The Cho's

You know how random memories just spring up when you least expect them? Today’s had to do with a writing assignment my 4th grade class received. We looked at a mimeograph (remember those? I can almost smell the ink) of a man treed by a bear. Our teacher explained we were to write about what was happening in the picture from either the point of view of the man or the point of view of the bear. In a class of twenty kids, I was the only one who told the story from the bear’s point of view.

As we recover from the massacre at Virginia Tech, I wonder what the Cho family is going through. How do they mourn a son and apologize to a nation? Because the feeling I get, is we would like an apology. How do they go to work or greet their neighbors outside their house? When the reporters couldn’t get to them the day they announced the name of the shooter, they interviewed their postman who said they always seemed polite when they received packages. I know I’m always polite when I receive a package. Really, unless you’re the Grinch, who isn’t polite when receiving a package? Next, reporters flew out to a poor neighborhood in Korea to ask those people if they remembered the family and if I’m not mistaken, what we got from those interviews were, “well, they couldn’t afford a nice place and instead chose this apartment that was partially underground.” Off to find the Korean Grandfather who added the killer, “…was a serious boy” or something like that. It seems like the next bit of information I had about the family was brought to me by a reporter who had the sister’s work announcement. In it, she talked about how proud she was to have graduated from an Ivy League school and to be in the position she was in with the government. And I thought, in that brief moment her life was going well as she looked towards a promising future. In that moment, she wasn’t defined as the older sister of a mass murderer. When her colleagues look at her now, do they see their former co-worker and all of her achievements, or is she now only “Cho’s sister”?

To this family, I would imagine Cho was a son, brother, grandson, neighbor and not a major headline. And again, I wonder how they as a family move forward, especially since it seems fairly obvious that the media would like them to atone for their son’s actions. We would like to vilify them, see their three heads – the monsters that begat a monster.

I would imagine they will be forced to move, to change jobs and it’s likely they’ll have to change their names if they want any sort of peace – all because their son did something so amoral, so heinous and so unconscionable that they are put in the spot where they now bear that tremendous burden of responsibility. A responsibility that will never allow them to mourn for their loss openly – something we take for granted when it comes to our own losses.

It is fortunate, that they have such a common last name that once they’re resettled will allow them to blend back into society – unlike a name like Oswald. A friend of mine once attended school with and befriended Lee Harvey Oswald’s daughter. He never knew who she was while they were in school together. Once she left, the rumor’s spread (and very well could be the reason it was time to move on). Here’s a girl not really old enough to have known her father, but had her secret been revealed, she would be plagued by questions from her peers and from the media. And all she wanted to do was live a normal life and attend college - not become the second shooter from the grassy knoll – not be defined by something she had no part in.

While I could easily rant about the media, it wouldn’t be fair. We direct the media and we, as a people, strongly believe in a good lynching (in this case, a media lynching of the family since the Cho took his own life). Raise the pitchforks, light the torches, someone is going to pay and we’ll ask our questions later and I find that kind of sad.

I guess that says something about me – I’m always trying to see the story from the bear’s perspective. While I’ve wondered what would happen if the press could reach the Cho’s, I also wonder how they move on, how they grieve someone’s death they likely cared about and how they bear this terrible burden of shame?

The Affectionate One

This past weekend my aunt and I went through more of Mom’s belongings to get ready for the “estate” sale. At least, I think that’s what you’d call it since will encompass more than the garage. Still, I don’t really consider us “estate” people – more “squatters” or “modest dwelling inhabit-ors” or “one step away from that cozy spot under the bridge”, but I guess “Better Than the Average Under the Bridge Sale” costs too much to print in the classified ads and would scare away potential customers. (To my cousin who is reading this and wondering what I’m talking about, it’s creative license. These people don’t know anything about us. Shhh. We’ll talk later.)

