June 28, 2008

I'm a haiku snob

Several days ago, The Boss attended a week-long conference in Atlanta where he stayed in a hotel that professes the use of haikus as the anchor for their communications and advertising, "the math behind their voice". The hotel has strategically placed haikus everywhere, from hotel lobby to bathrooms, in its multiple locations throughout the U.S. The Boss called one day and in the midst of our daily check-in ritual, he read a haiku about hotel room towels. The chain even has a web-page allowing visitors to their website to create their own haikus. You pick the season (summer, winter, etc), one element (earth, wind, etc), and the mood (joyful, relaxed, etc). The website will then spit out a haiku related to the hotel that you can enjoy or forward to a friend.

The Boss calls me a haiku snob because I laughed in what he deemed "a dismissive manner" at the haikus that the hotel presented. I gladly accept that term. Haiku snob. First of all, I won't presume to know everything there is to know about haikus -- in fact, I know less about haiku the more I study them. I won't presume that just because I can count 5-7-5 syllables in a triplet means that I can write a haiku. I certainly won't presume that I know enough about the haiku to consider it "the anchor" for my communications. There are certain things we often easily underestimate and one of them is the complexity of the haiku form.

That is not to say that the haiku masters (Issa, Basho, Buson, etc) didn't write playful haikus -- many of them were generated in that exact same spirit (remember the one of the horse pissing in the snow?) -- but they did much more than count syllables in each line.

I went onto the hotel's website and found this poem:

from humid summer
to room of wintry wonder.
air-conditioned joy


I know ours is not the world that Issa or Buson inhabited. It has changed so much that we are forced to reinterpret and create the haiku in such different ways. However, I still can't justify writing a haiku about things like towels air-conditioned rooms. I'm not a haiku snob so much as a haiku novice. There is much, much more to the poem. That's because sometimes it reaches Nothingness.

June 27, 2008

Nho

Mua he nam nay, minh nho den nhung chiec non la che nang o ngoai duong, nho den nhung quan cafe, quan che giai khat, va nho den nhung buoi chieu ngoi ben bo song o duoi anh nang nong... chay mo!

God bless you with discomfort...

Congratulations to Dr.MAT who, as of last Saturday, was officially commissioned to probationary Elder status in the UMC. Ordination to full elder status will be achieved in about two years. In lay terms, an Elder in the UMC is basically the highest clergy rank that you can achieve. (This is aside from other ecclesiastical positions in the Church.) There are, to be imprecise, about 6,975 steps to getting ordained as a United Methodist. (Since working at The Seminary, I've learned there are just as many steps to getting ordained in the Episcopal church. No surprise there.)

Whatever my feelings are about the state of the church and the condition of our faith communities, I know that it is one thing to be critical and another to be ordained -- it is not a Calling to take lightly. It takes more than just a feeling of being "strangely warmed" (a la John Wesley) to be a fit priest/minister/pastor.

There are many, many ordinands who get stuck in the bureaucratic loop and never get ordained. This is a tragedy for the church. We too often become mired in protocols and procedures and forget the important questions. Bound by our Book of Discipline, by our canons and our constitutions, we often lose sight of the answers and questions that are really important to us. The Boss once relayed to me three questions that he heard/acquired from someone/somewhere else (there's a story here that I've forgotten, but I vaguely remember the questions).

Do you love God?
Do you love me?
Do you love God enough to carry out God's mission?

The third question may be something I just made up, but I know the first two are correct. But if they are not the original questions, they ought to be. Love God. Love our neighbors. Do God's work (e.g. seek love, peace, and justice for all). If we love God too much and don't love our neighbors enough, we cannot carry out The Great Commission. If we love our neighbors only, there is nowhere to go and nowhere to begin.

Somewhere in my memory is the story of when my parents first arrived in the U.S. to begin parish ministry. While we were waiting for my father's first appointment at a local church in southern CA, the congregation where we first visited in San Francisco refused to help our family. Not one member would assist us in the short week that we stayed in the Bay Area awaiting our flight down to southern CA. My parents were not fluent in English and when they asked for assistance with translation, they were refused. One member (who later became ordained in the Vietnamese Southern Baptist church -- ironic isn't it) told them they would eventually have to figure it out anyway so why ask for assistance. Their refusal to help, their coldness, makes me question whether it is/was worth the time, energy, and heart.

When I think of these histories, and remember these people who profess One Great Faith, they are ugly. These stories and experiences leave bitterness in my mouth, and my eyes blur with anger and frustration and sadness. I feel heartsick for my parents back then -- a young immigrant couple in their 30s with three young kids, all eager to start fresh in "the fields of the Lord." I recall these "Christian folks" and I feel sadness, anger, even hate. I wonder how it is that we could have ministered in their presence, and I wonder how my parents could have loved them enough to worship with them.

I remember other stories. Bitter stories. I remember the time that a particular white congregation asked our Vietnamese mission to leave the sanctuary of the church we were renting because it cost too much money to pay for electricity when our small group worshiped in the sanctuary. One of our congregants cried as he left the place of worship. That sanctuary was no longer a sanctuary, not holy, not filled with the spirit of God. When I recall that incident, I wonder, how could we have ministered in that place? How could we have been called to worship together with those people who cared more about electricity bills?

As my mind now envisions the group of us filing out of the sanctuary, I want to ask the pastor of that church back in that little city, Do you love God? Do you love us? Do you love God enough to let us worship in that space?

