I smell bad, my hair is a mess...but I'm SO ready for 2011!

My hair is tied up in a bun. There are stray strands all over the makeshift mop-top. It stinks too.

My fingers, despite repeated scrubbing, reek of the spices I have been chopping and grinding since last night. I have to remember not to run them across my eyes or they will immediately sting and tear. Such is the effect of raw chili!

I'm cooking. And who cares if  I smell and look bad. I'm happy...and ready to welcome and embrace 2011 -- a new year and new decade.

It is going to be a good year. I already know it. All the hard work and struggles of the last few years are going to come to fruition. I'm on the last legs of grad school, working on a thesis on a topic I've been passionate about since I was 18. I have an internship with a news organization I've dreamed of working for since I was a little girl. And I'm in the process of applying for post graduate studies.

And I'm cooking. I've not been cooking for a while. I don't mean the whipping up of day-to-day meals. I mean all-out, committed, slave-over-the-stove (and chopping board) cooking that Southeast Asian cuisine is about.

The foods of the region I come from is so rich in spices, subtle flavors and layers of tastes that anyone who tries it for the first time will be blown away, mind, body and soul. Food reflects cultures, and this is what Southeast Asia is like -- multi-layered, diverse, and constantly stimulating to the senses.

As you can imagine, the cooking process is pretty much the same...layers of effort. It begins with preparing the spices and herbs -- from commonly used garlic, shallots, ginger to galangal, tumeric, lemongrass, daun lima (lime leaves), etc. Coriander, cumin...all in a cacophony of fragrant concoctions. Some are to be diced and pounded into a paste. Some are to be used "neat" to perform its olfactory duties of its own volition.

If the spices and herbs are a choral of smells, then the sauces would be an orchestra of tastes. There must be hundreds of different combinations and permutations that chili, pepper, lime juice, fish sauce, soy sauce, garlic, sugar, shallots can be blended together to make a delightful condiment. Sauces are essential companions to many Southeast Asian dishes. Getting the tone and tune right for them is critical to the enjoyment of the overall alchemical performance.

Cooking the dishes usually require stir-frying in a huge wok or slow-boiling in a huge pot -- or both. At this stage, the layers -- text and sub-text -- and the order of layering, are important. The oil, garlic, shallots; the paste, spices, herbs, and then the meats/fish/seafood or vegetables and often, coconut cream or milk. Some dishes need to be cooked in two, or three parts, and then put together in an ensemble of strings, wind and percussion.

Cooking to welcome a new year and new decade is music to my ears. I can't think of anything I'm happier doing in this moment (except taking a lunch break to send New Year's greetings to the other side of the world which has already stepped into 2011).

The menu is as multi-cultural as the wonderful guests who are coming to welcome the new year with me.

Hors d'oeuvre include cheese, pate and cute Chinese spring rolls. There will be two choices of salad -- a Thai papaya salad with crushed peanuts and a Japanese inspired enoki-and-sprouts creation. Traditional Chinese wanton (dumpling) and bak choy in a clear broth helps to clear and prepare the senses for the spice-loaded main dishes. At this point, a trio will take centerstage -- Thai green chicken curry, sayur lodeh (a colorful Indonesian vegetable dish) and glass noodles pepper shrimps (a mashup based on Vietnamese and Thai influences). The trio will be accompanied by two backup staples: a classic white rice (of the long grain Thai fragrant variety, not the lumpy, short grain whatever you get packed into boxes from the takeouts) and a darker, enhanced cousin, Thai black olive fried rice. The sweetness that rounds off the meal will of course has to come from the west -- a can-can finale of fruits, chocolates, ice-cream and cakes.

Cooking is music to my ears. I can only cook with love and passion. I can't think of a better way to welcome the new year and new decade that I know will bring amazing new experiences and paths.

Now, I must get back to the composition, rehearsal and conducting of my symphony. Happy New Year, everyone.

Across The Room...A Christmas Parable

This is a parable...a flash fiction piece I wrote for my Open Salon blog for the theme "holiday from hell."

There he is…across the room from me.

This scene is feeling a little tired. But yet, there is so much comfort in the familiarity that we keep doing this over and over again.  This is how we see each other all the time – among warm bodies in a small room, imbibing insane amounts of alcohol and huddled close to form a human ring of heat against the cold outside.

It is Christmas day. I sometimes wonder if there would be as much cheer during the holiday season if we didn’t have so much alcohol around. Will I feel closer to him, or more distant? Wait…we won’t even be in this room.

It is also his birthday. I watch him, perched on a barstool and presiding over the giggles and guffaws gathered around him. Most people take him very seriously. But some prefer to rely on humor when approaching him. As for me, I just like talking to him. But that is not a privilege he accords me all the time.

It has been the same scene and the same old story for a few years now. He is always across the room. He is always there – just near enough for me to see him, and feel as if I can touch him if I just reach out. But I’ve never really been able to reach him.

I know that he knows I’m watching him. I know his name and I think he knows mine. We’ve been friends before. In fact, we’ve known each other for a while now. Or, at least I think so. Yet he is always across the room from me.

Perhaps it is all in my mind that I knew him for a long time, and knew him well. Some of these people here tonight probably knew him longer, and better. What did they do to earn their stripes in his company? Did they just stick around long enough until he decides to let them into the inner circle? Or did they say or do something special, exciting or amazing?

I don’t know. I would like to know. It seems so easy for them to talk to him, and him to them. Yet, I can’t seem to talk to him, and him to me. It’s as if there is this huge chasm between us, and if either of us should try to venture forth, we would plunge headlong into a deep valley.

I move over to the bar. It’s time to get another drink. It’s also time to make my move. I keep trying. I have to because he doesn't seem to be able to. Or, maybe he just doesn't want to.

I’m too late. He had just passed out the wine. Everyone is raising their glasses and clinking and sipping. I stand there, watching, not quite at the bar, but not quite away from it either. Am I just unlucky to miss the celebratory round? Or has he timed it so that I wouldn’t be in time to be included, but will still be near enough to witness the cheer. Am I just not worthy?

Last Christmas, I made the same move to approach him. He left me standing an arm’s length away and didn’t invite me to his table. I stood there for a long time – the eternal outsider, watching. I left without supper.

I open my mouth to speak. But she is jumping in front of me. She grabs him and plants a big kiss on his lips. That sparks off a chain reaction of affection for him. The women are hugging him and the men are thumping him on the back and shaking his hand.

He is like Bacchus, with the revelers all surrounding him. But the scene feels more to me like Italian divine comedy than Greek drama. Once again, I feel like I’m in hell.

Or, perhaps it is purgatory that I’m in. For this state of sub-existence, hanging in his peripheral vision is truly the worst form of torture. I’m not quite engulfed by the infernal flames, nor lifted by redemption. I get the feeling that this is where he wants me to be – hanging out in this awkward mid-space, neither outside nor inside, but still there…somewhere.

But this is not where I want to be. I am leaving. I say it out loud. I’m going. He seems surprised. For a moment, it even seems as if he doesn't want me to go. I walk towards the door. He's not stopping me. I’m not surprised. I’m across the room from him. I open the door and walk out.

This is the last year I spend Christmas in hell.

I still want to be with him and to know him But I will not be looking for him in a roomful of people anymore.

I’ll be looking for him in solitude, rather than in a crowd, in silence rather than in a cacophony. I’ll be looking for him on a walk in the woods, rather than a restaurant or a bar. I’ll be looking for him in the smell of the breeze on my cheek, rather than the taste of wine on my lips.

One day, I will find him. Or maybe, he’ll find me. And we won’t be across the room from each other anymore.

Why this Christmas is all about Me, Me, Me...

This is the year I spend the holidays with myself...and for myself.

This must sound incredibly selfish, irresponsible and indulgent to anyone reading. On the contrary, this is the best thing I could ever do for the people and world around me.

My kids are having a great time in San Diego, enjoying LegoLand despite the rain. They will be spending Christmas at the Bellagio in Las Vegas with aunts, uncles, and cousins all around. They are also going to the Grand Canyon. At their age, I could only dream of doing all of that. So they will be fine... more than fine, actually.

This is not the first time they've traveled without me. I've traveled without them too. But it is the first time that I don't wake up every morning wondering if they have had their 3 to 5 servings of fruits and vegetables, or if anyone is breaking all my golden rules while I'm not there watching.

The first night after they left for their vacation was tough. I made up for months of paying for Netflix and not using the service, and got to bed at close to 4 am. That was Saturday. Thanks to yoga and ballet classes on Sunday, I completely crashed that night. On Monday morning, I was fine. I got to work on all my deadlines and projects -- for which I had chosen to not go on vacation.

I was the responsible, focused person again. And I was still a mom, loved and loving, even though my babies were not around to both hug and bug me. I had breathing space. I was glad for that. And it didn't make me a bad mom.

The problem is, many people would think so. What? You would let your kids go on vacation without you so you could do your own stuff?! The truth is, some years ago, that would have been how I thought too. As much as I had embraced and enjoyed my motherhood experience from the minute I knew I was pregnant with Amon, it hadn't been an easy, smooth sailing journey.

I gave my all to the role and experience from Day One. From the minute I saw the little "+" sign on the home pregnancy test kit, I quit smoking cold turkey, stopped hanging out in clubs, stopped drinking except for the occasional half glass of wine, quit coffee (I used to drink four cups a day, black, neat), sushi, etc. Whatever could have been potentially harmful, I quit...just like that. It may sound trivial but these little things added together meant a complete lifestyle change.

It was also, on hindsight, a reflection on my misguided attitude back then that motherhood was all about doing it RIGHT with strict rules and self-imposed regimes. Thankfully, at the same time as I was building my little totalitarian mom-dom, I also began to delve deeper into my yoga practice.

