dearest daughters & son

On Being Too Much

Dearest Children (I named this blog before I knew or understood about non-binary gender identities),

I’ve heard it said that if you’re too much for some people, those are not your people.

I’ve also been told that everyone is different. It’s okay to be different. But, sometimes I feel a different kind of different. Like the world itself is too much for me. And it’s hard to know where my place in that world is.

Also I was recently told that I was too negative, hateful, judgmental and (when I give you the next word you’ll know where this is heading) accused of being part of the “trend” of reverse racism.

[As a side note: this person was not white, but Asian-American/Canadian. And while in theory it doesn’t surprise me, it makes me ever more aware that I cannot assume that every person of color will accept the realities of white supremacy in our society. I also learned never to underestimate the strength of white supremacy in a tiny, anxious, conflict-avoiding Asian woman.]

[And in full disclosure I believe that the initial challenges I put to her about the cultural appropriation (of her culture) confused her and my approach hurt her. It was definitely my white privilege at play, presuming how she should feel about it--when my act in and of itself ran counter to my whole point of her choosing when, where and how to share her culture--on her terms, to its increased appreciation (not appropriation) and to the monetary profit of her community. So I apologized, I think sincerely and in the manner true apologies ought to follow. And she accepted my apology. And I was prepared to leave it at that.  But then… in spite of resolving that issue and saying she understood better, she took the opportunity to let me know how uncomfortable I have always made her. Also I am now starting to think she may have been confused and thought I was accusing her of cultural appropriation! LOL.]

Related, I had a conversation a couple of weeks ago with another parent at school who said I/the School Librarian/anyone but racist Dr. Seuss himself--”ruined” Read Across America Day when they took Dr. Seuss out of its celebration. Among other things--like insinuating I was likening him to Trump supporters (you said it, not me) and saying “that’s how books used to be. Are we supposed to get rid of all the books with white people in them? What about this book, it’s all Black people?”--he straight out said: “I know all of that!” He acknowledged that Seuss was a racist and wrote racist cartoons. The Librarian said she was so shocked because he’s "the furthest thing" from a Trump supporter and “is nothing like that.” You know… a good, liberal white person who is just as steeped in white supremacy as the rest of us but refuses to see it. And, yet… welp, folks, that’s how white fragility and defensiveness works.

Um, okay. You cling to Dr. Seuss, buddy. Like that pair of jeans you don’t fit anymore and all the yarn you’re saving for “someday” while the goddess Marie Kondo herself is sitting before you, asking if it sparks joy. Not that I have experience conjuring Marie Kondo while holding dozens of skeins of yarn in my hands one at a time or anything. The more attached you are to your possessions and white supremacy, the more you realize how materialistic and white supremacist you may be.

And now, the chorus: “But not me!”

Sit with it.

I’ll admit I was a little shaken after my conversation. But I have never had more conviction about something in my life. I love a lot of things, but anti-racism isn’t about what is fun or what I enjoy doing. It is about a love for my country, my community, my family, justice and the God and Jesus that I know.

I know my talking points. I know it matters. I know I have a voice and I am entitled to use it. Obligated to use it--as an Asian-American, as a white-passing Asian-American.

So I wasn’t too overwrought with picking apart that conversation as I would have in the past, wasting my day (or week or midnight flashbacks for years to come). I’ve spent time angsting over lesser conversations about very unimportant topics. Did I offend her by saying that I don’t like bell peppers? What will she think of me now that she knows I ate the bell peppers anyway? Or, wait, forget it, maybe the meds are working after all and I don’t need to worry about bell peppers.

Anyhow, I did try to think about when and where I could have used some different language to not put him on the defensive immediately, i.e. something I saw recently on @teachandtransform’s IG account: “I used to think that, but now I know/learned…” I’m going to read more about “call out culture” so I can be more prepared for a “call in” that would lead to actual self-examination and dialogue. I thought about where I could have realized I needed to stop debating (because there was no point) and what more poignant, pointed thing, call to action I could have made. (Though I said several times, I invite you to google that. I shit you not, once he said: “I’m not going to do that.”)

So all this felt like quite the accomplishment as a highly sensitive person. I’m not looking for cookies. But, it was a tough week of seeing my psychiatrist who told me that I didn’t have ADD but was having a mid-life crisis about my efficacy and direction in life. Valid. Though the part of that sentence after “mid-life crisis” was my addition after some reflection.