I remember a colleague of my parents who once questioned why they were so insistent on allowing their daughter to enter into ordained ministry. Underlying that question was the puzzlement over the appropriateness of allowing a woman to be ordained. My parents never wavered. They never doubted. Love God; love others; do God's work. What does it matter whether you are man or woman?

Dr.MAT faces big challenges ahead. The Spirit does not always lead us to safe waters. Sometimes we are challenged to big things, difficult missions. Love God? That's easy. Love others. That's the hard one. Even harder when I can see those faces that I find especially difficult to love. (You, you, you, and yes, you.)

Perhaps the motivation I need is not something I can drum up with my own willpower. It is something I am unable to change. This is where the work of the Spirit comes in.

Love God. That, I can do.

Love others. That, the Spirit can help me do.

Do God's work. That, we must do together.

Congratulations to the Rev.Dr.MAT.

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart. Amen.

May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace. Amen.

May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy. Amen.

May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen.

- Franciscan prayer

June 25, 2008

Mongol: Temudjin before Genghis Khan


Last night, we went to see Sergei Bodrov's epic film, Mongol.

No matter what we've read in history books about Genghis Khan of the Great Steppe, this film presents to us a "multidimensional portrait" of Temudgin, the little boy whose courage, strength, and passion were unabated by the difficulties that shaped him into the fearless, unrelenting Khan. I appreciated the director's creativity in presenting a richer, more complex narrative about this man. The film lifts up the deep complexity embroidering human lives and human narratives, and I am reminded of often I am led to simply believe the image of the "evil brute of hoary stereotype." Bodrov's film reminds us all, I hope, that in the snapshot of the evil, fear-inspiring killer who ravaged kingdoms, there is also room for a visionary leader, for a loving, extraordinary man.

The movie was beautifully created, with sweeping cinematography and spare dialogue that highlighted -- instead of eclipsing -- the progression of the narrative. The actors masterfully presented the depths and hollows of their characters, from each movement of the hand to the watchful gaze of the eyes. I was impressed by how much we could deduce from the easy glint in eyes seen through unbraided hair.

The landscapes of the shooting locations were stunning. The music was also special -- most noteworthy were the sections contributed by Altan Urag, the folk-rock band. The love theme made you sense immediately in your guts of that deep, abiding love unphased and unfaded by time which we all aspire to. I would love to get the score to this film.

Actors of note were Odnyam Odsuren who played Young Temudjin, Tadanobu Asano as Temudjin, and Khulan Chuluun as Borte. Borte represented the kind of beautiful, strong woman who takes and makes her own destiny. She is the first to greet Temudjin when they first meet and she chose him as her husband long before he even thought of her as his bride. She takes matters into her own hands and frees herself from her captor, and is unafraid of taking risks to free her husband from his cage. She stands her ground and faces armed guards without flinching. She shows compassion, foresight, clear-headedness, and patience. Borte is, as we see her in this film, the quintessential woman.

One concern that I have about this movie is the length. Historical epic that it is, the film dragged a little at the end and I grew weary of waiting for the "conclusion" to Bodrov's segment of this narrative. Or, perhaps I already knew of Temudjin's end and did not want to see further...

Regardless, I recommend that you go see it. Now.

June 23, 2008

Just a note about procrastination

There is absolutely no acceptable excuse for why I have not accomplished the 10 things on my to-do list, except for the fact that my parents and grandmother have been in town and in addition to going out every night (b/c why would we stay home when parents are in town?) we've been boxing things up for our impending move.

The apartment is in shambles, my cupboards have been cleaned of everything and mom has packed all the China and silverware. Corners of my apt are packed tight with boxes and my bookshelves are nearly bare.

I haven't touched my poems in a week, and I haven't looked at poetry books in over 8 days. I have two unread issues of Poets&Writers sitting in my book bag, and another just arrived today.

My poetry class begins in two weeks and I am only learning Moodle (through which we will hold our online classes) tomorrow. Yikes.

All hail procrastination!

June 20, 2008

Where to buy vai ao dai in San Jose?

Today, we found a great fabric shop where you can buy all sorts of materials for ao dai (the traditional Viet dress that Vietnamese women wear). The shop is off of N. King Road, called Fabrics R Us. It is the best place you will ever find in the southbay area. You can find any material that you are looking for, with enough color variety to appease your color palettes.

The sales associates speak fluent Vietnamese (sorry English speakers!) and can hold a conversation in English and will be able to respond to your needs (if they aren't swamped with too many customers). We were assisted by two sales associates who not only offered their advice about choosing materials and colors, but will also go above and beyond their duty of cutting the fabric for you. They discussed color schemes with us, and gave us solid recommendations about which materials to choose for what occasion -- with an eye/ear out for great prices fit for our pockets. There was one young lady who just moved here from Phan Rang, Viet Nam, just two years ago and she was so helpful and kind and accommodating.

The prices are ideal even if the organization of the shop layout is not. One complete set (ao va lot) of higher quality fabrics and detailed embroidery (in a stunning sage green color) was tagged at $40 total. We saw the exact same thing a few hours earlier at a more posh-looking shop (Y Nhu in the Century Mall/shopping center on Story Road) and asking price was $80 for materials for the dress, with $20 for the materials for the trousers. Mum found three complete sets. First one: black ao with freely drawn designs, lot with silver gray chiffon, and trousers in satin gray. Second outfit: Beautiful black chiffon patterned with quarter-size rich navy blue flowers arranged in slanted parallel lines; lot with dark navy blue satin, same material for trousers. Third outfit: Rich neutral tones of cream, tan, brown, adobe, burnt orange and highlighted with gold for the ao; lot with beautiful mousse brown cream; satin brown trousers.