The question I'm most often asked is why I chose to train in and teach pre-natal, babies' and kids' yoga. The answer is simple: that was my journey. So thanks to a developing practice and slow but steady spiritual growth, I learned, in baby steps, to achieve balance.

The first six months to a year of my first child's life and my newly crowned motherhood status, I wore the badge of breastfeeding Nazi proudly on my sleeve. Anyone who dared so much as whisper the world "formula" to me was cut down to size and banished as an evil spirit. I had strong ideas and convictions, many based on research and statistics, and I would fight detractors. If they didn't concede, I cut them off.

I wasn't all wrong. In fact I was right about most things, as even my worst detractors have come to admit seeing the healthy, happy kids A & A are today. But I could have done it in a different way -- one that was less exhausting and demeaning to my spirit and that of everyone around me. It took several years of practice and growth to break through the fight-or-flight instinct.

Being still and taking the path of least resistance were not easy to learn. But I did learn some of those lessons and they came in handy with the second pregnancy and baby. By then, I didn't feel the need to fight anyone. I knew what I was doing with my kids. I didn't have to bark back at anyone that I was the MOM and I knew best. Somehow, by not doing all of that, people just understood. Nobody tried to tell me what I should or shouldn't do, well meaning or otherwise.

By then I was a certified teacher, which in many people's eyes would count as being an "expert." But it had nothing to do with that. I realized that in the early days, people were questioning and doubting my mothering because I was questioning and doubting myself. When I no longer doubted myself, everyone stopped doubting me.

That was a huge lesson. But it wasn't until three years ago, when my second child turned two, that I began to learn an even bigger lesson.

I had lost myself in my motherhood. It had taken me six years to learn how to fight without having to win, and win without fighting. The process consumed me so completely that I became just that - a struggle of motherhood. My self identity had become subsumed in the name tag that reads: "Mom of A & A." I had given up doing all the things that I loved and felt happy doing -- writing, music, dancing, etc. I didn't feel as if I deserved to have time for, or do anything for myself. And because I believed that, I led everyone else around me to believe the same. No one could talk to me without mentioning my kids. I could put together an engaging debate on the current affairs of the day but people would still be more interested in how old my kids were and what grade they were in.

I was partly to blame. It didn't help that I had given up my full-time job and felt identity-less because of that. I wasn't the only woman in my shoes. All around me, every day, I saw women who were devoid of self but brimming over with motherhood. The way society loves to glorify motherhood had a large part to play.

Don't get me wrong. I believe we should honor mothers. I've been there and I know what a feat carrying and giving birth to a child is, and how much more so challenging it is to be consciously raising that child everyday. What I object to is that latent to that sense of glorifying honor is also the attitude that mothers should subsume their own needs and identity and make self-sacrificial decisions in every way.

I had this argument with someone recently. I have $50. If I chose to spend it on myself instead of my child, does that make me a bad (or at least a poor) mom? Most people would say yes. She was a mum, of course. She said she was going to spend the $50 on a new dress for her 14-year-old daughter instead of a haircut for herself. She said it was more important for her teen to look good than it was for her, in her 50s. I told her that I would spend that $50 on a haircut for myself, so that I would feel good about the way I look, and as a result my teenage daughter would be getting positive vibes from me about self image and self esteem. That would have a much greater impact on her life than a new dress (which she may still feel bad about herself wearing). The woman bought the dress.

Mothers are individuals. We need to remember that ourselves. And everyone else needs to remember that, too. If we don't take care of ourselves, we will not be at our best in giving to and taking care of our kids. That is such simple wisdom and yet so easy to miss. I completely missed it for six years.

Even now, I sometimes find myself subsuming my needs to the instinct to mother. Not long after my kids' vacation was planned, I began to plan a mission trip. My two kids are going away, so now I'm going to go mother 20 orphans. It was all in the best intentions. I missed working with kids and what better time than Christmas for a volunteer trip?

I had wanted to go to Haiti initially, but realized that it was naive to think I could just show up on my own without any connection to an aid organization that knew its way around. Instead, I found an international organization that was reputable and well regarded. I was set up with a trip to Costa Rica, and it was perfect because I could even use my frequent flier points to book the flight. But somehow, something was holding me back and I dragged my feet over booking the flight. One, two, three days went by. It was a perfect arrangement but something didn't feel right.

I emailed my friend in New York, whose clear vision and simple wisdom I always valued and cherished. She wrote back: "Follow your heart. As long as you know you are being responsible."

That was it. I wasn't being responsible...to myself.

Mothering is a great act of selfless responsibility. But it can also be one of selfish defense. It can be a wall that one builds around to block out the world. I'm busy, I'm a mom. I have all these things to do. I can't think of anything else. It's hard. I'm doing great on a tough job. So I don't have to engage. And you'll have to respect that...and me.

It wasn't that I didn't genuinely want to reach out to the orphans and give them all the love and mothering I can. I did. But the person who was really in need of that right now...is me. In the last nine years, let's just say many bad things had happened. I've been through turbulence, trauma, life-and-death moments. But I had never taken the time out to reflect, to heal, and to tell myself that I deserve to be taken care of as well.

That night, as I sat there re-reading my friend's email, I thought of T. -- a HIV positive man in his 50s I interviewed two years ago for a grad school project. He had been in and out of jail all his life and his relationship with his daughter is strained at best. I asked him if he thought there was a chance he could fix that, now that he's finally out of jail for good and re-building his life.

His answer threw me off: "No. I'm gonna have to fix me first. You may not agree, but if I ain't fix, I'm no good to her or to myself or to anybody. So I'm gonna spend time on me. I'm gonna fix me first."

T. was no philosopher and neither had he read any philosophy in his life. But he found the answer that most of us spend an entire lifetime searching for...in books, in philosophy, in religion, in prayer. The capacity to love and be loved stems from the same space within - self love. For some, that is manifested in the grace of God that they feel inside. For others, it is a sense of inner peace and universal compassion. They are all one and the same thing.

The next morning, I got online and made arrangements to spend Christmas eve and Christmas Day at an ashram and meditation center. I'm spending Christmas with me, but not alone. I will be in an open and loving community of people who will accept and understand when I say that this Christmas is going to be all about me, me, me.

I'm gonna fix me first.

I Want To Make Tea and Laugh (Yoko remembers John)

I'm sitting and sipping my Tie Guanyin.

I should be transcribing interviews for a story due next week. Instead, I'm reading "Tea Maker" in the New York Times.

This is good tea -- in fact, one of the best variety of oolong tea. It is also expensive. I had bought it for $4.50 at lunch -- a luxury I really shouldn't have afforded myself. But then, the winds were brutal today. Any other blend wouldn't have done the trick. I needed the fortification of the "Iron Goddess" tea.

Yoko Ono wrote the piece. It is about John Lennon, of course. He would have been 70 this year. She wrote about her memory of him -- making tea for her in the middle of the night in their kitchen.

This is a good night for hot tea. This must be the fifth cup I had made out of the same bag of tea leaves. So I don't feel so guilty now. This works out to 90 cents a cup (and these days, it's hard to find even bottled water for a dollar). Tea is a great winter and holiday drink. It works just as well before, or after, the cocktails and shots... or simply on its own.

He made tea for her and they had a little tête-à-tête about whether the hot water goes in first or the tea bag. That was in 1980, before he died.

I always put the tea bag in first, and then pour the hot water in. It seems to make sense. I love watching the water seep through the tea leaves and the steam rising with the fragrance. The Tie Guanyin has an amazing fragrance. It is rich and thick with an aroma often described as fruity, but which to me is more "woody."

He had always put the tea bag in before the water. Then, one night, he told her that according to his aunt, the hot water should go in first. They had a good laugh. It was a simple moment. It probably wouldn't have been significant if he had lived. But that moment became a memory of him etched in her heart and mind after he died -- someone who made tea and laughed with her.

I don't recall ever laughing over tea. I'm usually reflective or pensive when I drink tea. For many people, tea is a serious business. The Chinese and Japanese regard the art of tea as intrinsic to high culture and perform elaborate rituals in tea ceremonies. (I really just like the pretty cups.) The English partake in afternoon tea with devotion that is almost religious. (I'm impartial to Earl Grey with scones.) The Arab culture regard the drinking of tea as the center of all social activities. (Anyone who has ever tried to buy a carpet from a souk would know.)

It was a simple act of making tea and laughing together. But it was what she remembered, because it said so much.

The art of making tea can be a complex and elaborate affair. But the act of making tea is simple. I want to make tea...and laugh.

Recipe:
1. Tea leaves and strainer OR tea bag
2. hot, boiling water
3. laughter

Take 1 and put into 2. Or, vice versa.
Add a generous dash of 3 to taste.

Another Facebook Update...updated

There was another Facebook update earlier tonight.

No, seriously. It's all over Twitter. Just go search "Mark Zuckerberg" because the world's youngest billionaire was on TV...on none other than THE 60 Minutes this time, to announce a HUGE Facebook redesign.

Wait, didn't he just make a HUGE announcement like two weeks ago? Yeah, but that one was about how Facebook is going to take over email, SMS, messages, etc. and put all your communications with that special someone in one single thread for you to trail all over cyberspace.

This announcement was going to be even bigger than the last one. Yes, I'm well aware that this is what they (i.e. social media pundits, journalists, websites, etc.) say each and every time Facebook makes an annoucement. But this time it really was going to be BIGGER.

This time, it had to do with photos. Apparently, the desginers at Facebook had decided it's time to re-emphazie the fact that Facebook is all about photos. So...they came up with a re-design to emphasize just that - photos...you know, to keep things visually interesting.

As if Facebook isn't interesting enough.