Then, I also went to my therapist and it was one of the cry your eyes out but feel like you got to the nitty gritty situations. Also I went in to watch Babybel do a presentation for her “California Passport”--narrating how her ancestors ended up in California. AND I DIDN’T CRY. And I bragged about not crying to several people.

But, actually I did want to cry. I wanted to say EFFFFF. THAT. I am never leaving the house. I am never talking to anyone about anti-racism. I am never talking to anyone ever again. Also: my children are not growing up.

I know that it’s too important to give up. Lives are on the line. My discomfort with confrontational situations (and trust me, that is a huge discomfort to me) is nothing compared to the pain and violence that black and indigenous and (some, because I won’t say all) people of color face daily (for my or my husband’s or children’s plight is nothing compared with that of Stephon Clark’s mother Se’Quette Clark being told that twenty rounds of ammunition were fired at her son, inflicting eight wounds, six of them in the back and then finding that charges would not be made against the officers.)

And so I struggle speaking out (IRL, because obviously in my social media life I post everything, all the time).  Because I’m me: I’m sensitive. I’m sensitive, that’s why I care. I care, that’s why I’m passionate. And why I’m compelled and obligated to keep speaking up to the people in my circles.

Okay, let me take you back to being different. Being sensitive.

When I say sensitive, I’m not using the terms as most people do. They add the word “too” in front of it. And that is commentary enough about what our society thinks of and understands sensitivity. There are other connotations and I think you’d be able to tell me what they are.

But, what I speak of is a gift, a skill, an ability to sense (if not verbalize) the emotions in a room, in a story, in a piece of art. It’s a gift that most “creative” types are plagued by. It’s something that when seen as a detriment and not embraced, when a person is not given awareness or tools about this part of them, leads to a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Because being in the world, anywhere but a dark, quiet room--it’s too much. What do you do in a room full of anger or disappointment? What do you do in an arena of thousands of excited, elated and also loudly screaming fans? Especially when you’re a child? What do you do when you can feel every emotion and sometimes all at once? And then you’re told to buck up, to stuff it down, to not be so stressed?

Yesterday, Danjo and I went to our family therapist. We happened to talk a little about this way of being different. The therapist mentioned the countless adults, including myself, that he has worked with who didn’t fully realize the significance of their sensitivity. “That’s a thing?” we are amazed and relieved to learn.

Because as children, we’re assured that everyone is different. We all feel different. But there is a different kind of different. It makes it hard for people to “get” you, for you to connect with people. You want to fit in like everyone else, but it’s harder for you than they know.

I talked later with Danjo about not feeling like I connected with anyone for most of my childhood. I saw it as a failing. I was sad and anxious and ashamed that I wandered around the playground alone; that I didn’t fit in. Rather than seeing that no one fit me quite right.

In retrospect, your chances aren’t great of finding a kindred spirit when there are only seventy-five second graders to work with. The therapist noted that to find someone who “gets” you, they may even be older (which never even occurred to me even though I found that resoundingly true) and finding that person is almost impossible in second grade.

Also, that person doesn’t have to be the same as you. They certainly can be. But it definitely takes a special person to like, fall in love with, appreciate an angsty, lonely, ball of emotion. It wasn’t until I made a sarcastic comment during my First Year orientation at college that someone who happened to be standing next to me “got me.” She read through the sarcasm and (while I’m racked with guilt to this day for saying such a thing about someone who will probably one day be president)--to this day, my bestest friend (who I will never let go of) assures me my observational commentary was nonetheless accurate.

And the awful thing is that I still think of Katherine, my family and other friends as “tolerating” me. So, we’re back to the beginning of this letter and being “too much.”

And the intersection of being myself, being vocal about anti-racism and being told that I am angry, hateful and judgemental. That someone can only “connect with ideas with others who speak on the same topic with a different tone.” Please google: tone policing.

Okay, I concede the topic of this letter is everywhere.

Also, I don’t know where it’s going.

I guess it’s to say that I’m growing into myself. Into being different. Into being too much. Into that difference and “too muchness” being an asset. Into using my “too much,” spending my discomfort and privilege.

