My goal with this blog is to offend everyone in the world at least once with my words… so no one has a reason to have a heightened sense of themselves. We are all ignorant, we are all found wanting, we are all bad people sometimes.
I have failed at life most of my life. I have been given many advantages that others do not receive. I see the impressions of those debts on my counter each morning. They smile at me even after 33 years. I tell them to line up because debts are a given in life. I rack them up still.
Failure. Such a simple word and yet the way it is delivered matters the most. I have felt sweeping failure before. A tidal wave of untimely occurrences that culminate in me being bashed by my own humanity. My hands are so human some days. Even as I clench them in resolve.
I feel like closing my blog weekly. There is really only one thing that stops me and that is my refusal to be a failure again. And again. To break a cycle of life is the ultimate feat. To tell whatever god turns my wheel that I will not play by their rules any longer. To tell my shades at night that I no longer worship them. That I am no longer them.
Two pairs of hope shine through sparkling eyes at me each morning. I worry that one day their eyes will dim with the realization that their father is not as great as they hope. That day shall come. Will it feel like a new plateue of failure or will I instead close my eyes in acceptance of my fate. My born fate. Failure. Could it be more than just a word. Might it be my name.
OK, here it goes. There are some good reasons why Martin Luther King Day is not important to me and ironically many of those reasons were born in Memphis, TN. I am Korean born, but was raised by Caucasian parents. Let me first say that I had black and white friends growing up. The black friends I had were born from friendships at my 80% black school (maybe it wasn’t 80% exactly but it sure felt like 99% most days). I had a lot of white friends because I came from a small church community, even though we were all living in the middle of Memphis, TN, that kept strong ties together and were sometimes even cultish in their rules and regulations.
Now that the background information is over, let me say a bit about why I don’t care for this holiday. My school was “pro” anything that made African Americans feel important. To highlight this fact I recall one incident where we were eating lunch in grade school and the vice principle, a large heavyset black man, rushed into the room and grabbed the microphone to joyfully tell us O.J. Simpson was innocent (insert eye roll to this day)! I hated my school, I generally hated the kids there as well. I could not escape a day where I was not made fun of for my eyes, skin, or just because I wasn’t white or black. I remember one day a black kid, actually a former friend, said my eyes were so small he could blind fold me with dental floss. I retorted, “Well at least my people weren’t slaves.” Sob story to be sure, but that is not why I dislike this holiday, so let me explain.
I learned with every other kid in my school the good works that Martin Luther King did and I was truly proud of his accomplishments. What I could not understand was how could the Blacks at my school celebrate equality and freedom and in the same breath bash with malice an Asian kid for being Asian. It was so hypocritical to me that my disdain extended past the handful of kids tormenting me and included their whole race. It did not breed hatred, at least not at this point, but what it bred was a scorn for this holiday and even this man that was not fairly handed out. But pain and suffering create feelings that are not always rational. I know this now, looking back I probably knew this at the time as well, but the result is still the same. I dislike this holiday and all I see is hypocrites.
She comes into your life and brings nature’s blessing. And with her entrance comes a curse of wanton passion. The grass is still alive as it blazes in the sun. The chorus of our laughter floats gently in the Spring breeze. We are the definition of love and our hands are linked as we dance amongst the growing and the grown alike. We enjoy timeless sunsets on picturesque settings creating canvases waiting to be painted at each moment. We love.
Time works wonders and bonds grow firm. We resolve to walk quietly into the night together. Hands held tightly against the shadows we once faced alone. We pick each other up in the heat of the Summer, against the blazing sun and humanity’s punishment. We turn as one, in unison with one another’s needs. I am your need and you are mine. And like an oak tree we grow together.
The rain has come and we have weathered storms. We still touch… but sometimes our hands Fall like leaves from our tired limbs. The chatter of children running around our base keeps us united, we are still united with finger painted signs and chalk figures. But some nights are cold and the moon shines two shadows upon the ground.
It snows here in Denver. The Winter seems to be most of the year… at least lately. But even with the constant ice, it does melt with the strength of will. A will we share each morning and return to each night. The seasons form a timeless ring that hardens into a golden promise. They touch each time our hands unite with infused emotion. Regardless of what emotion that is the presence of feelings means that we still care.