So, don't take my word for it. Here's the report from Tech Crunch: http://techcrunch.com/2010/12/05/new-facebook-profile/

And if you missed the 60 Minutes episode, here's a re-cap, courtesy of Mashable: http://mashable.com/2010/12/05/mark-zuckerberg-60-minutes-interview/

It's just about to get more interesting for 500 million of us. In the days to come, we'll be eagerly looking out for our re-designed profile pages. Until then, I should go update my Facebook status.

Standing Up For Yourself - A Lesson In Life Every Child (and Adult) Needs To Learn

"Put on your coat, Amon. Stand right there. Watch me. I'm going to demonstrate to you what Master Coles said earlier about standing up for yourself."

He slid out of his seat across from me in the booth at Uncle Julio's. Ariel, who was seated beside me, did the same. They watched as I turned around to face the booth seats next to us, behind me. I was about to stand up to the woman seated behind me. It was going to be one of the most important lessons in life for my kids.

It was a typical Saturday in Bethesda for me and the babies. Ariel had her ballet class and Amon, his Tae Kwon Do class. What was different was that Master Coles had sat the white-belters down in a row and given them a 10-minute lecture on standing up to bullies.

The parents who were watching were equally surprised as the kids. Usually, Master Coles worked his teaching of principles and philosophy into the class as he taught the moves - the blocks, the kicks and the punches. His message was clear and simple: If someone picks on you, you need to stand up to him, especially if there is no one else around and you're on your own.

"In this world, there will be people who try to push you down to make themselves feel better," he told the kids (and an audience of enraptured parents). "They think that if they step on you, they get taller. So you have to stand up to them."

When Master Coles, who has been teaching TKD for 40 years, spoke, everyone listened. It was a good lesson, all the parents agreed in hushed whispers after the class. I, for one, was very glad the Master had decided to expound on bullying, fear and standing up for oneself. Amon is painfully shy and has often encountered kids who try to ride roughshod over him. It didn't help that he was also tiny, softspoken and very bright -- the kind of kid every bully loves to pick on. From his very first incident of bruised feelings and ego, I had stressed to him the importance of standing up to bullies.

"I cannot fight your fights for you," I always said to him. "You don't have to fight him. But you need to look him in the eye, and tell him in a loud, firm voice to back off. You need to show him that you're not afraid of him. And don't be."

"And if he doesn't back off?"

"Make sure you tell the teacher or someone in charged that this boy is trying to hurt you."

"And if he hits me?"

"Then you defend yourself. Never raise your fist first, but if someone hits you, you FIGHT back. Don't ever go down doing nothing. You FIGHT back with everything you've got."

We even practiced by role playing. I played the bully, and walked him through the steps of talking back in a loud, firm voice, staring the person down, and finally blocking the punches if the other person was to raise his fist.

"And if he has a weapon -- a knife, or a gun -- you get the hell away as fast as you can, you understand?"

He nodded. I hoped it would never come down to that. I was thrilled when Amon asked to take martial arts classes. That was after watching the Karate Kid movies, both the original 1984 Pat Morita and Ralph Macchio movie, and the remake with Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan, one of my personal heroes.

It has only been a few months since Amon started TKD classes with Master Coles. But I've seen his confidence grow, slowly but surely. He is still every bit the sweet, gentle, tiny "nerd" but he is a little less soft spoken now.

"There's nothing wrong in being a nerd," Master Coles told the kids. "I was a nerd growing up." I could never imagine! But I was grateful for his confession. Amon can definitely identify. We had a great discussion about Master Coles' lecture after the class. The kids wanted to eat quesadillas, so we went to Uncle Julio's.

Little did I know that the responsibility and opportunity would fall on me so soon after to walk the talk.  

The woman behind me had come in with her husband and teenaged daughter towards the end of our meal. As she and her husband moved into the seat behind me, I literally felt myself propelled forward into my guacomole and sour cream. Obviously the seats were not cushioned for impact from movement.

I didn't say a thing. There wasn't a need to, because it was an inconvenience but not an act of offense on her part. Each time she moved, I felt the earth shake. Obviously, that meant she would feel my movements as well. Blame it on cheap, badly designed furnishing. I had no anger or frustration because it was clearly not a case of anyone going out of their way to annoy another person.

Just as we were finishing up our meal, I heard her raise her voice and yell, obviously intending for me to hear: "This woman needs to finish up and GET OUT OF HERE!"

That was an act of offense. Still, I chose not to engage. If she didn't have the manners to speak to me nicely, I didn't see the point of acknowledging her rudeness. Failing to get a reaction from me, she realized she had to address me directly.

"Excuse me, but you are bumping me and pushing me forward every time you move! Will you stop that?!"

I looked her straight in the eye.

"Excuse me but you are doing exactly the same thing to me each time you move. You bumped us when you got into your seats."

A lightbulb went on. You'd think that she would then have the courtesy to acknowledge the fact that I wasn't deliberately annoying her and back off.

"Well, yeah, I understand that."

No, I didn't think there was any understanding in her perspective.

"Well, then let's just both be more careful."

"Yes, let's...." I went back to the last bits of my meal and made sure my kids were done. I got the check. But I wasn't done. There was an important lesson to be learned. Some fights shouldn't be backed off from. This was one of them. I had to stand up.

My kids were watching. I turned to the woman. I addressed her: "Excuse me, we didn't mean to bump you."

She turned to look at me. She was expecting an apology. It was clear from my look that there was no remote chance of that. She gave me a nasty look and looked back down at her food, and away from me. Her daughter seated across was looking at me. She seemed embarrassed. I stood up.

"I also want you to know that I didn't appreciate your attitude in the way you talked to me. I could hear every single word you said about me having to get out of here. I have every right to be in here, as much as you do."

At this point, her husband turned and glanced sideways at me, with a look that seemed embarrassed, but really betrayed the fact that he didn't agree that I did have as much right to be in there as him.

I got out of the seat, took my kids' hands and delivered the final salvo: "So I hope you'll remember that the next time, before you tell anyone to get out of anywhere."

I walked towards the exit, all the time with my eyes still on them.

"Did you see what I did, Amon?"

"Yes, you stood up to her."

"Just like what Master Coles said to do. Did I raise my voice or my fist?"

"No."

"Yes, there wasn't a need to. But she yelled at us to get out of there. Did you hear that?"

"Yes. They looked embarrassed."

"Good. Because she had no right to tell us to get out. Firstly, she doesn't own the restaurant. We're paying for lunch, just as she is. Also, we didn't do anything wrong to be told to get out."

If anyone is thinking that I had read too much into the woman's antagonism, I will say this to your face: Bulls**t.

Her initial reaction had completely betrayed her underlying motivations. She wasn't simply annoyed by the bumping caused by my movements. If that had been purely the case, the outburst would be along the lines of: "Why does this person keep bumping the chair?!" Instead, it was that I need to get out of there. She was annoyed by the fact that I was even there at all.

Was it racially motivated? Of course! Sure, I can't prove it with empirical evidence. But let's not mince words here. Would she have been as blatantly rude if I wasn't yellow? Of course not. For whatever misguided reason, she had assumed herself to be superior to me, and hence she had the right to tell me to get out. Of course it didn't occur to her that if my movements inconvenienced her, then her movements would do the same for me. Because in her worldview, my existence didn't even figure.

So yes, this is fight that needs to be fought. This is one instance when I have to and will not back off from standing up for myself. And this is one lesson I want my kids to learn.

"Do not ever, ever let anyone tell you to get out of anywhere, Amon. You have every right to be."

The conversation had continued as we made our way into Barnes and Nobles. We were standing right in front of a stack of books on Hanukkah.

"Mom, my classmate Savier brought a menorah to class and we lit a candle together. What happened to the Jewish people?"

"The same thing that happened to us back in the restaurant. Hitler told the Jews to get out...in very bad ways. He tortured them, put them in prison camps and killed them."

"That is so wrong."

'Yes, it is."

World Aids Day 2010

This is a feature I wrote in early 2009 as my final paper for a Global Health Reporting class. It was published in the newsletter of an NGO in Asia. I decided to re-post this as a reflection on World Aids Day. The way we've dealt with HIV/AIDS since the 80s is a reflection of how far we have come as a collective human race, from fear and prejudice to understanding, action, compassion and inclusion.

Pukaar January 2010 Issue 68

Waking up to AIDS in Asia... 
Facing the fact that men are having sex with men
By Rebecca Lim

Shivananda Khan wakes up every morning in Lucknow, India, and goes to work angry. He is mad that in some Asian countries, only one in 10 MSM (men-who-have-sex-with-men) have access to HIV/AIDS services.

“It is a sense of righteous anger, like when you see someone beaten up for trying to speak the truth,” said the founder and chief executive of Naz Foundation International (NFI), a non-profit organization helping MSM groups in South and Southeast Asia develop sexual health and HIV prevention, support and care services.

Over in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Andrew Tan goes to work behind a mask. Being a HIV positive MSM and Chinese in a predominantly Malay and Muslim country, he keeps his status and other life as an advocate and volunteer counselor for HIV/AIDS a secret from his co-workers, friends and even some of his family.

“You’ll get double discrimination,” he said. “Even within the gay community, you’ll be considered an outcast...a pariah of a pariah group!”

He sits on the board of advocacy group, the Asia Pacific Coalition On Male Sexual Health (APCOM), which Mr. Khan chairs and also founded.

Both men share a common concern about the gravity of the HIV/AIDS epidemic for MSM in Asia. Here, barriers to prevention, education and treatment are deeply rooted in cultural norms, religious beliefs and social stigma.