Yet, I’m also faced with questions about acting as a bridge, as I suggested before in the context of the Dr. Seuss conversation. Women, in general, but BIPOC, specifically, are expected to be a “bridge” #thisbridgecalledmyback a.k.a. a definitive college read.

While my anger and ferocity are fueled by a righteous love, should I be “toning it down”? Do I have more of an obligation to temper my anger, coat it with sugar because I’m Asian-American, because I’m white-passing? Are there ways that someone (who is more troubled by the mention of racism than by racism itself) could hear me better? Ways that I could change my tone or words? Or are those folks already set on not hearing it?

Proof that your mom sometimes has more questions than answers.

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Stevie Bee on the Occasion of Being Fourteen Months Old

Dearest Stevie Bee,

I could’ve told you that you wouldn’t have a one year letter. In fact, I think I said as much in your first (month) and only letter thus far. And also in your sister’s last birthday letter which I wrote on your birthday.

Such is life, as Lola says.

It’s not that there’s nothing to write about. Or that you’re boring. It’s that there aren’t enough hours in the day. And when your sisters were your age I was more concerned about pumping out weekly (if not mania-fueled daily) blog posts than I was about sitting around watching them play, enjoying their joy, observing their curiosity and making sure they didn’t find THE MOST dangerous object in the room to do THE MOST dangerous thing with--not that they did that last one. That’s all you.

[Inset segue into developmental milestones here.]

[Not enough time for poetic segues.]

[Stepping away to pull you out of a pit of vipers--no idea how or when that materialized. BRB.]

[List of baby milestones that are only exciting the first child go-around. And whose dates I couldn’t remember if my life depended on it, but I assure you were behaviors exhibited all well within the appropriate developmental age range. I mean, I think. I couldn’t find a single pen or piece of paper in our house to write anything down. And if I had, I would’ve recycled it on accident anyway. Side note: I recently unintentionally sent a sharpie inside of a package of Christmas presents. The recipient was worried I might have been looking for it. But I told her I could hardly keep track of my children, let alone my sharpies.]

You started standing up in the middle of the room around nine-ish months. Most babies pull to stand then “cruise” around the room holding onto furniture or an adult’s hand while working on balancing. You were all squats, all the time. For some amount of time. Then after that amount of time you started taking steps. For another amount of time. Then after that amount of time you were walking. Then running and spinning. I just know I’ve been chasing after you for a few months now.

We’ve already been to urgent care when you fell face first on the corner of a wood step stool. You split the skin right near your eye and facial wounds being what they are, it looked like your eye exploded as it pooled with blood. Thankfully, it just looked dramatic and was actually just a tiny old thing, millimeters from your eye. And now we have a round stool. Which honestly--aside from the kitchen cabinets--is the extent of my baby proofing. Because I’m a parenting blasé, lazy, rebel like that. Can you be all those things at once?

Well, since you learned to defy gravity all on your own, you have no concept of holding hands. You didn’t need one to stand up. You didn’t need one to steady yourself. So why would you need one for walking? Or climbing stairs? Or crossing streets? Or parking lot sideshows? Or public transit commutes?

Luckily you are also a teeny tiny pumpkin doodle (on the scale, on the percentile charts and in my heart) so you are easily into-my-arms-swoopable. And you are only on the cusp of not liking this. It depends on what you were doing pre-swoop--playing in the dirt, playing with sticks, playing in the dirt with sticks, looking at garbage cans, touching garbage cans, picking up litter to put in garbage cans.

Okay, aside from physical development, your brain has been doing it’s thing awhile too. I’m pretty sure your first word was dog and you were maybe seven or eight months old. I don’t know! I didn’t write these things down. You were definitely crawly. Or climby, grabby. Because I was still nursing you and I would bring you into bed in the mornings, trying to cling to any minutes of sleep you’d give me. After you’d nurse for about five to ten seconds, you would muscle yourself over me and practically fling yourself on “du!” who sleeps right next to my bed.

Everything was “du!” then “dug dug!” for awhile. Then came “Dada” and shortly thereafter “Da-yell”--sister #2. You started to call most adults “Dada” and kids “Da-yell.” You didn’t say “mama” until about two weeks ago. Maybe I wanted it too badly even though I tried to play it cool. We finally noticed you were saying your oldest sister’s name, but who knows? You may have been saying it for weeks now but we were too dense to notice. Also, you call her “ba-bal” which--even though that’s what her cousin called her when she was little (more like: “ball-ball”)--is a pretty loose interpretation of her name. So, can you blame us for being a little slow on the uptake?