As we sifted through Mom’s remaining possessions we got to talking about the labels that have been assigned to members of our family, particularly to my aunt and her two sisters. See, my Mom was the oldest and immediately gained the titles of “the smart one” and “the athletic one”. Then my aunts came along and the youngest took “the funny one”, so that left the other aunt without a good title. At some point my family bestowed upon her “the affectionate one”; I guess they couldn’t think of anything better. As my aunt talked about it she noted, “who wants to be known as the affectionate one”?

Labels are funny in how they can define you and how they can do so with one single word – one annoying little adjective that works its way under our skins. My aunts and my Mom grew up with these labels and were defined by those labels. My Mom was smart, my aunt Jen was very funny and my aunt Philis is affectionate… and they were and are so much more than one word.

In many ways I feel lucky that I was the only child born to my parents. I got to be all the adjectives – I got to be the smart one, the talented one, the funny one and the nice one. I know there are words that are used to describe me used by the family as a whole – I secretly think I’m probably the “not quite” one – not quite as smart as some, not quite as creative, not quite as thoughtful, but decent enough to have around during the holidays and kinda funny with a decent memory. I’m ok with those labels, because I know when I talk to my Dad I shed any limiting label to become all that is best – an envious position for any child to have with a parent.

There are so many words to describe my aunt that are more than simply “affectionate” such as, beautiful, smart, talented, outgoing, gregarious, funny and longer descriptors like hard working, easy with a laugh, good listener and great tap dancer – and for the past two years she’s been the person we all turn to for strength as my cousins and I cope with the loss of our moms, her sisters. She’s so much more than only “affectionate” and I know the rest of my family would agree.

As I was thinking about our conversation over the weekend, I guess I felt lucky to have the family (both by blood and by choice, as my friend Jonathan might say) I have and hope that everyone realizes they are so much more than just a single word to the people around them. (Except for my ex-husband who really is just that one word I use to describe him. :))

Vision Problems

There are days, at least in my world, where you wake up and say “today I’m staying home.” As Kati once said, “you have a vision problem – you just don’t see yourself at work.” This is one of those stories on one of those days (and I probably worked for Kati then).

I woke up that morning and realized the whole work thing just wasn’t going to happen for me. The barometric pressure was off, the sky was a little too cloudy or maybe it was just a little too cold, I don’t remember – I just knew I wasn’t getting out of my pajamas. I made the call early before anyone got to work while my voice was still hoarse enough to almost sound passable and then I was home free.

I celebrated by unleashing the ferrets for a celebratory romp through the apartment. No one enjoys a good day of hooky more than a ferret. If you’ve never had a ferret, then you should know they embrace the word “fun” and “mischief” and it’s only amplified by the size of your “business” of ferrets (where dogs cling to words like happy and loyal and cats waiver some place between calculated indifference and dominance over their loathsome human subjects). A newly freed ferret, especially if they have a ferret companion, immediately gets to work with bouncing, scampering and working on their booty (which is what most people think of as a black hole – the place keys, shoes and other small objects go to rest – if you think your items disappeared into a black hole, it didn’t, you’ve got ferrets). After a half hour’s hard work, the bandits suddenly vanish and magically reappear nestled in your dresser on top of all your t-shirts. (Edit: Jay helped me realize I wasn't clear on what turned up in your drawers - it's ferrets - your missing stuff is likely behind the stove or underneath the couch.)

That particular morning, my two bounded off while I sat in my well loved jammies, hair sticking straight up watching TV. There was a LOUD knock at the door. I stood on my tip-toes and looked out the peep hole and at the end of my walkway some distance away was a police officer. Ok, sure I was truant from work but come on, cut a girl some slack. When I opened the door a second officer leapt around from the side; he had been hidden in front of my neighbor’s door. HONESTLY! I’ll go to work.

“Ma’am, we got a call from 911 at this residence.” Uhhh… “no, I didn’t call 911”.
The guy chatted away with his shoulder, “dispatch, can you call that number back.” I waited, they waited and no ringing came from my apartment.
“Ma’am is there anyone in the apartment with you?” My roommate was and she was in the shower.