Dr Massimo Ghidinelli, the World Health Organization (WHO) Regional Adviser in HIV/AIDS and Sexually Transmitted Infections, said at a conference last year, that in many Asian countries, national strategic plans for HIV/AIDS do not include interventions for MSM and transgender persons.
He added that targeted preventive measures are reaching only 1% of the MSM population in Asia of an estimated 10 million men.

“Action needs to be taken now if a major increase in HIV/AIDS cases is to be averted,” he warned.
According to UNAIDS, an estimated 4.9 million people were living with HIV in Asia in 2007, and 300,000 died from AIDS related illnesses, making this the region with the second highest numbers next to Sub-Saharan Africa.

In an independent study published by TREAT (Therapeutics Research, Education, AIDS Training) Asia in 2006, HIV rates among MSM in Phnom Penh, Cambodia was reported to be at 14.4%, 16.8% in the state of Maharashtra in India, and 28.3% in Bangkok, Thailand. The report also predicted that MSM in Asia will “face a crisis more devastating than that experienced by gay men in the West during the epidemic’s earliest years” if the trend of infections is not stemmed.

Facing stigma and discrimination
One of the key reasons underpinning the lack of HIV/AIDS prevention and services for MSM is social prejudice and discrimination, said Mr Khan.

This deep-seated stigma stems from the social dynamics of sex between men in Asia, and the cultural pressure on males to marry and build a family, he added.

“We have a double jeopardy situation,” he explained.

Many MSM in Asia do not view themselves as homosexual as long as they are playing the dominant or penetrative role. A large number also have sex with women and end up getting married. They continue to have casual (and potentially unsafe) sex with men, putting the spouse and children at risk of HIV infection.

A study in Mumbai, India revealed that 25% of HIV positive men are married MSM. In Beijing, China, 29% of MSM respondents in a survey said they also had sex with women. “ There is a whole spectrum of MSM and this is almost invisible for many people in Asia who think that being gay means dressing up like a woman,” said Mr Tan.

While the “masculine and publicly married” men fall on the left of the spectrum, he added, the transgender fall on the right. In between, there are different groups, including those who are comfortably gay, and do not necessarily identify with gender roles.

For the men playing the receptive or feminine role, the stigmatization is even greater. Many are transgender sex workers or young men turning to sex work to fund drug addiction. While some intervention programs, such as the condom use campaign in Bangkok, have been successful, there is still exploitation and unsafe practices.

“It’s no secret,” he added. “Some men are willing to pay extra not to use condoms.”

More than half of MSM surveyed in the major cities of Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou in China admitted to unprotected sex with multiple partners. This is the same in Vietnam, where 69% of MSM surveyed in Hanoi and 63% in Ho Chi Minh City engage in unprotected sex. In Jakarta, Indonesia, 65% of male sex workers and 53% of other MSM do not use condoms regularly.

The situation is compounded by the fact that sex between men is illegal in 11 out of 23 Asian countries surveyed in the TREAT study. In countries such as Malaysia, Pakistan and Bangladesh, religious groups and authorities condemn homosexual activities. The fear of social persecution and legal prosecution make many unwilling to get tested or treated for HIV.

“I have come across cases where a doctor slapped someone because he was a homosexual,” said Mr. Khan. “Some doctors report people who go to them for treatment to the police.”

Mr. Tan is also seeing a trend of more men being infected at a younger age in Malaysia. “The youngest man I’ve counseled is 19,” he said. “He had all these high hopes of becoming a pilot but all of a sudden, his world crumbled.”

In the 80s, when AIDS meant death, he added, people took protection seriously. Now, some, especially the younger generation, may think that “it’s a matter of popping a few pills” if they should be infected.
“It’s not like taking vitamins!” he stressed. “You have to take responsibility, adhere to the treatment for the rest of your life, and prevent other people from being infected by you.”

Facing the need for intervention
It is estimated that without further intervention, HIV infection rates among MSM in Asia could double year-on-year in the next 20 years, said Mr. Khan.

Funding is also a major issue, added Mr. Khan. Even the most developed economies in Asia, such as Singapore and Japan, have made little investment in HIV services. International aid is not likely to increase, given current economic sentiments. He noted that last year, the Gates Foundation donated US$ 200 million to India and US$ 50 million to China in HIV funds.

“We will need another US$ 3 billion,” he added.

The impact on economic growth is perhaps a way to engage Asian countries in facing up to the HIV/AIDS crisis. The World Bank estimates that when the prevalence of HIV/AIDS reaches 8% (as is the case with 13 African countries), the cost to economic growth is about 1% a year.

Thankfully, there are success stories such as Cambodia’s. The country has seen a steady drop in HIV prevalence rate from 2.8% in 1998 to 0.9% in 2006 and 0.7% last year and aims to further decrease the rate to 0.6% by next year. The government has allocated US$45 to 50 million in annual funds to achieve this. It is estimated that more than 90% of the country’s at risk populations, including MSM, are aware of HIV/AIDS and 90% of sex workers use protection. Some 93% of the country’s HIV positive people have access to treatment and support services.

On a personal level, Mr Tan’s story illustrates that while it may be tough to change old beliefs and cultural practices, there are ways to overcome stigma.

Since being diagnosed with HIV in 1994, his constant support had been his boyfriend of 25 years (who is not HIV positive).

When he first told his family that he was seeing a man, they thought it was a passing phase. He continued to do his part as “a good son” by making an effort to be home for family meals and events. Eventually, his parents invited his boyfriend to their home for dinner on the eve of Chinese New Year.

“Since then my parents have referred to my boyfriend as their godson and he is with us at all family events,” he added.

It is stories such as these that keep advocates such as Mr Khan going.

“I like what Barrack Obama said about hope,” he said. “We live in hope. If we lose hope, we will drown.”

Rebecca Lim, a journalist from Singapore, is currently pursuing a masters degree at Georgetown University in Washington D.C. This article was produced last year as part of her coursework in global health reporting.

Sniper or Prankster? Bringing Up Kids In A World of Terror

We had our first lockdown experience today. For an hour, I was kept inside the school auditorium with about 200 other parents -- familiar faces I see everyday, coming to pick our kids up from school, just past 3 in the afternoon. The children were kept in their classrooms with their teachers.

I say "first" because I will not be surprised if there are similar experiences in the future, even as I hope not to have to go through another one.

I thought it was strangely quiet when I was walking down Whitehaven from Wisconsin Avenue towards the school. It was 3.20 pm. Normally, there would be groups of parents, mostly mums, gathered around exchanging parenting war stories or just pleasantries. It was even stranger, since it was a beautiful day in the leafy neighborhood in Georgetown. My instincts told me something was up but it didn't feel like anything could go wrong under that bright sunshine. In the next five minutes, the kids, in their red and navy uniforms, should be spilling out the door to their respective pickup spots. The younger children should have been in the little playground out front by now.

Something was not right. I checked my Blackberry again (it's my watch these days). Just then, one of Amon's classmates' mum came up to me. She too had just arrived and was puzzled. Then, we saw the principal and vice-principal standing at the door, waving to us and a few other parents to go inside.

"Are we in a lockdown?"

"Yes, we are. We received a phone call threatening to harm the children. We think it is likely a prank, but the police are investigating."

The whole situation was handled very well and with composure. Inside, parents gathered around in groups, chatting. But nobody was panicking or worried. The biggest concern everyone had was that they would get a parking ticket. Just write to parking enforcement and quote the police activity, I said. But yes, it would be a pain to have to go through the process.

Half an hour into the lockdown, some parents were starting to get annoyed, some worried. The first question - "Is it a bomb?" - was diffused very quickly. No, of course not, otherwise we would all be evacuated instead of locked down. Some people had seen the police vehicles outside. Everyone was still very patient and calm. The kids, we were told, weren't told of the situation. They were being kept blissfully engaged in activities in their classes. Throughout, we were told repeatedly it was likely a prank, but not what the threat (or prank) was about.

Finally, one hour later, we were told the children could be dismissed. They came to the auditorium in the most orderly manner, like it was just another assembly. Parents were called to pick up their kids by class, starting with the young ones in Nursery and Reception (3 to 5 year-olds).

We left by another exit, under police supervision. Once outside, I saw the number of police vehicles lining Wisconsin and the surrounding streets. It didn't feel right. Ariel was of course her usual happy, chirpy self. Amon, older and more sensitive, had picked up on the vibes.

"Just what exactly is going on, Mum?"

That was what I wanted to know too. I had tweeted, checked Twitter for various possible hashtags, but the information wasn't out there yet (which may have been a good thing if there was a sniper waiting...yes I found out much later in the evening that it was a sniper threat, but not from the school...from Twitter and TBD).

"We will talk about that in the car. Right now, I need both of you to be alert, hold my hand and walk as quickly as possible straight to the car. NO running, no playing, just pay attention and walk."

In the car on 35th, I saw more police vehicles and an ABC 7 news van and camera on sticks. The drive home was uneventful except for a little more traffic than usual, and this conversation that I decided I needed to have with the kids. I explained to them that someone had called the school threatening to harm them.

"Are you both scared?"

"No," they chorused. But they wanted to know why someone would do something like that.

"Some people are not right in the head, and they hurt other people because they're angry, or they want media attention. Some people are terrorists. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes. Terror means fear."(Amon)

"Right, so fear is their weapon. They threaten people to make us afraid of them, so they can be powerful."

"So if we're not afraid, then they would be vulnerable." (Amon)

"That's right! So the most important thing is not to be scared. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful and alert too."

"If he tried to hurt me I will ROAR at him."

OK, that's not really going to work. But Ariel got the spirit right. I was pleased with the kids, and myself, feeling like I had created a positive learning experience out of the situation.