I found one completely adorable outfit to wear for the upcoming wedding I'm attending. I dunno how to describe it, but theres a myriad of purple, lavender, cream, pinkish tones that are undercut by cream, maroon, and magenta. It sounds garish, but the muted effects are gorgeous. Now, I just need to love 50 pounds before taking it to the tailor.

We were buying yards and yards of fabric at $2 or $3 dollars up to $10 per yard. For four ao dai outfits, we paid $94.00 which was only $4 more than ONE outfit that mom bought at Y Nhu on Story Road. What a steallllllll!!!

I can't believe how wonderful it was. I would absolutely go back there, and will recommend to everyone I know.

The shop was hot b/c there was no A/C, and a tad dirty. But, you will be so delighted you won't even mind the dirty floors! Serious fire hazard exists though b/c of the way the bolts of fabric are stuffed into those cramped spaces. I shudder at the thought of the sales associates and customers being trapped inside during a fire or an earthquake or some other disaster.

The only person I found truly unhelpful and rude was the owner's wife -- she seemed to run the shops (spread into three different shop locations in the same strip mall) with a tight hand and was very uncommunicative. She never made eye contact and expressed frustration when we asked her questions.

Buzz me if you need the address to Fabrics R Us.

Love & Cannibalism Translated

When checking Sitemeter, I noticed that someone recently found nothing but HAT's by googling a string of Vietnamese search words that translated as: Korean wife eats husband's flesh.

So I promptly googled the equivalent in English, and the very first site that came up was about 100% foolproof Korean Dating. Never you mind whether there has been such a case as Korean wife eating husband's wife (if she whoever she is really did, I would like to know why). I write about this as another interesting albeit meaningless example of how so much is lost in translation.

How can a string of words that when clumped together suggests a heinous crime such as cannibalism (and which hints at serious relationship issues) -- how can those string of words when translated literally conjure up a site about the art of bringing people together and building relationships -- not tearing them apart.

We must think about the powerful manipulations of search engines and marvel at their usurpation of the internet, naturally, but I can't help but think, if only a little, at the disparity and contradiction between the two...

Think, then, upon what happens to ourselves when we miscommunicate. What kind of cannibalism are we committing when we misinterpret our correspondences? What kinds of relationships are we building up or tearing down (and how are we doing that!) through a mis-translation?

I shudder to think of it. But then I remember that Pen recently wrote about how her little employees have been transforming and mixing their "company logos and mottos". The creativity that they come up with are no less entertaining than educational. From the mouths of babes, right? They give me hope because they offer me a purer, more holy, more beautiful example of how goodness and wholeness can still be understood despite what is lost in translation. And love. Despite the jumbled words and miscommunications, so much love still remain.

June 19, 2008

Di Cho Dung Hang

Cac chi em quy men, hom nay minh xin "dien dan" de dat mot cau hoi that la "cu xi." Co le se khong co ai tra loi minh, minh vi Nguoi Em cua minh dat ca cau hoi, va cau tra loi cua minh khong vua long cua Nguoi Em nay, nen hom nay se trinh bay tai day. Mong rang se co mot ai thuong xot cho HAT va tra loi dum.

Trong viec hon nhan, tai sao nguoi phu nu bi goi la "e chong" con nguoi dan ong thi goi la "ken chon". Tai sao nguoi phu nu lai bi goi la "o gia" con nguoi dan ong duoc goi la "tu lap"? Luc nay, Nguoi Em cua minh dang lo lang rang minh se "o gia" suot doi, nen gan day da tu tu thuc minh la nen lay chong di. Nghe ba chu "lay chong di" giong nhu la mot lenh duoc phan ra, giong nhu la "di cho mua do an cho toi nay di." Hoi xua, minh cung nghe Bo Me ra lenh tuong tua nhu vay, nhung hop voi tuoi tho au kia: di ngu di, an com di, ve nha di, di tam di, v.v.

Bay gio, minh nghe ba chu "lay chong di," chot nghi rang, oi cha, chac hom nay minh se doi non vao, leo len xe, ra ngoai cho o goc duong, lua mot ong chong, mang ve nha de treo len o dau do hoac bo vao tu. Xong het.

Giong nhu di cho mua mot cai mon gi do mang ve qua ha, cac chi?

Lay chong di. Nhu la mot imperative. Lay chong di. Keo het thi gio thi se het chong de chon. Lay chong di. Chu dau co khi khac de lam.

Nhung, cac chi em oi, co phai la nhu vay khong? Su that co la nhu vay khong? Co phai la tinh huong dua minh vao the nay khong? Quang diem cua minh nhu the nao ve viec lay chong, cuoi vo? Doi voi chung ta, moi nguoi co mot y nghi rieng ve hon nhan. Mot nguoi vo, mot nguoi chong -- khong phai la di ra cho de pick & choose ong nao la hang tot nhat.

Cac chi nghi sao ne?

June 18, 2008

Bless this house, and please hand me the power sander

It's summer, so this is the time for sunning, swimming, and... sanding! Yeah, that's right. Sanding. And scraping. And painting. For the past few weeks, I have been assisting One Holy Fool, on an irregular basis, to remodel her newly purchased house. Mostly, it's me and Dr.MAT chomping at the bit, eager to help in whatever way possible, but only succeeding at slowing down the entire process.