You are just entering the stage of being able to parrot words though you don’t do it on command. More like when I drop my phone at the grocery store and say “oh, shit!” and you say “osha” and I just tell the people around me that you’re very concerned about worker safety. JUST KIDDING, PEOPLE! I don’t say that! I say “oh, fuck!” JUST KIDDING AGAIN! It’s really more like when we’re reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” and you say “ba br” or “yell duk” and our minds are blown and you smile your huge, dimpled, proud of yourself smile.

I feel like in our modernizing world, kids don’t act their age anymore. There are parts of the world (and even in our country) where tiny people are responsible for caring for OTHER tiny people in their family. Or have to actually work to help support their family. But many American children try to act older than they are. We have this whole new category of kids called “tweens” which are basically kids who spend four years wanting to be teenagers. Though it’s sort of a paradox because they also seem increasingly immature to me. They’re in such a hurry to grow up yet they balk at any responsibility.

Like, Stevie, you want to be just like your sisters; you want to read books and stay up late; you arch your back in protest every time we put you in your car seat; just yesterday you started hitting; you basically want to hurry up and enter your Terrible Twos already. But you don’t want any of the responsibility of being a two year old like holding your own bottle or getting up at six in the morning to do your farm chores and milk the cows to fill aforementioned bottle. I mean why else do we (us specifically, but also as a society) keep having children other than to do the farm chores? Or bring us our phones from across the room? This world is already overpopulated and our resources are overtaxed, so you better be worth it. You better learn how to bring me my phone ASAP.

To be fair, our pediatrician friend has said that this is technically your second year of life so it makes sense that the Terrible Twos, the back arching and hitting would start--which really amounts to your frustration at not being able to communicate in English what your wishes are. It’s one of my pet peeves when adults belittle their children, laugh at them for crying or melting down over things we deem illogical. You have your own logic and desires. And I respect that. But also, I mean, c’mon, just use your words!? Okay, I’ll give you a couple more years of crying because you want your noodles over here and your glass of rosé over there or because your shadow keeps following you around. I know that it’s pretty easy in theory to use your words, but sometimes adults don’t get it right either. [Raises hand.] So, I’ll give you a break.

We’ve been trying to teach you a little bit of sign language. Your sisters especially love this--Bel even checked out a book from the school library about sign language. We are by no means a baby-can-sign-and-read-and-poop-in-the-potty-at-fourteen-months type of family. More power to you and your babe, but also--to borrow a super judgy term from the kids these days--so #extra. So we teach the very, utmost essentials: milk, more and all done (which you’ve got down pat), water, orange (which really is a stand-in for clementines which are your fave), cookie, cheese and meat (obviously the most important foods). Of course, you don’t care at all about using any of those other signs. You look at us, then the food item, then sign “more”--clearly your adults are idiots if they don’t pick up what you’re putting down. Food words that you do have:

• “m-n-ms” or any form of chocolate
• “tapatas” or blueberries
• banana--I think that one is obvious
• “snacks”--which is more lip-smacking than it is a word.

Non-food words, some already noted above:

• dog
• Dada
• “Da-yell”
• “Ba-bel”
• Mama
• “Doe-doe” or Lolo
• “Doe-da” or Lola
• Ta-ta (I think, cousin Ava’s name)
• TT (cousin Travis’ name)
• Uh-oh
• Wow (which you used to say all the time--because I do--even in your sleep! Side note: you talk in your sleep)
• No (obviously)
• “Mo-na-na”--your favorite movie
• “Da-yell” (facing TV) or Daniel Tiger not to be confused with the sister version of the word said facing said sister not a TV
• “tees” or trees
• “bubbas” or bubbles
• And I’m sure a bunch of words that you fully understand the meaning of, but I frustratingly (for you) have yet to pick up on--some of your favorite things: garbage, chickens, stick, dirt, etc.

You are gaining words, feelings, hypotheses and ideas by the minute. Hypotheses about gravity and inertia a.k.a throwing things. Ideas for getting into dog food or prying open and emptying cabinets. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. But also, I can wait.