I normally answer the door without my shirt on if I see it is a solicitor and it is a man. I do this because I hope it makes him uncomfortable and he leaves, but then sometimes it backfires and he doesn’t leave. Then I am stuck in an awkward situation of being half in/half out of my door without my clothes on. No one wants to see a naked skinny Asian on a sunny day. This is Denver, not California. So I have decided to dig a moat. Drawbridge is on order as well. I believe this will help with future issues, such as boyfriends trying to visit. Some punk skateboarder kid tries to coast across my drawbridge I’ll raise that sucker and maybe fire off my new canon. We’ll see, battle plans are being reviewed presently.
I am making dinner. Ribs, rice, and corn on the cob. The secret to great corn on the cob or asparagus is to cook them in the oven wrapped (not covered) in foil. Cut generous amounts of butter and place in with salt and pepper. Cook for about 45 to an hour and a half on 400. I am doing them all at once and will have dinner ready for my wife in about an hour.
Game is on tonight. Go heat. Lebron you are King. Text me later? No?… well you are busy being a champion. I understand. Email me later or something…
Note: I am skinny and 5’10” in real life, but on the internet I am 10 feet tall and look similar to The Rock. No picture necessary right?
I honestly think I am a nice guy. My wife says that people either love me or hate me and she also calls me an asshole. But I know she is kidding… …
Growing up I was incredibly naïve. I never could understand why I didn’t really fit in other than my race being different. I didn’t understand that my family actually was fairly well off compared to the rest of my friend’s families. It never dawned on me that asking them over to swim might have been rubbing it in their face a little that I had a swimming pool, to me it was just where I lived. My parents did a fair job of keeping us “grounded” in that they did not overly spoil us. I can say that with some amount of confidence, but there were of course other areas that we did get what we wanted. I still was never allowed to own a pocket knife as a child and that was actually one of the most argued topics in my childhood.
At some point in high school I got fed up with being picked on. I hit a “white friend/church mate” in the face… in church. I then got board suspended for getting in a fight with a larger black kid my senior year of high school. This suspension caused me to lose all my scholarships to every school except one… UT Knoxville. Seeing as how I grew up in Memphis, Tennessee and Knoxville, Tennessee is still in Tennessee… I was thrilled. I want to be clear here for the sake of being clear. I have nothing against black people or white people… other races are a different story. I wouldn’t call myself a racist because to be a racist you must hate a race solely for being that race. I simply don’t care for groups of people and I am sure it is all on me.
Leaving high school with a chip on my shoulder I went to the whitest town I had ever lived in. Knoxville, TN was a redneck heaven and it was not the greatest place for minorities. When I arrived there weren’t any groups of Asians running around that I saw. Instead there were singular Asian birds fluttering to the library or the International center. I am not very Asian. In fact when I arrived in Knoxville I was probably the whitest Asian with a southern accent you would ever meet. But I arrived at college right after the whole “birth mom and motherland tour trip” so I was in my uber Asian phase. I was basically a walking trademark of Korean pride.
Dear Adoptee, you do not know me and I do not know you. Our stories are as different as genres placed on opposite ends of a book store, and yet we strive to relate. Why is that? Do we yearn for the companionship only found from those that share the knowledge of loss? I do not know the answer.
Never allow someone to force you to consider the alternative to your life as being the path to abortion. Those are sad, desperate people that attempt to make that connection. Do we not deserve the same life as others? Must we forever carry the burden of “what if” and have stones added by strangers at a glance? When did it become right to tell an adoptee that they should be happy they weren’t “aborted?” Is that the argument one should use to force a heart away from hate?
I marvel at the things that commenters can say. If you will say it to “Opinionated Man” what will you say to the random blogger who does not have a heart of steel? Will you attempt to stab at their soul as well simply to prove a point, a point that does not even mean that much to you in the first place? How low must a person be to beat at the will of one already beaten?
So I say to you fellow adoptee to be strong. Know you aren’t alone, even if you are alone in the particular path you walk. There are footsteps to your right and left that echo your hardships. We may not walk the same stones, but I can see and understand your journey more than others can.