At 6 pm, I emailed the principal, thanking him for a great job getting everyone out safe, and asking for more information. He emailed back saying he is working on the information for parents. Just after 6, the ABC 7 report was updated on TBD.com. I didn't see it, only because I left for dance class. I saw it at 10 pm, the minute I got home and sat down to trawl Twitter for updates. I still hadn't heard from the school. I sent the principal another email with the link.

I wasn't comfortable with the conclusion that it was purely a prank, unless the police had established that beyond doubt. Under most circumstances, I would be the last person to make a mountain out of a molehill. But we live in a post 9/11, post Columbine world now. I don't think I need to remind anyone about the DC area sniper. In my childhood, the probability of this being a prank would have been far greater than not. The reverse is now true for my kids.

Kids today can't grow up blissfully unaware the way we did. They should still be able to feel safe in school. But they also need to know that sometimes, bad things can happen even in safe places, and there are people out there who are "sick in the head" as Amon calls them.

"I feel really sick now," S, a friend and one of the locked down parents, said to me as we were leaving with the kids earlier.

It is indeed very ill -- all of it. A person really has to be sick in the head (and heart) to hurt children. It is really sick that such sick people has easy access to deadly weapons and common knowledge on how to create deadly weapons. It is even more sick that each and every sick act of this nature seem to encourage and perpetuate more copycat sick acts. And unfortunately, there is no cure for this disease. Despite all our technical advances, medical know-how and intellectual discourse, the human race has not discovered how to cure hatred and the need for bloodshed.

As of now, I still do not have any information from the school with regards to any conclusions from the police investigation and whether it would be safe to send my kids back to school in the morning. But then, what answers am I waiting for? I already know it. There are no answers. It almost doesn't matter if it was a sniper or prankster. We can't keep our children at home every day, living in fear. The deadliest weapon, more so than guns and bombs and crazies, is fear.

So I have to set aside my own fear, and simply trust that the kids will be fine when I drop them off at school tomorrow, and the day after, and the next. There is no instruction manual on bringing up kids in a world of terror. We're all learning as we go along.

...and all ye need to know

"A cake! Look, mama!"

I looked in the direction Ariel was pointing at. It was a cake alright -- a huge, round chocolate cake, unassuming in its basic chocolate-ness. A middle-aged woman was hunched over the cake, arranging candles in a circle around it, and in the middle, she planted an '8' candle and a '0' one.

"Someone's having a birthday!" I watched as she lit the candles and carried the cake towards the table of 10 to 12 people in the other side of the cafe.

"An 80th birthday!" Trust Amon to be the one who always picks up and emphasizes the detail. (Aside: He would make a really good journalist, with his ability to hit on the key point and express it in short, succinct sentences all the time. And he always has a kicker.)

"Yes...wow...isn't that something? To celebrate your 80th birthday here at Fallingwater!"

It was a rhetorical question. But both kids nodded their heads as we watched the party sing the birthday song. They sang rather quietly. The clapping at the end of the song was as genteel and softly resounding as it would be in a private recital. It was a small group of mostly seniors, but their joy was filling up the room in a big way, that could easily drown out any rowdy bar bash.

Wow...80. I had never contemplated that number until then. I was almost halfway there, I found myself thinking. Wouldn't it be nice if I could have my 80th here too, I continued to muse. And that's the way it goes once one starts getting wistful thoughts. Wow...Amon would be...50! He'll probably be a paleontologist...or architect (those being his two big loves now).

"Mummy why aren't you eating your pickle?" Nothing like an Ariel rebuke to snap me out of my daydreams.

But dreams are good..."we are such stuff as dreams are made on" right? I have another whole lifetime to live before I get to 80. And yes, I think I would make it a point to try and celebrate that 2nd round of 40 back here, at one of the most beautiful houses and remarkable architectural landmark in the world, by a man whom I deeply admire for his genius in blending art and nature, the organic and the technical.

I can't remember exactly how and when the love affair with Frank Lloyd Wright started. But it definitely had something to do with a missed calling. Before I took the road most traveled, collecting 'A's on my way to a typical college education, I had wanted to run off and pursue a passion for design. I had spent hours among the design, art, interiors and architecture shelves of libraries and one day, I saw a brochure for a design school in the UK.

But when I was in school, nobody ever told me that I could do anything I wanted to do, and be whatever I wanted to. I was told to shut up, listen, raise my hand when I wanted to answer (not ask) the question, study, get 'A's and collect all the certificates that come with the major examinations. So, no, I didn't explore that route and didn't think that it was in my power to do so.

So, as I took the well trodden path, I had paused at various points to ponder what I would have become if I had the courage to veer 'off-course' way back when. I think I would have been an interior designer, with a mission of helping people create aesthetically pleasing spaces to live and be happy in. There is much to be said about beauty in life, and a life of beauty. It's not about makeup and clothes (although I love those, too) but about that little piece of your soul that feels free and uplifted. Some find it in art, some in music, some in nature, some in a 20-foot putt, etc. But everyone has that capacity to find it.

At 80, what more could I really ask for, then, than to be surrounded by so much love, joy and beauty? And to be in a healthy state of mind, body and soul to appreciate all that.

"Beauty is truth, and truth beauty." - that is all
Ye on earth know, and all ye need to know

Don't Grow Up So Fast....

Amon just turned eight. And he figures he's old enough to have his own Facebook page. I said 'no' not because I felt like I needed to assert my fast diminishing parental control, but because 1. kids could do with more real socializing before social networking and 2. the digital space is not where kids should be allowed to roam free without strong parental guidance.

I know two 11-year-old girls with Facebook profiles, under the guidance of their mums, of course. And they are just a handful of many kids out there below 13 (the minimum age as stipulated) that have Facebook profiles. They're both great kids - smart, sweet girls. And they know how to be sensible on the net. One of them doesn't even put her photo on her page. And I told her: "That's great. Keep it that way. Do you know what happened to this 11-year-old girl who got trolled?" She didn't. And I'm not surprised.

I posted this on my FB page some time ago, but here it is again for those who missed it. It's about how an 11-year-old got her life turned upside down on the net. (http://gawker.com/5589103/how-the-internet-beat-up-an-11+year+old-girl) Last thing I read about her, she was under police protection for death threats.

It's not funny. My kids...and yours...are growing up in a very different era, when connectivity is the norm and apart from grappling with the usual socialization of adolescence and teenage angst, they also have to deal with a whole different realm of existence we never had to - their cyber life. I consider myself pretty much an early adopter of technology and all things digital. I'm a gadget geek at heart -- from the Palm (remember that?) to the first iPod and every other new cell phone fad. I was one of those who embraced the dot.com wave (remember that?) but luckily had a regular job with a bricks-and-mortar (remember that term?) institution to go back to. But with my kids...I'm somewhat at a loss.

I believe in balance in my approach to everything in life. That's one of the fundamental bec2basics beliefs in my philosophical makeup. But it's tough walking the fine line between embracing the openness of this cyber world, and letting my kids do their growing up by trial and error, versus enforcing the filters and boundaries to ensure their safety. There is no right answer. I'm certainly not alone in this struggle.

I believe in being at the cutting edge of change and technology. But I also embrace 'old world' values. As much as I recognize that my kids belong to their generation, I would also like them to have a solid understanding and appreciation of mine, and those that came before me. I tried to hold off wii as long as I could. I caved last winter when we got snowed in for weeks. This summer, my kids were away from me for two weeks. When I saw them again, they had picked up the iPhone and iPad. On the 20+ hour flight back from Singapore, I caved and handed over my iPod touch with all the apps they like (yes, Cooking Mama is one of them) loaded via the wifi at the airport.

I don't believe in mollycoddling kids. But I believe in limits and boundaries. Otherwise I'm not doing them a favor in learning how to live as responsible adults. So 30 mins of wii each time; no wii on school days; 15 to 20 mins on the net for leisure (homework is online now, for parents whose kids are not in school yet); and 15 to 20 mins each time on the iPod/iPhone apps. Amon has an email add (on yahoo! not google) and a blog, but uses both under supervision of an adult (mostly me). 

So far it's working out well. The kids understand the limits and they have a wide range of interests that aren't digital -- good ol' stuff like Legos and Trivial Pursuit, soccer and ballet. But I shouldn't count my chickens. In two years' time, the boundaries will shift. Maybe, even in a year's time.

It may sound like a cliche but the kids are really growing up much faster these days. I believe exposure to media and the cyber world has a lot to do with it. Does anyone remember having a concept of future time when they were four? Well, this is a conversation between my 4 and 8-year-olds.

Ariel: "I like makeup. But I think I'm a little young to use it."
Amon: "Right! You're too young. Maybe when you're 13."
Ariel: "I think when I'm 10."

I will always remember what my domestic helper said to me when that 4-year-old was born. She was holding the little raisin in her arms. She said: "She's beautiful, m'am. But you know, very soon she'll grow up. You'll look at them sleeping one day and wonder how come they're so long."

How right she was. And it didn't take long for that to happen. Dear kids, don't grow up so fast, will you?

Heart of Darkness

The horror, the horror, the horror.

That's three times of "horror" for three nights of sitting and half sleeping in a black box of ennui, i.e. the house of darkness... with no kids, no light, no music, no TV, no NOTHING... except the security system beeping every 10 minutes.

The freak storm that happened last Sunday blew the kids' Little Tykes slide across the yard and knocked out the power. I was one of those lucky last 40,000 among the 300,000 who lost power to get it back last.

So what's the big deal with power outage? At least the kids weren't around. True. It wouldn't have been that bad. I could camp out in school or Starbucks for wifi and AC. I didn't usually watch that much TV anyway. It was just the darkness... the Waiting-for-Godot nothingness that got to me. I can't explain it. I could easily have just breathed, meditate and go to sleep. Instead, I crashed on the couch with 88.5 playing NPR, BBC, Deutsche Radio, Canadian Radio etc. half enraptured by the great programming (yes, public radio is even better in the wee hours), half stirring up a soup of too-many-things out of nothing in my head.