This third edition of infancy and too-quick toddlerhood has been everything your sisters’ early childhood wasn’t. While they could hold still and I could reasonably expect to find them in the same spot I left them in when I ran to the bathroom or the casinos--you, on the other hand, cannot be left unattended. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be admitting to leaving a fourteen month old unattended--even in your gated, outlet-covered, “safety” and “yes zone” of a room. So, do me a favor, forget the last few sentences.

The past fourteen months have been different in amazing ways too. I am a slightly different person that I was nine years ago. I’m more present. More in the moment with you. Gentler with myself. So, when I start to think about all the Shoulds and Coulds of my day or my Life’s Purpose, I snap out of it and think to myself, “would I really rather be folding laundry or dismantling the school to prison pipeline?” Or would I rather be reading you the same book a hundred times and sniffing your head and handing you objects to throw away? And I think for right now, we know what the answer is.

[Though you know me, we’re dismantling the patriarchy and institutional racism every day! Click through the links below if you’re a parent and fed up with the daily news about sexual predators that don’t look like our idea of creepy people but actually look exactly like our bosses, coworkers, pastors, parents and, hm, presidents. Or if you’re tired of another form of bullshit--racism in all its forms, possibly including our own parenting! I want to note that if you have any repulsion or even uneasiness with clicking on the below links, you might want to sit and think about that for a minute. Then, be brave and open and click away!]

[How to Raise a Feminist Son, New York Times

25 Rules for Raising Feminist Boys, Scary Mommy

Here's How to Raise Race-Conscious Children, Buzz Feed

It's My Job to Raise Children Who Are Not Only Not Racist But Also Anti-Racist, Huffington Post]

I diverge. People often say that being a parent is “the hardest job” or “the most important job” and I used to roll my eyes because to a stay at home parent it sounds a little condescending. But, I realized I didn’t value what I do enough--because I’m an overachiever perfectionist with a valuable education that people have suggested I’m wasting (so I feel insecure about that), because society and paychecks tell us work by women isn’t valued. But, then I look around at all these jerks coming out of the woodwork (but c’mon, who are we kidding, most women and POC knew they were there all along). And then when people vote for them!? I know what I’m doing with one tiny boy (and the girls too) is SO SO SO important. My kids will (and do) roll their eyes at my daily diatribes, but as my best friend assures me, they are sponges, soaking it in. And one day it will pour out of them.

So, to finally conclude this magnum opus of a letter, making up for a year of no letters, here’s to you and I, testing hypotheses and thinking up ideas, learning to use our words and our feelings, soaking up the good stuff and literally and figuratively throwing away the garbage!

I love you no matter what!

Until the next letter (whenever that may be),

Mommy

From Your Experienced, Thoughtful and Faithful Lolopop

Dearest Daughters,

I'm a woman, I'm a person of color, I'm biracial/bi-cultural, I'm a Californian, I'm well-educated, I've traveled the world and beheld poverty and violence and extreme wealth, I've taught it Watts, I was once a vegetarian and I believe supremely, above all else, in the Two Greatest Commandments to love God and love your neighbor (no matter what)... so you might be able to construe many things about me and my politics.

While I hope that not only my mind, but also my heart and my faith show in the letters that I write to you, I don't get too political too often.

And, yes, the election is coming up. And I will exercise my right and privilege to vote. But, I'm not posting the following because of Proposition 34 itself. Mine is not a blog to convince anyone of anything. But it is a place to share words of wisdom.

As such, here is Lolopop's letter to Auntie Merissa about an upcoming California proposition that would repeal capital punishment.

You won't be old enough to vote for 15 (and 16) years, so read this not as a voter guide, but as a letter to you from my Daddy, your Lolopop, sharing his life experience, his thoughtfulness and his faith.

 

(Me as a baby. Oh wait, I mean the wise woman and man to whom I was born.)

 

Letter to Merissa about Proposition 34 Repealing Capital Punishment [originally published here]

My niece, Merissa recently wrote to me asking my opinion on Proposition 34, which would replace capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty) with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole.  With her permission, following is the response I wrote:

To Merissa, my sweet and amazing niece, who I helped raise from the day you were born:

I am flattered that you asked for my opinion on California Proposition 34, which would replace the capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty") with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole. As you know, I worked as a peace officer in California Prisons for 23 years. Since I was your neighbor for 10 of those years, you probably remember that I did not wear a uniform. That is because I was not a "guard" (they actually prefer to be called Correctional Officers). I'd tell you my official title, but that wouldn't tell you much about what I did. My job was like a Parole Officer, except I worked with inmates in the prisons before they were released, rather than afterward. So I worked directly with inmates daily, often getting to know their background, substance abuse history and criminal history very well; understand their attitudes towards their crimes and their victims; and get to know them individually.