When OHF showed me the sander, I had never used a power sander in my entire life, but as my friend said, it is quite empowering. And I guess I needed something empowering this summer. In fact, what better time than this Summer of Shifts to power up those machines, get my hair a bit dirty, and sand the crap out of some maplewood?!

Well, that's what I did. Wimp and weakling that I am, I wielded the machine and sanded to my heart's delight. Unfortunately for us, we didn't have more maplewood to sand. Unfortunately for the Holy Fool, we were the ones helping with the sanding -- which probably delayed the process for an entire day! (Perhaps we helped One Holy Fool less with the house than she helped us educate ourselves about carpentry.)

Sanding was not the only thing HAT has been doing, though. Since OHF purchased a lovely home with detailed paneling in the bedrooms, great highbeam ceilings, a spacious backyard perfect for gardening, and tons of what we call "cathedral windows", there has been quite a lot of work to do. House is gorgeous, of course. However, a lot of work needs to be done, so OHF ripped everything out of the house, leaving only the framework, and began remodeling. With a degree and years of experience as a professional carpenter and as jack-of-all-trades, one Holy Fool had no qualms about redoing everything alone, with limited help, from priming to painting to sanding to building the entire kitchen from scratch.

This was/is the very first time that I've participated in any this kind of work on a house -- whether for/with a friend or a stranger (like for Habitat Humanity, which I've wanted to do for a long, long time) -- and it was slow learning.

I scraped paint, sanded doors and frames (by hand and with power saw), primed window sills and walls, and painted. I can't tell you how much fun I had doing all these things! Especially enjoyable was the power sander. So much power and force had to be applied -- in such a particular way -- that I was sore and aching at the end -- but happy. And, the experience of working side by side with others in order to beautify something was invigorating, rejuvenating.

At times, the layers and layers of paint would not come off no matter what utensil we used, but still, there was much satisfaction, I think, in planting our feet firmly, rolling up the sleeves, and scraping like mad at the colors that kept unpeeling themselves before me. White, dark blue, gray, sage, sky, cream, eggshell -- there seemed to be no end to them at all...

Last Saturday, I was lucky enough to see five of the rooms painted, and I knew that in some places, these newer shades of musk rose, periwinkle blue, slate, etc. were lathered on beautiful wood grain in some places and in other places they were disguising uglier layers of old, unscrapable paint. No matter what, the transformation took my breath away. I was seeing with my own eyes the new shining, smooth colors of the new walls -- satisfaction in a good, honest day's work. Or rather, days and days of work. May this old house become for One Holy Fool a new home filled with rich memories and deep blessings.

June 14, 2008

See their faces

Earlier today, I was complaining about the expensive gas I have to pay in Berkeley to fill up our itty bitty car. $4.58 for a gallon of unleaded, and this is at a rather shady looking station where I would never visit. Crazy.

Last night, I received an email from a friend in church telling me about a recent mission trip to China, taken by a team that visited the earthquaked-devastated areas of Chengdu. The photos that they sent back to us -- such staggering destruction. School buildings, apartment complexes, market places, concrete streets, mountainsides -- massive, massive structures that have been razed to their foundations or swallowed underneath the ground. I cannot believe what life must be like for the survivors right now. The people who are still alive are not really because they all have that haunted look about them. Reading about their stories, one wonders why the News bothers to say anything at all. Just look at their faces.

Consider also the victims of Cyclone Nargis in Myanmar. Emergency food, clean water, medical supplies, shelter, warm clothing -- these are basic necessities that they are struggling to receive. Can we expect anything less for ourselves? How can we ignore their needs right now? Look on our t.v. screens, listen to our radio stations, surf our online news sites... Do you see what you need to see? Give and give generously.

Quay tro ve ghe tham vietHAT

Da lau roi minh khong ngo tham cai blog nho be goi la vietHAT. Noi dung hon la, minh da phai de danh thi gio de cham lo NOTHING BUT HAT'S vi cac ban cung biet ma, viet blog that su ton qua nhieu thi gio -- ma thi gio rat quy gia, phai khong. Minh cung lau roi khong co viet mot blogpost bang tieng Viet -- va minh cung chang co ly do chinh dang nao het -- chi la minh qua "luoi bieng" ma thoi. Vi qua lau khong viet blogpost bang tieng Viet, minh cung quen rat nhieu tieng Viet. Cam thay nhu tieng Me De da bi tieng Anh tuop dan tuop dan. Mat di ma khong thay tiec den khi khong con mot cai gi het!

Ghe tham blog cua Phi Tuy moi biet rang nguoi ban moi quen tu tren mang da mat mot nguoi Cha -- va mat nguoi Cha that gan ngay Father's Day. Rat buon, cac ban oi. Noi buon khong biet co tu tieng Anh hoac tieng Viet de ta. Noi buon khong biet co mot chu nao trong ngon ngu con nguoi co the ta cho du.

Su dau buon cua Ba Muc Su (la me cua Tuy) va cua ca gia dinh chac rat sau xac.

Nguyen Dang Yen Ui o cung gia dinh cua Tuy trong giai doan va thoi gian dau kho nay. Mong cac ban ai ai cung tuong nho va yeu men nguoi Cha, nguoi Anh, nguoi Em, hoac nguoi Cau/Duong cua minh.