A ferret bounded out the door to say hello. I grabbed her up and told the officers I’d check on the phone. When I went to my roommate’s room I found her phone off the hook and the cord stretching towards the bed. FERRETS!

I returned, now holding both Rogue & Gambit (hey, I don’t judge your pet’s names). “I’m sorry officers, but I think my ferrets hit the fast dial for 911 while trying to hide the phone.” Two very blank completely un-amused faces glared back at me. “I’m really sorry?” as I tried to appear apologetic but was sort of having a little private snicker on the inside. The two officers didn’t say another word and walked away. They doubtlessly regretted not having called in with their own vision problem.

Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed more peaceful days off from work.

(In memory of some fine banditos: Rogue, Gambit, Applejuice, Possum, K-Nack, Max and Beckett.)
Note: No good stewing Becketts were actually harmed.

This I Believe

As most of you know, I’m a big fan of NPR (I get that from my Dad) and in particular a segment called, This I Believe. Stealing directly from their website:

This I Believe is a national media project engaging millions of people in writing, sharing, and discussing the core values and beliefs that guide their daily lives. NPR has aired these three-minute essays on its news programs Morning Edition and All Things Considered since April 2005.

This I Believe is based on a 1950s radio program of the same name, hosted by acclaimed journalist Edward R. Murrow. In creating This I Believe, Murrow said the program sought "to point to the common meeting grounds of beliefs, which is the essence of brotherhood and the floor of our civilization."

(Read the rest here.)

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve had a hard time allowing things to truly “get” to me lately.

But today that wall I hastily built several months ago came down a little bit with the help of Christine Cleary and her submission “The Deeper Well of Memory” to This I Believe

I feel any words I could add would never properly convey how this story makes me feel. (If you’re applying to be my future therapist, send me a note and we can discuss. Please be willing to provide tissue, couch, good reading materials for your lobby and chocolate.) For those whom the story does not resonate with, I offer up Believe This! as an apology.

The Rightness of Right

This morning I got up early and thought it would be a great time to head to the grocery store. I could beat the crowd and clear up our afternoon for other errands. As I was driving up to the store, I got to thinking about its layout. You see, these particular stores have four sets of automatic doors. The inner two are the exit, which leaves the outer two as entrances (I know I’m glad I cleared that mystery up for you, too). Early in the morning, your only two choices are the inner doors and from there you make the decision – left or right?

At this point in the morning, I’d been awake 15 minutes (it’s the best way for me to go to the grocery, when I can trick my groggy self into thinking it’s a fine idea) unlike now where I’ve been awake approximately 50 minutes (which explains a lot about my writing). So, thinking about which way I was going to go once inside the store was very important. Left or right?

As thoughts do, especially after 15 minutes of wakedness, my mind began to wander to the produce section. The produce section is on the left side of this particular store. Traditionally, I like to hit produce first then finish off with a big bang at the frozen food section after making the rounds through toiletries and paper goods. It’s the natural order of food shopping-ness. It’s the “right” way to do it; however, at this store everything is reversed. My big thought at 16.5 minutes – how do I decide? I mean, right is “right”, but produce is first – everyone knows that. We walk on the right, we drive on the right, we used to force left-handers to write with the right, we’re currently run by the right because as a nation we’re down with “right” and highly suspicious of “left” – you never know what “left” leaners are up to – I mean, look at Australia and the UK – heaven only knows what they’re doing with all that “left-ness” – likely driving Smart Cars and eating beans on toast. (We’re keeping an eye on you lefties.)

At 17 minutes after getting the best spot in the entire parking lot and noticing that I was the only person in the store, I decided “produce be damned, I must follow the rules of the right”. It's how I was raised and going left would be like spitting on my anscestors. You can't spit on your anscestors! Then I had to face what 17 minutes of being awake forgets to remind you. It’s Easter. I’m not going right or left, I’m going to get breakfast tacos.