You might think because of my experience that I would support capital punishment. At first I did. Partly because I felt that, for my safety and that of other peace officers, there needs to be an ultimate penalty for killing a peace officer. If someone is already serving life in prison, what do they have to lose by killing me? Or somebody who has committed a horrible crime and is facing arrest and a lengthy term, what do they have to lose by killing the police officer who is trying to arrest them? And shouldn't it be a really bad penalty for those who commit the most heinous crimes?

But over the years my work helped change the way I looked at capital punishment. But more importantly, my work forced me to really look to my faith for answers to everyday problems I faced working in the prisons. Many people I worked with became very jaded and cynical from working with the worst of criminals who end up in prison. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't worked in a prison or jail, but it's like the people guarding the prison see and read so much bad stuff that they lose faith in human nature. Over time they become a little like the people they guard, not criminally, but psychologically. I saw this right away in others who worked there for years before me, and I didn't want to end up like them. I had no where else to turn, but my faith, for inspiration to go to work everyday, and to make the hundreds of little decisions that would define me as either a cynical person or a person of faith. And if I relied on my faith for the little decisions, then what about the big questions? I had to ask myself, as a Christian, what do I believe about killing? Well, based on my experience with criminals AND my personal faith journey, here are five reasons I can give you for opposing capital punishment:

1)  You can't get around it, the Bible clearly says killing is wrong. It doesn't provide for any exceptions. No wiggle room there.  I think the only possible exception is if you kill someone in the defense of your life or another's life, but the Bible doesn't even give you that. And it doesn't work to ignore the issue and pretend you're not responsible because you're not the one "pulling the switch." It's like being opposed to killing animals but eating steak.  As a member of our society, if you don't oppose the death penalty then you are just as guilty of killing the condemned person as the people on the jury who imposed it, the judge who allows it, the prison staff who facilitate it and the person who "pulls the switch."  Some Christians quote the Old Testament to justify capital punishment, but it's mostly God who goes around killing people and we are not God.  The other's who kill also do a lot of other bad things, so you can't say it's okay to kill because King David did it.

2)  Contrary to arguments of some, capital punishment does NOT deter anybody from committing murder.  I have talked to hundreds of murderers in detail about their motives for committing murder, and NOT ONE of them ever said they were thinking they'd get caught, much less that they might be put to death.  They were a) Overwhelmed with anger at the victim for some reason and couldn't stop themselves; or b) They committed the murder in the course of committing another crime, like a robbery gone bad, and never thought it would come to murder; or c) They are criminally insane and either driven by their inner demons to take someones life, they are incapable of feeling any remorse for their victims, or they don't think laws apply to them.

Sure, you could argue that the ones that were deterred wouldn't be in prison.  But I am convinced that my experience says something basic about human nature:  Most of us stop short of taking someone's life, regardless of the provocation.  Then there are those who may understand murder is wrong, but in a moment of anger or in a specific situation or because they just don't care about life, they lack the self control to stop. You can debate about what caused them to be like this: Is it genetics, upbringing, childhood trauma... But  in the situation or moment, nothing would have deterred them because they weren't thinking about being caught.

If you think about it, what does it mean when you say someone can be deterred from committing murder by any form of punishment?  Do we think murder is like jaywalking...if we think the police aren't looking it is OK? What kind of person thinks "Gee, I'm thinking I need to murder my wife, but I don't know...if I get caught I might be killed!  I guess I better not do that!"  If one believes people are like this, then I will pray for them because they have a really nihilistic view of people and the world.  My experience with criminals is that 90% are not violent.  They may sell drugs or steal your car stereo to support their drug habit, but if faced with getting caught and sent to prison, they submit to arrest rather than try to kill the officer to escape.  For them, it is like when we jaywalk, except their line of acceptable behavior is a little more extreme.