My 19-year-old neighbor explained it better. He was actually alone too, on one of those nights, and found it much easier to fall asleep in the pitch darkness. It was that first night when my alarm system freaked out on me and keep going off. That's the way the human mind works. All it takes is for it to freak out once. He was, of course, right. So much more wisdom from someone so much younger.

I'm not about to get all Foucaultian but there really is just a very thin line between sanity and madness. And I had allowed myself to stray across the line somewhat in the last three nights. I excused myself by pointing out that I was tired and stressed, trying to get a million and one things done. But really, there was no logical reason. It was like a walk in the park I wanted to take.

So now that the ordeal is over, and there is light again, I need to go back to being my usual soak-up-the-sun self. It wasn't all darkness and horror. There were all the great friends who sent messages of empathy and offers of food, shelter and company. It made me wonder. If it takes so little to reach out and connect with someone, why are so many people afraid to do so. Isn't the darkness more scary? It definitely was, for me. I always thought of myself as someone who would one day go out into the woods to live deliberately. I guess not, after all. I'm grateful for the guys at CVS who said I was welcome to hang out there the whole night if I couldn't bear the dark, stuffy house. I'm also grateful for the BBC, which is comfort food for the mind to me. Most of all, I'm grateful for this scene, and several others, that I captured (in the great company of a fellow novice photo-enthusiast). That evening after the storm had one of the most gorgeous sunsets I had ever seen (and I've seen quite a few...including one over Tanah Lot).

Connectivity Killed the Romance Star.

So my social network knows I'm crazy about the World Cup. That's because it's all over my Facebook updates and postings. I've kept my Tweets restrained and restricted to 'professional' re-tweeting of serious news...such as Australia's first woman prime minister. If that's the side of me you prefer, find me on Twitter!

With social media and connectivity, the World Cup has become so much more fun. I can now watch it "with" my friends who are 10,000 miles away on FB or Gchat or Skype. In college we used to watch football in someone's dorm room. Later, it was in someone's home or at a bar. Now, we don't have to leave our child-rearing, home-sitting responsibilities behind. We can still share the experience of a match with our friends in "real time" without stepping out the door. That made it so much fun. Or, did it?

This was me a couple of days ago. The USA-Algeria match was on TV; the England-Slovenia match was streaming on the Mac Book; the iPod Touch was in one hand for FB and chats; the Blackberry was in the other for phone calls and emails. With so much connectivity around me, I actually could share the experience with many more people. See if I was watching with a bunch of people somewhere, it would just be with that bunch of people. But there, in my connectivity hub, I was sharing the experience with people around the US, in England, and in Asia.

During the half time break, I actually managed to use the bathroom, fix lunch, make coffee, take a call, and tweet, all at the same time (well, not all) and in time to be right back in position for the second half. And that was when it hit me. I saw a tweet from someone I didn't know that said that making tapes for someone is still the most romantic gesture of all time.

Wow. How true. I thought of all the ex-es I made tapes (and then later CDs) for and who did the same for me. For a second there, just before the second half started, I got that warm, fuzzy buzz. After the games were over (and I was very happy with the results) I felt like I had to unplug -- log out of all my accounts, shut down and just be NOT connected.

I kept thinking of the tweet, though, and how much technology and connectivity, while purportedly bringing people closer together, have actually taken away good old intimacy and romance.Think about this, starting with...

Making tapes:
Music on the go became a lifestyle phenomenon when the Sony Walkman was invented. In those days, making a tape for someone was the most romantic thing you could do. Then came the CD players, and you could still burn music files on to a CD. I'm not even going to go into the MDs and other formats that didn't take off, but basically, you can put together music for another person in a way that said, this is how much I care about you. Now, with iPod and iTunes, who wants CDs, and you don't need to figure out playlists because the Genius does it for you. Very cool and chic. Nothing warm or fuzzy.

Writing letters:
Before the music tapes, there was the love letter and the pen pal letters. Does anyone remember when it was cool to write letters? When pen is put to paper, thought is needed to make the words flow just right. When we write, the act somehow also inspires us to reveal our most intimate thoughts and feelings. Now, we have email. Who writes pensive, pining or pretty emails? Get to the point, cut to the chase, I have another 5,000 un-read mails in my inbox. Let's think of all the guys who would fail miserably if they had to write an email to express themselves...Shakespeare, Neruda, Keats, etc.

Phone call:
Now that we have text messaging, instant chat, Skype, Gtalk, FB chat, who really takes the trouble to call? Why do you need to spend hours talking about nothing over the phone, when you can send a text message or chat msg and get it over with in 5 minutes? Instead of calling someone just to see if he or she is ok, you can send an email. Hi, just dropping a note to say hope you're ok. We should hang out some time. And when that time comes, the meeting can be set up via email too. This place-that place- this, this or this day/time, that day/time is better....etc. After about five or ten mails, we'll get it right. That, is still easier than picking up the phone, especially if it's the iPhone 4. And now that we have email on our mobile phones, that makes life even easier.

In the same way, social networking sites have made life so much easier. Now I can know all the things I want to know about a 'friend' through his or her profile. I don't have to invest time chatting on the phone, or hanging out over coffee. There's so much connectivity all around me I can plug into and play.

So, what exactly was I complaining about again?

Fever Pitch - Top Ten Reasons I ♥ the World Cup

Nobody really needs to justify loving the World Cup. I mean, it's only the most watched sports event in the world, with an estimated 715 million viewers tuned in to the final game in 2006 (and that was apparently only the 4th most watched World Cup ever). But then I can't watch this joke of a match going on between Germany and Serbia. Besides, I think many of my friends believe I love the World Cup because of the shirtless, hot footballers. So this is my stab at redeeming myself. (And yes, I will call it 'football' like we do in most parts of the world.)

10. Shirtless, hot footballers (hey, they're hot, can't deny the facts)

9. Fan mania (this is one sport where it's perfectly legitimate for fans to be as rowdy, crazy, obsessed and over-the-top as we want to be...I mean most sports fanatics are obsessed, but in football, it's perfectly understandable and acceptable)

8. Teamwork (yeah, we have the stars, the superstars, in fact, but this sport is about teamwork and nowhere is it more apparent than in the World Cup when all these stars have to leave their club memberships, fat paychecks, and pride behind to play on par with the hardworking but less famous guys from back home)

7. Equalizer (football is the great equalizer all over the world, because you can be a homeless street kid and play/love this game...watch the documentary 'Kicking It' by one of my professors, Susan Koch, if you haven't already)

6. Strategy (to the naysayers who make jokes about men chasing a polka dotted ball around a field and 'just running' you have absolutely no clue how much brain work and play making goes into a solid team and match)

5. Controversy (the amazing rules...check out how many pages the official FIFA rules pdf has...make for great controversy stirring sh*t...especially in the day before 'live' digital video and offside calls tread a fine line between best intentions and error of human judgment...and let's not get started on the yellow and red cards, the penalty, free kicks, corners, etc. etc.)

4. Statistics (football is a mathematician's wet dream...there's player statistics, tries, goals, etc. and team statistics...and the World Cup, with its history and sheer number of teams probably needs its own dedicated server just to handle crunching all those NUMBERS)

3. Flags (look at all those gorgeous colors fluttering in the wind...it's better than the United Nations...tell me you're not swaying to 'Waving Flag' right now)

2. World Peace (seriously, the World Cup is the only time when nationalism and international relationships clash in healthy competition...bitter enemies, neighbors with love-hate affairs, a triangle or two, even...imagine if all strife in the world can be resolved on the pitch...you know, North & South Korea, USA-Iran, etc. The pen is mightier than the sword, but the ball is ROUND.

1. My Daddy.

When I was a little girl, my daddy introduced me to football...on TV. I remember many sultry Sunday afternoons spent watching EPL matches, AC Milan and Real Madrid. I think I learned how to spot an offside before I actually started playing any sports. I probably would have played football, if I didn't grow up in a part of the world where girls didn't get to play.

My daddy also introduced me to my first 'hero' - Pele. I would ditch the greatest footballer of all time later for my own role model - Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who to me embodies feminine power, dedication to a cause and real courage as Hemingway described it. But deep in my heart, there will always be a deep respect for Pele, not just because he's who he is, but because my daddy respected him.

Then, when I was 14, I did what all girls do. I picked my own guy to have a crush on - Diego Maradona, the second greatest footballer ever. It was the year he led Argentina to a resounding World Cup victory. I made my mother buy tins and tins of a chocolate drink called "Milo" (or was it "Ovaltine") so I could collect all the team stickers and complete my World Cup handbook. I think that was also when I started to think of myself as a citizen of the world, and that must also have been what sparked my wanderlust and desire to visit as many different corners of the world as I can in my lifetime.

I live 10,000 miles away from my daddy now, but I'm pretty he's watching the World Cup and enjoying it as much as I am. Happy Father's Day, DAD.

One Is A Very Lonely Number 2

I grabbed him and squeezed him as hard as I could in my arms. He screwed up his face and backed away, as if I wasn't his mum, but a crazy stranger.


"Have fun now and take care of yourself, ok? Do you want kissing hands?"


Silence. What? No kissing hands? Since he was five, we had done the kissing hands ritual whenever he didn't want to say goodbye to me. It was something out of a children's story book, about a child who was afraid of being alone, and mum would plant a kiss on the back of the child's hand. Each time the child felt scared, the kiss would be right there.


I guess he didn’t think of himself as a child anymore. When we were packing his bags the day before, I had innocently asked if he wanted to bring a soft toy or pillow.