June 13, 2008

Stripped naked by a simple statement

Towards the end of my stay in Viet Nam in 2005, I lost awareness of my status as a foreigner living in my birth country. By the end of that summer, I had forgotten that everywhere I traveled, I was perceived as the foreigner -- the American. Perhaps my ability to speak, read, and write Vietnamese gave me a false sense of security. Perhaps my jovial personality and the friendly faces lulled me into believing I was just a regular resident in Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City). I was confident. I was relaxed. I had no qualms haggling with the street vendors. I walked briskly through my streets and marketplaces. I ate food without hesitation or consideration about sanitation or health concerns. I didn't worry whether my stomach had gotten used to the iced tea (ice being a big problem for some travelers/visitors). I lived without much added precaution that one would normally wield due to a heightened sense of concern as a visitor. I could argue politics, arts, religion, academics with vigor and excitement. I found myself slipping in and out of idiomatic expressions easily and with great confidence.

I was a regular. I felt shielded. Then one day, my confidence cracked and shattered over the simplest thing. It wasn't even traumatic but it left quite an impression on me. I was going to church. My old nanny told me to change my shirt because what I was wearing wasn't appropriate.

A lot of things can be said here about this incidence. One could say that the church culture is different in this context, and many conservative churches elsewhere in the world wouldn't like parishioners wearing certain outfits either. It could be that my old nanny never paid attention to what I was wearing and just that day happened to notice. Or, what I was wearing that day -- and I can't remember for the life of me what it was -- must have triggered something. Whatever. It wasn't that significant except for the fact that some how, for some reason, having her tell me that I should change made me feel suddenly naked. One minute I felt like I'd been there all my life, knowing exactly what to do. The next minute, I was the awkward, oversized, over-westernized, too liberal, tongue-tied, improperly dressed American. It was instantaneous.

What I felt may not be justified, but the experience made me feel that the entire time that I felt comfortable in my own skin, the entire time during which I felt like I was accepted as "one of the gangs", I was merely "tolerated" as a foreigner who wanted to "pass" as a regular. Many of my friends, some relatives, and all acquaintances perceived me as a Vietnamese born American who has been too Americanized but who is clinging to her roots.

The whole business of "lost roots" is ridiculous and is for discussion on another day, by the way.

And, that experience reminded me of earlier in my stay when I went up to Hanoi in north Viet Nam and the locals in the Old Quarter where I was hotel-ing recognized immediately that I was (a) a tourist, (b) from the US, and (c) born in southern Viet Nam. Three strikes. Well, maybe not the first one b/c tourism is big in Viet Nam so tourists are often welcomed whole-heartedly (but more so if you're caucasian, European). No matter that I could speak in Vietnamese. I was speaking the wrong dialect with the wrong accents. No matter that I had tourism money -- I wasn't white or European. I realized that for every person who acknowledged me as a person, there was someone who only saw me as a foreigner. For every person who saw me as a local, there was someone who only saw me as a tourist.

I have, naturally, oversimplified the situation completely, and I've also reduced the complexity of my months in Viet Nam to what some may consider detrimental, grossly myopic proportions. But, at that time, I felt all of this, and more. It was visceral.

Perhaps what I've been beating around the bush is something that is quite easy to state. I did not want to be perceived as merely a traveler -- a passerby -- who did not throw down roots, establish friendships, recollect relationships, share memories, or build community. I was a traveler who did all that. I was not just a traveler. I did all that and was a part of many communities. I became community. I observed, understood, respected, participated in, and built new meanings of community, family, tribe. That's what I cherished, and perhaps that's what I felt was taken from me by a simple statement.

Or, perhap, it wasn't at all.

Barefoot immigrant Appleseed

In fifth grade, I learned about Johnny Appleseed. There was something quite alluring about this legend of the man who traipsed about the West planting apple seeds and growing trees. The ideas of sleeping under the stars, rowing down and up rivers, and eating supper with frontiersman were intrigued me as much as the thought of taking a bite out of the forbidden fruit fallen from some wild, magical tree. It was fifth grade, and I loved the idea of the Johnny Appleseed because I was quite a stranger to all that ruggedness. Add to that the mystery of the child bride and I was completely hooked -- because he seemed so flawed.

I've long since lost that elementary infatuation. Or rather, I've grown to understand that my infatuation was not because of Appleseed's myths/legends, but because I lived the carefree lifestyle of a fifth grader who had the luxury of time, energy, and freedom to daydream too much for her own good.

Who knew that reading Michael Pollan's The Botany of Desire would re-introduce me to Johnny Appleseed. Pollan recalls to mind, once again, that John Chapman really was extraordinary. This time, however, I appreciate his life out-of-the-ordinary not because of this figure carved in myth and made of legends but because of, you guessed it, his border crossing.

Pollan describes Chapman's life with perfect simplicity and captures its complexity in different ways. I would not have thought of describing Chapman's life as "a skein of warring terms and contradictions", but what Appleseed accomplished deserves our true, unadulterated appreciation. If Pollan's research can be trusted, if the stories and markers that we've encountered through histories can be believed, we know that "Chapman's ability to freely cross borders that other people believed to be fixed and unbreachable" (Pollan, 33) was what unnerved us, intrigued us, challenged us, and which basically helped blaze our way through the western wilds.

In The Botany of Desire, only a chapter of which mentions Chapman, Pollan reminds me that Chapman is a man set apart because he dared to cross borders that during his time few dared to cross, and even now we often forget what kinds of borders he crossed. If it weren't for Pollan, I would have forgotten that Chapman was border-crossing "between the red world and the white, between wilderness and civilization, even between this world and the next" (b/c of his Swedenborgian philosophy?).