So, Happy Easter everyone! May you make all the “right” decisions except in politics and left driving countries. I’m off to have a taco.

The Long Goodbye

I used to hate this time of year – the post sweeps with six weeks to go before season finales rolled out time of year – the time of year that heralded a summer full of re-runs that never seemed to be the show you were watching. Lately, network summers seem to have extended into October for several shows, which is probably the length of a Texas summer, but even around these parts we like to pretend Fall has hit in September.

I hated it because all at once I had to say goodbye to some of my favorite storylines and characters all at once. Since cable has come along and produced some real quality programming, I find I say goodbye all year long. This year, my goodbyes began with Deadwood starting with Ellsworth, then the entire show. I guess I’ll never understand how shows like Deadwood and Carnivale die, yet The Sopranos keeps chugging along. Don’t get me wrong, I loved The Sopranos, but I walked away from the series when they killed Adriana and I’ve never felt compelled to return. Then there is my “darkly dreaming” Dexter – everyone’s favorite serial killer. The actor plays the part so beautifully that seeing him appear at the Emmy’s had me wondering “do the actors know?” When Michael C. Hall didn’t win in the acting category, I was deeply disappointed, but that’s an entirely different subject.

Finally, I said goodbye to Starbuck and I wonder if I’ll truly see her again in 2008. (An aside, if I see one more insipid article in a women’s magazine that reads “how you can enjoy Battlestar Galactica with your boyfriend”, I might physically wretch.)

Now I’m left with Heroes (and I suppose Lost, but I’m secretly hoping the island explodes at the end of the season) and wondering if Peter, Hiro, Mohendar, Claire, Dr. Who and Agent Weiss from Alias can “Save the World” and still manage to bump off Nikki before rolling the end credits

I guess it’s that same melancholy I feel after reading a good book. I savor those last 30 pages knowing the world and characters are a shelf away from disappearing from my imagination and it makes me sad. (I’m not looking forward to this last Harry Potter book for that reason – and to you non-Harry Potter readers that sneered just now, read it first, then I’ll accept your criticism. Just because something is popular, doesn’t mean it is without merit.)

So, I guess I’m bracing myself for May when my goodbyes for the year come to an end and I find myself watching one too many “MythBuster” episodes.

Meet Indie Orto

Sunday morning my senses were assaulted by an exciting smell that caused me to sniff almost every square inch of house that we own and shoot the occasional glare at the cats.
After much debate, we decided that one of the local tomcats had decided to mark our property as his. (If I’d known owning property was that easy, I could have been a home owner much sooner.) He was a clever fellow who marked it in such a way that the eau de chat wafted its way through our ventilation system. (Side note: I’m ok with the direct translation from French – don’t give me guff.) Or as one friend called him “a lazy cat” for cheating by spraying one spot that hit every single room in our house; he’d hardly put any real effort into his work – just one pssssst and the whole house became his – no worries about that whole opposable thumb thing – overrated!

We marched around throwing open windows. I was working my way into the kitchen when I discovered sitting on our porch a handsome, smug, cross-eyed fellow peering up at me.

I went outside to have a chat since he seemed pretty pleased. He purred and preened and did the kitty bump up against my hand. I’m sure he was letting me know it was ok by him if we continued to live in his new house as long as the love flowed freely and we scratched his chin just so. He got excited when he saw he had a potential harem glaring at him from the kitchen windows so he hopped up on the bench and sang his introduction to the girls. Hodi wandered off (probably wondering where she was again), but Sage gave him a good hissing to. He visibly pouted, hanging his head down low and came back to me with that look that said in an exasperated way, “kitties!” *sigh*.

So, if you come to visit. Please say hello to the new owner – Indie Orto (hey, it’s what the tag said – I didn’t name him!), but you can call him “kitty kitty” and he’ll be glad to make you feel welcome.