“What?! I don’t want to look like a child!”


“It’s OK, Amon. Those are on the packing list. I’m sure some of your friends will be bringing their toys too.”


“No! MUM!!!”


OK, fine! So, I watched quietly as he walked away from me, towards the three school buses waiting to take him and some 40 other 7 and 8-year-olds to the Shenandoah for a three-day camp. The yellow of the buses seemed extraordinarily bright and happy on this rainy, gray morning -- as if mocking me.


If I seemed like an over-reacting, emotional mum with real attachment issues, it was because this time last year, Amon and I spent the summer in a psychologist's waiting room. We were barely 20 minutes into the first meeting, when she pronounced: "At this point, I wouldn't recommend drugs."


“I would like to state upfront that I am categorically opposed to drugs.”


"That's what I mean...he doesn't need it."


"I know he doesn't need it. That's not what I'm here for."


I was there to help my son be happier at school. I wanted strategies to help him adapt socially, so that he wouldn't be bored and frustrated in class, crying every morning as he went to school, and crying at the few birthday parties he got invited to.

At the end of the summer sessions, she made another pronouncement, this time, in a nice official letter: “Amon has been diagnosed with mild Asperger’s Syndrome.”


If you don’t know what Asperger’s is, you can goggle it. Basically, he doesn’t make friends very well because he can’t quite ‘get’ social cues and norms the way other kids his age are picking them up. More specifically, he belongs to that small group of kids characterized as ‘Gifted with Asperger’s’. Ah, another label. We have been in the business of testing and collecting labels for him since he was five and got sent to the principal because he wouldn’t participate in art & craft and music in school. He got the gifted tag because at age five, he tested to be reading like a 9-year-old and doing math like an 11-year-old (or, was it the other way around?).


I didn’t like it one bit – all the testing and tagging. I wasn’t trying to find out how smart he was. I wanted to understand where his gifts and challenges were, so I could help his educators help him. It took me a long time to come to terms with the Aspie tag. I decided that I was done with psychologists and therapists. No one knew my child better than me. So I was the best person to help him. I devised my own therapy for him. Golf was one of them. We recently started blogging his epic fantasy story together. I found a delicate line between nudging him into more social interaction and allowing him to do so in his own time and comfort zone.


So, this was as big a deal for me, as it was for him. Here he was, going off to camp by himself. This was something he WANTED to do. A year ago, he wouldn’t even go to birthday parties. He caught up with his friend Nicolas, whom I guess was going to be his buddy for camp, and they boarded the bus together.


The funny thing was, the first time Amon attended a birthday party by himself, without me hanging around, without crying, and actually enjoyed it, was when Nicolas turned 8. Since then, I’ve been hearing about a few other boys, too. Seems like he actually has A GROUP of friends he plays with. A year ago, he only had one friend whom he stuck to all the time.


One is a number that Amon was very fond of. He once said to me: “Mum, one is a very lonely number.”


“Why is one a very lonely number?”


“Because it always has to go first.”


That would be Amon. He had to go first, and go by himself. I knew he was different from the time he was a baby. He knew his alphabets at 18 months, and was reading at age 3. It must have been lonely to be the only one out there, looking around at all his peers and wondering why he was different.


So in the last three years, I made it a point to always be the number two that was sometimes next to him, and at others, behind him. But in the next three days, I’m not going to be able to do that. He would have to scale walls, cross bridges, canoe in rivers and roll in mud all by himself – my baby, who only plays one sport (golf) and thinks of the outdoors as ‘hot, sticky, dirty and itchy’.


“You will always be my number one baby, you know that right Amon?”


“Yes, mum.”


I used to tell him that all the time. It comforted him. It also reinforced his place as my firstborn child, whenever he felt that his sister was getting more attention. I didn’t get the chance to tell him that this morning.


“Bye, mum.” He had just finished his breakfast.


“But you said you wanted me to come to school and see you off to camp….”


“Oh yeah, right. Say bye later then.”


I went around to the side of the bus and tapped on the window. Separated by the glass and the bus, he was more amiable to responding to his mother. He grinned and waved to me. Then, he turned to Nicolas. I stood there for the next five minutes as the teachers were counting off the kids. He never once looked up. The two friends had their head bent over something. I guessed he must have been showing one of his books to his friend. I continued to wave a rather dumb and limp wave at his downcast head.


The buses began to move off. I followed behind down the road, along with the other 20 mums. As the bus stopped at the traffic lights, Amon looked up. He waved once. And then, he was off. I felt an incredible urge to run to my car and follow the buses. Instead, I sat in the car for five minutes, half listening to NPR.


For the next three days at least, Amon is not going to need his number two. I’m just going to have to get better at being my own number one. I also realized that the sum of this equation wasn’t always one and one made two. Sometimes, one really just had to be alone.

Before I Get Old....

I guess this is the year I'll have to admit to being 28, instead of 18.

After all, I have been turning 18 every year for the last 10 years. Then, one day, about a month ago, the inevitable happened. I found my very first strand of *gasp* white hair. Sshhh! Don't tell a soul! I'm just only 28 -- way too young to be graying. Fortunately, there hasn't been a repeat of that unfortunate discovery since. Maybe, that was just a stray strand leftover from when I was 18 and had platinum blond streaks.

So, as I contemplate finally turning 28 (what's 10 years, give or take?), I'm hit with the usual "what-have-I-done-with-my-life" question. The truth is: a helluva lot. But somewhere along the line, I had lost sight of that.

The last few years of being 18 had been tough on many fronts, the hardest of which had been trying to re-build career, identity and a sense of self worth after letting it all go when the kids came along. In mothering my babies, I had forgotten how to take care of myself. Finding my way back took a lot of baby steps and mis-steps. I started with getting my body back into clothes meant for  my age again. It does wonders for the ego to be able to fit into clothes meant for 14-year-old girls. But that was the easy part. Reviving the soul and spirit proved a lot harder. It had to start with jump-starting the brain, and deciding to enroll for graduate studies in Georgetown was the best thing I had ever done for myself.

So maybe, now is a good time to start recapturing some of that spirit and fire of the past. I had been afraid of looking back, and was content to see my current state as a list of what I have not achieved, instead of acknowledging what I already have achieved. Well, like they say, better late than never (give or take 10 years).

I've been places, met people, and had once-in-a-lifetime kind of experiences. Like, hanging out with a barefoot, tank-top-and-shorts clad Lars Ulrich in the Metallica studio in Sausalito. Or, hunting for evidence of extra-terrestrial life forms with a UFO-logist (I kid you not) in Roswell. How about getting up close backstage with Sheryl Crow, Suede and Tom Jones (no panties involved), among others? I'll never forget the day that Jon Bon Jovi got off his chair and sat on the ground next to my very wobbly legs (unfortunately, no panties involved too, but he did take a very keen interest in my voice recorder). And when Madonna told me I had asked her a good question.

So, maybe those were all stargazing stuff that the 18-year-old me found inspiring. But before turning 28 this year, I had also done time at an online startup, strutted the suit-and-heels gig in the financial scene, taught yoga and English to kids in the Third World streets, done presentations for ministers, and looked death in the eye.

So, now that I'm all grown up, I'm ready to do more...much more, before I get old.

When Pete Townshend immortalized the line "I hope I die before I get old" back in 1965, way, way, way before I was born, he may have been talking about his generation and the fire of youth. But that note has resonated with many generations of youths since (although they may never have heard of him...duh Who?).

Later generations of psychologists have also been fond of quoting the line as a mistaken viewpoint that people are happiest when they are young. These very well-meaning researchers have done studies to show that people are in fact, happier when older, more mature, and fulfilled in life. While I don't disagree with the scientists, I think they have completely missed ol' Pete's point. I am of the opinion that "I hope I die before I get too old" has got nothing whatsoever to do with physical age.

It has to do with that fire that burns brightest in us when we are all 18, and somehow diminishes as we grow physically older. That is the fire that gives spark to dreams, to adventure, to courage to take on the unknown, and to really living...versus simply being alive. The day that flame burns out, is the day we get too old. Hence, I do hope I die before I get old, because I'm not letting my fire burn out anytime soon.

Perhaps, a later day band has re-interpreted the line in a better way, for the post-MTV generations who may be prone to taking things too literally. (Yes, this is where I finally get to the stuff us younglings recognize...Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars.)

"Forget what we're told.
Before we get too old,
Show me a garden that's bursting into life.
Let's waste time, chasing cars around our heads.
I need your grace to remind me to find my own.
If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me, and just forget the world?"

So, that's languid and kind of not fiery. But it's really about the same thing -- taking chances, and living in the moment (versus being stuck in the past or always anticipating the future). Or, just a very angst-ridden, 'now' way of saying what Marilyn Monroe had put very simply: "We should all start to live before we get too old. Fear is stupid. So are regrets."

Either way, I'm buying it. So I have a lot to do in the next ten years. Like, seeing Machu Picchu and Angkor Wat, riding the highest railway in the world into Lhasa, a horse across the Mongolian plains, and the Orient Express. I would like to spend time in an ashram in India, work with kids in Third World streets again, and produce my definitive piece of writing. Most importantly, I will re-build my professional life, doing something that I love doing. I also have a lofty ambition of becoming a walking Rosetta Stone. Well, I'm already proficient in two languages. Maybe, if I spend the next couple of years polishing the other two I already know, and then master a new one every two years after, I would have eight languages in ten years' time. Okay, maybe that's stretching it. But, definitely before I get old.

So anyway, I do hope I die before I get old. There's nothing worse than losing the fire for life. I know, for a fact, because I've lost it once, and had been given a chance to find it again. There's nothing worse than being told you're too old, too this or too that to do something; to lose the faith that you can do anything you want and be the person you are; to contort yourself to look, think, feel, dress, talk in a certain way because the rest of the world expects you to. That, in my book, is truly old. I will never let that happen to me again.