3) There is absolutely no question that capital punishment wastes tax dollars.  There is something called "Life without Possibility of Parole" which means that they will NEVER be released from prison under any circumstances.  We could house every inmate on "death row" in a normal maximum security prison for the rest of their natural lives for less than it costs to house inmates on death row, especially when you add in all the costs of handling the numerous appeals filed on behalf of death row inmates.  Some people argue that if we limited their appeals and killed them faster, it would save money.  But when you consider the number of inmates who have been sentenced to death and subsequently acquitted, if we are going to have capital punishment we MUST allow exhaustive appeals for every death row inmate to minimize the chance that an innocent person is executed.  Anyway, it is the nature of our justice system that the convicted have the right to appeal.  The alternative is a Russian style justice system where guilt is usually determined BEFORE the trial.

4)  Speaking of innocent people being found guilty of murder and sentenced to death:  There are proven cases where, despite the appellate system, innocent people have been executed.  There was a man in Texas last year whose innocence was clearly proven after his trial but, never-the-less, he was executed after the Supreme Court refused to permit any more appeals and the Governor refused to grant a pardon.  What is the moral cost to us, the stain on our souls, if we allow EVEN ONE innocent person to be executed on our behalf?  Life without Parole can be reversed if the person is subsequently acquitted.  Death cannot be reversed.

5)  Even if none of the above are persuasive, consider this:  THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IS RACIST!!!  I've seen the result first hand. Blacks and Latinos are far more likely to be arrested, receive a stiffer plea-bargain offers, go to prison, and yes, to receive capital punishment than are whites.  People of color receive far greater sentences than white people who commit the same crime under the same circumstances.  The causes are many.  Among them:  Inner-city predominantly Black and Latino people usually do not have the resources to hire a good private attorney to represent them; instead they are stuck with an overworked and often younger, inexperienced public defender.  Judges and juries are predominantly white, even in big cities.  Some of the judges and juries could be unconsciously biased, or just plain racist? (Ya think!) Inner-city youth  often grow up in situations that seem hopeless - raised by a single parent who has to work two jobs just to survive, high unemployment, few good role models, dilapidated schools with burned-out teachers who are past caring, gangs, pervasive drug culture - they can easily fall into a pattern of increasingly destructive and illegal behavior.  It is hard to blame a kid entirely when they see no one in their neighborhood succeed, except the local drug dealers who drive nice cars and wear expensive clothes.

Bottom line, we live in a society where racism still exists.  Sometimes there are bigoted people.  More often it is just a social structure that favors people with more money, which roughly correlates with less skin color; what I have always called "institutional racism."  Until we can GUARANTEE that every accused person receives absolutely fair and impartial treatment in the judicial system, I think it is morally bankrupt...no, it is OUTRIGHT SINFUL, to continue executing more people of color than whites.

These are my thoughts, but not necessarily the only way to look at the issue.  I hope it is helpful, but however you vote on this issue, I know you will vote your heart, because I know you have a good heart.

Love you,

Uncle Joel [Lolopop]

DD Favorites: The Giveaway Books Edition

Dearest Daughters,

You know that giveaway we did last week? Well, here's the big reveal of the books we chose for the winner. And by "we" I mean our foolproof, three-fold book-choosing criteria.

1) Parental Enjoyment: If I don't like reading it, I'm not going to read it to you. In fact, I'll probably hide it. And if you find it, I'll tell you my voice is broken. Or I forgot how to read. Or something like that.

2) Child Enjoyment: If you don't like listening to it, I end up reading to an empty lap. Which is fine if it's the New Yorker, but it's usually not.

3) BFF Librarian: But, to be honest, the majority of our bookshelves are filled with books given or suggested to us by Auntie Ninang Librarian Katherine.

So, for those of you who aren't so lucky to have personal access to Criterion #3, here are some of our favorites:

Board Books

Hooray for Fish by Lucy Cousins: it's one of our favorites because... as I said last week, but here goes again: it's colorful and rhymes and uses onomatopoeia. What more could a toddler want? Maybe a favorite fish? Who we happen to find out at the end of the book is who else, but Mommy Fish! Hooray! Mommy Fish, FTW!

Dear Zoo by Rod Campbell: it's one of our favorites because... it's a lift-the-flap book! And if that's not enough, my genius girls enjoy the dramatic irony as box after box of unsuitable pets are delivered from the zoo. And the sing-song, read-aloud, abundance-of-ellipses-wait-until-your-cute-baby-responds, makes this book a heart-warming, snuggle-bunnying read. Not to mention the happy ending!