This is what I want to know: How would he respond to the border crossings that are happening now? He risked a great deal to bring us much more than an apple, but if we had to sum it up, he brought us a fruit tree, and sweetness, and from there, the west-world. If he were here today, I wonder what borders he would risk, and what would he risk it for? Or would there be any borders for him at all?

June 10, 2008

Whether you like it or not...

If you have seen the recent issue of Harper's Magazine (June 2008, Vol. 316, No. 1897), you'll see that Garret Keizer has written a brilliant little article called "Turning Away from Jesus." I am still reeling from my experience of reading this fantastic article. Lest you think this is only about gay rights and the so-called war in the Episcopal church, let me say that this goes beyond those "little issues" and really takes all of us to task for being human beings on this planet.

From the very beginning, Keizer puts to rest any doubts about what we will delve into as we plunge into this assignment (which he says he didn't ask for), and tells us that we had better care, and care deeply, because we are involved, too. He says, "what might strike you as an irrelevant story about a religious dispute is in some ways your story, whether you are religious or not, and whether you like it or not. The story invites us to ask if what we see happening to the institutions we love is not at least partly the result of us having loved them less attentively than we supposed."

For Keizer, the crisis in the church (and I suppose he means both the Episcopal church, and the global church, the church universal) is really one of several "cosmetically differentiated versions of the same earnest quest for moral rectitude in the face of one's collusion in an economic system of gross inequality" (43). And we are more than familiar with that kind of crisis.

What ought to shame us is not a particular cleric's sexual orientation. Regardless of what faith community we participate in, regardless of our faith traditions, as human beings, we ought to focus on "our treatment of the poor, the distribution of wealth, of resources, and the danger of wealth to our souls."

For me, as a Christian, I am plagued by the question that we ought to argue and debate about and lose sleep over: How does a Christian population implicated in militarism, usury, sweatshop labor, and environmental rape find a way to sleep at night?

"This assignment wasn't my idea," he says. "Becoming a priest wasn't my idea either. I was asked, and I did what I could," says Keizer. I often feel like he does. Powerless -- and so I want to struggle. But, I'm less skilled than Keizer. What Keizer articulates, I wish I could articulate with half as much eloquence and a third of his passion. And I wish I could be as forgiving and accepting (of those who harbor views so different from mine) as I am called to be. Unlike Keizer, I find myself more often than not too blinded, too raging, and too muted to share anything more than communion.

Keizer ends the essay by expressing what so many of us feel in the midst of our ministries -- most of the time blinded by exhaustion or rage. The great mystery and power of Grace and Love means that sometimes, we can't say anything at all. We can only listen.

Do you love me? Feed my sheep. - Jesus to Simon Peter, John 21:16

June 6, 2008

The sky trying to fit into a tunnel

Imagine / the sky trying to fit into a tunnel carved into a hill.
- Marie Howe, Easter



Last night, while sitting in the theater watching Figaro, I was reminded of a multicultural experience that I had several months ago. In both instances, I was trying to filter three different languages at the same time, attempting to understanding the nuances of each tongue, and trying as best I can to process and appreciate, deeply appreciate, everything that was happening. In both instances, I was watching different kinds of performance.

In the first instance, I was facing the silver screen -- that is, I was watching a feature film. The movie was unforgettable -- something about a band of gangsters that hid in a Buddhist monastery and thus underwent a spiritual transformation. The experience of watching the movie, however, was impressionable. The film was a Korean film, so all the actors were speaking in some Korean dialect. But, alas, the movie was dubbed in Vietnamese. In fact, the voice-overs were done by some woman whose clipped monotone played about 1.5 seconds after the Korean actors actually spoke. But because the Vietnamese translations were so poorly done (and the dubbing was edited poorly as well), I turned on the English subtitles. So, the movie was transmitted to me in three different ways: I was straining to listen for Korean to understand the nuances of the actors' voices, to catch their emotions; I was also trying to listen to the Vietnamese voice-over to hear how the translation was done; and I was also trying to read the subtitles that flashed by with lightning speed. On top of all that, I was trying to watch the action to actually see what was really happening in an attempt to decipher the plot -- if there was any.

In the second of these two experiences, I was facing a stage watching the actors play out Figaro. I was keeping tabs on which characters were "ghosts" from the past and which were from the "present" Paris. Trying to discern how the past characters behaved was difficult b/c I kept trying to find the subtext in everything, and the shifts and interactions between past & present was mind-boggling. Then, the opera parts were sung in Latin, so I was listening to the emotions and subtle expressions in each of the sung parts. But to understand what the songs mean, I had to read the screen in the background on which the surtitles flashed in white. In addition to all processing all that was happening with the easily/quickly shifting stage props, I was drawn again and again to the large white screen on which the actors' images were projected, opening up another dimension to the play/opera being enacted on stage.

Truly, both experiences were rich and powerful in different ways. But, I was so mentally exhausted, and at the same time so exhilarated, by the end that I could hardly hold my head up on my shoulders.

Reflecting on these two experiences have repeated to me a familiar sort of truth: our lives are entwined in languages of all varieties, and I revel in such rich complexity. Despite the periodic overwhelming sensation of drowning in information (which sometimes drives me toward silent movies), I still appreciate and prefer such experiences b/c they make me feel alive. I may not be the hill trying to squeeze the sky through it's tunnel, trying to process the expansiveness of the heavens into my imperfect, human mind, but these encounters embolden me with a sense of possibility -- with hope. It feels as if I could, in a small way, internalize a bit of sky by reflecting it in a puddle on the road. It feels as if I can do anything life offers my way because I'm capable of making meaning in the midst of ordered chaos.

