very charming smile, "It's not my independence, so why should I celebrate it?"

And that, my friends, is what many Americans are asking today. They are raising similar questions because at this time, there are many challenges to being labeled/identified/categorized as an American -- in my case, as a "Viet Kieu My". These days, there may be more of a *risk* in claiming our hard(ly)-earned independence -- especially since we are often taken to task for how poorly we've managed that sense of independence (have you seen the oil spill disaster in the Gulf? have you seen how we handled relief efforts after the hurricane hit Katrina in LA?)

Now, as some of you may know, I love holidays and whatever excuse I have to rest and rejuvenate is most welcomed. At about that time, I was working like a fiend, and often found myself flipping through calendars to find upcoming holidays. Besides, the summer months often seem like too-long stretches of work-time so the July 4th celebrations come always at the right moment.

I also love activities/events in which large communities of different kinds/types come together to celebrate with food, fun, laughter, and general merrymaking. Somehow, it just feels like everything is right in the world -- for a brief, brief moment -- when we all come together with pride and thanksgiving (or at least some of us. Add to that celebratory spirit some fireworks under a balmy Berkeley night and that's just perfect. Isn't communal celebrations the point of July 4th? To acknowledge that we are a people of one nation?

For me, as a passport-carrying, naturalized citizen of the United States of America, July 4th is a specially marked time set apart to remind us that this country was forged by courageous people in search of freedom in the spirit of liberty and in pursuit of their uniquely defined (sometimes selfishly guarded at the astronomical cost) sense of happiness. (Or should I say that sometimes, we take the easy way out by buying into the prescribed "American Dream" and neglect to forge our own sense of identity and independence...?)

Since the new laws about immigration and since the Arizona law were passed, I am reminded that there are still people here in the U.S. who feel that I and others like me (who are recent immigrants -- recent compared to the Chinese or the Japanese or the Italians or the Dutch, or, the Brits or the Irish,etc.), we don't really belong here in "their" country. Funny how 400 years squatting in someone else's backyard makes you the "owner" and more recent arrivals are the "trespassers" who need your permission to stay.

Anyway, I am thankful for this holiday b/c it is one small opportunity to remind everyone that we are all visitors and immigrants here on this soil. Whether we arrived in 1607 or 1987 or 2009, we are all travelers who went forth from where we had been, to search for opportunity in territory unfamiliar to us. So I might not be a Brit who left England to settle the new world in the 1600s, but there is still reason for me to celebrate the 4th -- and it's not just because I love holidays. The early immigrants settled first and carved the path through the histories of humanity so that today, I can sit here freely blogging about America's birthday. And my friend can freely visit her parents in London and travel to a family wedding in Canada, and return regularly to her hometown in India. And my other friend can visit his Spanish wife's family in Spain with their new beautiful baby. And my other, other friend can study here in the U.S. on a Malaysian student visa (which thankfully also turned into a lucrative job after he graduated). And so on, and so on...

For today, let us remember and give thanks for this our Nation -- for all the people of different races, ethinicity, and cultures wrapped up in its huge ego and bravada, boiling over from its temperaments and global warming carcinogens, flooding from its icecaps melting, buried under our nation's mounds and mountains of refuse and debris, barely recognizable from its gulf-coast drilling seepage.

Happy birthday, dear nation, and may we survive and thrive through another year!