By the way, please remember that I'll be turning 28 for the next ten years, so you don't have to ask me about my age.

Reinventing the Cheating Game...

Guys and gals, sit up and listen. I'm about to propose changing the game...the cheating game, that is.

One of my girlfriends (who is the biggest sweetheart in the world) posted a link to an article titled "Will every man cheat one day?" on her FB profile. She then asked that all her married, male friends who have never cheated 'like' the post.

She got one response. And, a comment from me that no guy is ever going to be honest about this.

Now, let me state for the record that I'm no man hater, and I'm most certainly not going into a "all men are scums" rant. (On the contrary, as many of my guy buddies will testify, I rather like your species. You're pretty fun to be around when you're guzzling beer, watching soccer or beating up the mouse because you're being thrashed by the game algorithm.)

What I really don't like, is this really outdated discourse: 1. that men are biologically predisposed to cheat, and 2. hence the women must either stand by their men (I HATE that song) like a 'good wife' should, or turn into a man-hater.

Granted, the first point is completely true. It's been scientifically proven (although I did suspect if the whole study was just a brilliant conspiracy by the researchers to ratify the male species). It seems that there is a gene in the male makeup that determines if he is more predisposed to sowing his oats than other guys. The article my friend posted briefly quoted this study (http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/top-stories/2010/05/26/will-every-man-cheat-one-day-115875-22285910/).

So, we can't change nature. But we surely can change the way we perceive and think about the whole issue.

Firstly, in most cases, when a guy cheats, it usually has a lot more to do with the state of their relationship/marriage, or their personal issues, than their natural inability to keep their pants on. The therapists and counselors are pretty unanimous on the former probable cause. Married life can get boring, and the intimacy suffers, especially when the couple is sleep deprived or stressed out by the bills, the kids, etc. The psychologists, in the same note, agree on the latter cause. A guy who is having self esteem issues, or going through some major life changes, often finds a sexual conquest to be a great boost. (Like we women don't.)

So, I'm not saying I condone the act of cheating. I'm saying, stop demonizing the guy, but more importantly, stop focusing on the act. Seriously, each time a celebrity, or a friend of a neighbor's second cousin's friend is caught cheating, the whole world gasps and spreads the news, like it is really something new and surprising. Get over it, people. Give the guy and couple a break, and let them have a chance to sort out the root causes of their problems.

Secondly, and this is something you guys need to hear, it's not just the men who cheat. Women can, and do cheat, too. It's true. Maybe it happens less often with women, or we're just smarter and don't get caught as often, but yes, we can, and do cheat. And we're apparently not biologically predisposed to do so. Which then means, seriously, that there is this element called free will and/or choice that comes into play. Guys or gals, if we cheat, we make a choice to do it. Deal with it, and stop blaming the genes.

If you think about it, it's actually much easier for a woman to cheat. All she has to do is to put on makeup and some nice clothes. If, by the cliche definition of guys as biologically unable to not respond to a hotblooded, willing female, then it shouldn't be too hard for her to net one of them. C'est vrai?

What is really passe and trite in this whole discourse, is the concept of the 'good wife' -- the stoic, long suffering, noble woman who will 'stand by her man' (I HATE that song!), extend her gracious forgiveness and continue to hold their family together. This may have been a case of necessity in the good old days when women have no means of economic independence. But these days, we have OPTIONS.

So, this is what the gals need to hear. Our options, when it's broken, are: 1. Fix it, but only if we're sure we want to, and that they want to as well, and both parties are willing to work on it; 2. Leave it, and move on; and 3. Take one course, with the option of switching to the other.

And it's time to switch track for the whole "love-and-cherish, have-and-hold" paradigm of marriage to work in this day and age. The guy is no longer just there to provide, and the gal is no longer just there to nurture. Both need to do both and find some sort of comfortable meeting space in between. The rules need to change, and the whole game, reinvented.

Guys, if you want to be able to get away with it because you were bored, just having some fun, and it didn't mean anything, then you'll have to be able to live with it too if your wife/girlfriend does the same. Gals, "forever" and "happily ever after" only works if there is, indeed, happiness. If there's any standing to be done, it shouldn't be you, alone, by your man. It should be standing together.

Just so it's clear, I do still believe in good, old fashioned stuff like love and growing old together. There's not many scenes I find sweeter than an old couple, still holding hands, crossing the road or shuffling down the supermaket aisle together. Which brings me back to the point...it can only be done together, both parties willing, and working to make it happen.

Talk about Profiling!

I have just been a victim of profiling...social, and I believe, to some extent, racial.

I'm writing about it, not because I want to whine to the netizens who would read this about the bad day I had, but because I feel my story has a pertinent point to make about the whole discussion on profiling and prejudice.

So there I was at the corner of P and 35th, seat belt on, headlights on, foot on brakes, right turning signal on to indicate I was intending to pull out. I was the last car parked on the left side of the one way street. I looked behind to check in all 3 directions, looked in the rear view and side mirrors. Clear. Then, in the spilt second it took as I started to pull out, there he was, zipping right past me.

The point of contact between the two vehicles: my right front bumper, and his left back passenger door. So, you physicists out there can calculate how fast the other car must have been coming, especially if, according to him later, he had stopped at the stop sign on 35th, where my vehicle with all its lights on would have been fully visible.

He had to back up to pull to the side, so his car could still move. My car could still move. We both got out. Neither of us were hurt. So, as far as I know, the thing to do at that point would have been to exchange insurance information and make out respective reports.

He started yelling at me.

"I didn't see you! You didn't see me?"

"No, I didn't see you. We should exchange insurance information."

"Yeah I got insurance. It's your fault."

"I don't think we need to discuss whose fault it is."

He was yelling louder and louder, and I didn't want to get into an argument. We both got our paperwork from our cars. As he walked back towards me, he must have seen the Georgetown sticker on my car.

"You're going to make it seem like it's my fault! You're making me nervous! I don't have a good education like you! I'm calling the police!!"

I was making him nervous? What does my college have to do with this?

"Ok if that's your decision...but as far as I know, if nobody is hurt we shouldn't be calling the emergency number."

He called 911.

Fine. We'll make a police report then. But seriously, someone else could be really hurt and needing those officers to be there.

"Well, while we're waiting for the police to come, should we just exchange information cos we're going to have to do it anyway?"

I spent the next 20 minutes waving my insurance card at him trying to get him to see the sense in that. He spent that same amount of time yelling at me.

"How am I going to pay for this? I'm struggling you know! I just got this car!"

(Well, mister, I've been looking for a job FOREVER. And while everyone says they don't discriminate, seriously, when they see my resume, they don't see my experience, more than 10 years in journalism and PR and marketing, and the fact that I'm proficient in two languages and speak another two. They see a mum who left her career five years ago, and they will pass me up for someone who is younger and can work longer hours. While we're on profiling, let's just say it as it is.)

At this point, it struck me that he was indirectly admitting that he contributed to the accident. Why else would he have to worry about paying?

"I'm upset!"

Yes, I can see that and so can all these people walking by, giving me looks that said they were concerned for me but didn't know if they should intervene.

"I just came from the hospital. I'm having a bad day. I had to look after my father!"

At this point, I went from being frustrated at his barrage to empathy.

"Look, I'm sorry you're having a bad day. I have someone I need to look after too. My daughter is waiting for me to take her lunch and pick her up. The thing we need to do is exchange our information and make out reports."

I've always believed that if you treat people with kindness, compassion and openness, they will reciprocate. Today, I learned that unfortunately, it is not always so.

"No, I want to do this the right way or you're going to say it's my fault."

Firstly, I was the one who said we shouldn't be discussing whose fault it was, and let the insurance companies handle it. More importantly, the right way is not to abuse emergency services for this kind of scuffle huffle.

When the police arrived, he didn't give me a chance to speak to the officer. He just kept right on yelling. I told the officer respectfully that I was going to go sit in my car because I couldn't handle anymore of that man's yelling.

To cut the drama short, the police did what we should have done...collected information and gave the respective parties the other party's information. But of course, first he had to do all the checks on our IDs, vehicles, etc. What could have been a 5-minute resolution turned into a one-and-a-half hour ordeal.

Why? Profiling is to blame. He had profiled me as 1. someone who went to a good college, 2. by the inference of number one and the color of my skin, one of those smart Asians and 3. by inference of the above, probably connected with friends in important places. So then he jumped to the conclusion that I was going to oppress him and use whatever smarts and connections I have to make him pay money.

Regardless of the fact that I had said repeatedly, very calmly to him, that I wasn't going to discuss blame, I didn't want to argue with him, I just want to do the right thing, which is to exchange information and make our respective reports, he wouldn't hear the facts. Perhaps he had some nasty experience in the past that colored his worldview and made him afraid that he was going to be victimized. I wonder if there would ever be a day when he reflects on the incident and see the whole irony of the situation.

I wonder if he realized that he was the one who was guilty of racial and social profiling. Just because I had a college degree (and maybe he doesn't) he became aggressive and wanted to intimidate me. I wonder what he would think if he knew that when I was a little girl, my parents were so poor that we lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment.

The point of this story is that profiling doesn't always happen in just one way. The whole conversion about prejudice and profiling can only make meaningful progress if everyone is willing to step away from their limited color schemes and social bandwidth.

This is not just a conversation about black-and-white, rich-or-poor, grad-non grad. It is about the baggage that each and every person, regardless of color or social status, carries in their hearts about the world around us.

So, keep talking about profiling, people. This conversation has just begun. And it's time for some honesty here.