This is NOT a sing-along opera

Figaro at the Berkeley Repertory Theater is THE GREATEST MODERN ADAPTATION of the opera. 5 stars. I loved all 2 and a half hours of the multimedia opera. I love it still. I will absolutely recommend it to everyone. I will see it a second time. There is a possibility of seeing it a third time.

As a first experience, this beats it all. Fantastic play. Fantastic music. The cast was wonderful -- first rate group of actors with much experience behind their acting and their musical talents. Old Figaro played by Stephen Epp was phenomenal. The chemistry between him and Dominique Serrand, who plays Count Almaviva, had the audience in stitches in certain instances. The operatic talents of Jennifer Peden, who plays the Countess, and Momoko Tanno, who plays Susanna (Figaro's wife) will give you chills. Their voices are so skilled -- sweet, powerful, lilting, deep -- and when they duet together certain parts (such as when they wrote the letter to the Count inviting him to the garden), the music is astounding.

The live music from the ensemble in the pit was equally astounding. When the violins pick up the first few notes of a melody, you feel like everything is alive. The music just sweeps you away with all the energy and momentum, then it suddenly quiets down into soft tinklings of the piano... amazing score. I often find it difficult to stay awake during symphonies and concerts, but this opera kept me awake, alert, and interested the entire time.

And yes, you read it right. Multimedia opera. There was strobe lighting, gunsmoke, and two huge white screens. On the smaller of the two, you can read the surtitles to the Italian opera. (The spoken parts were in English with a smattering of French being uttered by the Count; the singing parts were mostly in Italian, with a few bits of English scattered in.) The larger of the two screens provides part of the backdrop. Throughout the opera, the actors stand in certain positions that allow a cameraman to videotape them and project them onto the large white screen, and their images are often superimposed upon (I'm sorry that I don't have the vocab to describe this accurately!) background scenes.


For example, in the scene in which the Countessa and Susanna write a letter to trap the adulterous Count, the two women's images are projected onto the screen as they sing together the lines from the letter penned in Susanna's handwriting. See in the picture how their faces are enlarged onto the screen? Every expression, every emotion, thought, and movement was captured on that screen. In other scenes, such as the one with Figaro which I've included here, large still images provided beautiful, silent, unchanging backgrounds for a revolutionary, chaotic narrative unfolding inside the mansion.

Everyone who saw the play tonight admitted that the use of the camera and the visual images was a brilliant idea. It was very tastefully, artfully, and efficiently used. All the props were very well thought out. I marvel at how creative the adaptor and producers were in making this opera come alive. I marvel still at how well the multimedia was incorporated seamlessly into the play. It works even better thanks to how the play is written -- that is, Old Count and Old Figaro are hiding out in the gigantic mansion and as they reminisce, "ghosts" of their pasts and their past selves come to life. The video screen allowed scenes of past and present to merge and allowed actors playing Old and Young Figaro, with Old and Young Count, to coexist on one stage. Very artfully done. The music was mesmerizing, the humor was captivating, and the visuals were eyecatching.

And then, we get to the opera itself. The stories that unfold delve into the relationships between Count and Figaro with a lot of humor, and much pain, envy, anger. And love. We know Beaumarchais wrote his plays as social critiques of the aristocracy, and he was aiming at making biting commentaries on the society and culture of his time (but still so apropos today). But, in the end, it was and still is about human relationships. About love and forgiveness, and regret and guilt, that drives each human being.

As we were leaving the theater, I joked with my sister that we could put on our own production of an opera, or perhaps work our way into becoming understudies. My sister replied by humming her own rendition of The Sound of Music. While I know we could never even hope to sing one note of this opera (except maybe in the showers), I believe we all recognize the Music that they are singing to, and are singing about. Figaro ends with dancing around a blazing fire, with singing and crescendoing music. Every song that we heard in the theater -- each one is still swirling in my head toward a greater narrative about human devotion (servant to master, wife to husband, friend to lover). And every note is still ringing in my ear.

June 5, 2008

Figaro, Figaro, Figaro...


Tonight, I go to see Figaro at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre. This season's production of Figaro is brought to Berkeley Rep via Theatre de la Jeune Lune. While I have seen theatrical productions of neither Le Barbier de Seville or Le Mariage de Figaro, I look forward to seeing this adaptation of the third play (La Mere Coupable) in the trilogy by Beaumarchais. From reading the synopsis, I can tell it will be an intricate tale filled with intrigue. Even more exciting is the fact
that we will be seeing the narratives of Figaro through the sounds of Mozart's opera -- and anything musical will lull me fast asleep, b/c as you know, any good musical will put me to sleep!

steven epp and dominique serrand on figaro
paris, 1792. or by the calendar of the revolution—
year one


The heady days of liberty have deteriorated into chaos. The rascals of the regime flee Paris in droves. Louis XVI and his Queen make a run for the border. Violence and terror reign.

But…on the Avenue de la Republique, across the boulevard from the ruins of the Bastille…here, in the refuge of this mansion…one lone family remains…

We call this one simply “Figaro,” for it is through Figaro that we come to brush shoulders with the explosive events surrounding the French Revolution. Over the course of his life in service to Count Almaviva and through his tumultuous marriage to Susanna, Figaro witnesses the world cracking open; society is upended and the human story irrevocably changed. We’ve chosen a vantage point late in Figaro’s life, after so much turbulent water has flowed under the bridge—from this precipice Figaro looks back to try to comprehend how we come to be of this world, how the world we inherit makes us who we are and how anyone, against all odds, can change the outcome of that world.


Tonight, we are facing love triangles, revolutions, history rewritten, social class struggles, and music -- throughout it all, music.

To avoid reflecting on deep rhetorical faith questions...

A few months ago, a friend of mine asked a rather provocative question. This is a question not unfamiliar to many of us. It has been discussed and debated by academics, theologians, seminarians, scholars, parishioners, pastors, preachers, taxicab drivers, hotel clerks, smokers, atheists, what have you... They have not figured out an exact answer, and neither will I. But what I do feel for certain is what I will say here. (I hope my friend will forgive me for bringing what was a private conversation into HAT's blogosphere. I doubt, though, that opening this discussion into this murky private-public space will change the content or meaning of what we write and say -- at least, not in this instance.)

In our discussion, my friend asked what I think is a rather deep rhetorical question. Does the decline of the Church mean that spirituality wanes or that faith diminishes? I assume what is meant by church here is the ecclesiastical bodies, church as an institution, religion as a construction.

I now want to do the Texas-Berkeley Shuffle and sidestep the question altogether in order to raise another (equally interesting) point. Is the church in decline? How is the church in decline? How is the church changing?

Right about now, some of my seminary and professorial friends will be eager to jump in and provide cogent responses (to both questions, I'm sure) by breaking down each part and analyzing the complex layers hidden underneath each question. They will no doubt be able to cite at least three primary and secondary sources to support their points.

The simple answer for today is no. No, I don't think we should ever reduce faith, church, and religion into simple Yes/No questions. Discussing these issues will take three of my lifetimes, and much more gray-matter than I possess.

The beginning of my long answer is to say that I am pleased we are able to think deeply about faith questions -- regardless of what religion we are born into or what spirituality we grow out of. To even think about the plight -- the situation, context -- of the church, or Church, is to indicate that we are connected in tenuous ways with outward expressions of what we believe. And we care about them -- care more or care less, but we care nonetheless.

I enjoy discussing church related issues with my friends and coworkers. Unfortunately, though, to my knowledge, I have engaged few of my former classmates/colleagues in conversation touching upon questions of faith and spirituality. Few questions about God or the Divine have been raised. We talk about culture and society very little and even less about church and religion. I don't know why that is. Perhaps lurking somewhere is the fear that our differences will be highlighted beyond retraction in these conversations -- conversations in which our souls are searched and our inner selves and true ideologies bared -- and we ultimately will find ourselves so vastly different that we must call each other friends. Perhaps our hesitation masks what we already hold to be true -- that we are so much alike in our beliefs that we must call ourselves kin. And there's no running away from that.

So, let's say one day we find ourselves in a situation not unlike that of Obama -- where our own version of Rev. Wright is staring at us from the t.v. screen, and hundreds or thousands of people, or maybe just our daughter or granddaughter, are waiting for us to respond. Church or no church, we are all called to express some kind of faith that brings peace, justice, and healing love to every community. What words would we utter, what actions would we give, to express the Godhead that lives within us?

June 2, 2008

Movies that make me cry

I'm not talking about movies like Beaches which of course make you cry unless you have a heart the size of the Grinch's heart. I'm talking about movies in which I would not expect to cry, but I do/did, and can't understand why the tear ducts are uncontrollable.

1) Anna and the King. (both old and new versions) The death scene. Cried a river. Tried to pretend I didn't.
2) Meet Joe Black. Bawled. Like. A. Baby. Especially because of Brad Pitt.
3) The Family Stone. (w/ Diane Keaton) I still don't know why it made me cry.

Are there other movies that make you cry and which I should check out in case I hit one of those days that require one good cry?

The best Korean BBQ ever!!

If you've not visited Ohgane Korean BBQ, you must head there immediately. (I realize this is a strange directive to those who are vegetarians, but there are surprisingly very interesting and equally tasty selections for non-meat-lovers.)

A few weeks ago, the eight of us met at Ohgane on Broadway in Oakland. We ordered about 6-7 dishes which completely filled us up. We had tofu soup, dol sat bi bim bop, jab che, beef, chicken, etc.

The restaurant was packed, and the waitstaff utterly overbooked. They were perfectly happy to take our order after a 15 minute wait, and then promptly forgot about us. The smell of Korean BBQ filled the air; by the end of the evening, we were leaking BBQ from our pores and our clothes were quite smoked. We could smell ourselves a block away.

The marinade fit our palates and the food portions suit us exactly right. We did not have enough room to actually BBQ at our tables, but the tight space allowed us to cozy up and hear each other talk in the noisy atmosphere. The kitchen willingly BBQ'ed for us and brought the food out already cooked, which was just as wonderful as doing it ourselves.

I would definitely revisit Ohgane, and recommend you go in large groups for much more fun. Our Korean foodie -- Aeri -- swears this is as close to authentic Korean BBQ as you can get in the Bay area. Few other places beat Ohgane for what it offers in selection and price. So if you're interested in Korean BBQ but want a break from summer BBQing, then head to Ohgane on Broadway. Yum!

Ohgane Korean BBQ
3915 Broadway
Oakland, California 94611
contact@ohgane.com
510) 594-8300