Picture Books

Tip Tip Dig Dig by Emma Garcia: it's one of our favorites because... Babybel discovered this one all by herself at the library. Well she wasn't all by herself. That would be child neglect and against library rules. But, she stuck it into our library bag. And when we got home, I discovered this awesome construction-themed book! The scene is set with a mess of an empty lot. And it remains to be seen what all those construction vehicles will do. Such a nail-biter! It's repetitive and goes over the same few construction-y verbs in three different tenses, which I think is the point. But, mostly we just enjoy using our made up hand-motions to tell the story and act surprised at the big-reveal at the end.

Llama Llama Red Pajama by Anna Dewdney: it's one of our favorites because... it helps us think about the important toddler themes of missing one's mommy, of the frustration of having to wait, of general hysteria and coping with our overwhelming emotions. Plus, it rhymes and it uses synonyms! Between Bel who cries and Danjo who yells, we are in certain need of "llama drama" vocabulary.

The Lion and the Mouse by Jerry Pinkney: it's one of our favorites because... it's a wordless book! Which is fitting because this retelling of one of Aesop's fables can be read a million ways. Whether you are familiar with the story or not, you can tell your own version of this kind-hearted tale. After a couple of read-alouds, examining the detailed and gorgeous watercolor illustrations, Bel could pick up this book and read it to herself, voices and beaming, proud smile and everything! 

Tweak Tweak by Eve Bunting: it's one of our favorites because... Danjo has a particular affinity for elephants. And it's about a very inquisitive little one. She walks and talks with her mommy, learning about all the different animals of the jungle and their special gifts. It's a book about a journey. And the elephant's discovery of her own gifts. Super deep, really. Like us.

The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch: it's one of our favorites because... this one's too easy: it's about a princess who is intelligent, clever, witty and does no way, no how need a prince to rescue her. It's the Disney princess anti-venom! I think Bel just likes it because of the dragon. Good enough for me.

The DDs-Will-Read-These-in-the-Future Books - these are books that I love for reasons I've mentioned before and will repeat below, but the girls haven't read them... yet. Dum dum dum.

Clementine by Sara Pennypacker: I want the DDs to read this because... of the awesome parents, who support their child, ask the right questions, and say the right things, duh! Oh, and because of the awesome cogent, attention deficit, emotive mis-adventures of this red-head. Another dose of anti-venom for the Disney Princess crowd. It's the first of several Clementine books. And I look forward to reading them aloud to my quirky babies.

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall: I want the DDs to read this because... it's a book about what it means to be a family, to be sisters and to have adventures. It's such a sweet book about four mother-less girls, unique in her each way, their bond and adventures supported by a clueless, but loving father. When I die, I hope the girls will rent a cottage in the Berkshires and reenact this book. Even if you're seventy-five years old. (Also, there are more in the series; every one is great!)

One Crazy Summer by Rita Williams-Garcia: I want the DDs to read this because... it's another story about sisters, who, um, are also motherless. That is, until they fly across the country to spend a summer with their poet mother. Set in 1960s Oakland, the girls spend their days interacting with Black Panthers, neighborhood kids and some other fun characters. The book is as much a serious look into the Black Power movement, inequality, the process of learning to love oneself (or one's mother or daughters, as the case may be) as it is a light-hearted tale of three sisters and their summertime adventures. The narrator is the oldest sister and she is also one awesome, wise, insightful and witty brown young woman. All things my DDs are certain to become.

For a running list of recommendations that I keep on Pinterest, click here for picture books we love or here for books I will force my children to read. While you're at it, feel free to follow me to see what I add in the future.

Love,

P.S. This post is not sponsored in any way. Except maybe by Auntie Ninang Librarian Katherine who recommended most of these books to us. So, if you want to send her money, you can. Otherwise, this post comes from the bottom of my good-book-loving heart.

Have I Told You Tuesday: All I Know is I Can Pull Yellow Off Okay

Dearest Daughters,

I was born into a fashionable family.

I mean: look at your Great Grandpa and Great Grandma Gibbs and Lola rockin' Pendleton plaid in 1984. And Lolopop in his vintage graphic tee. What hipsters!

Hold up. Wait a second. There weren't hipsters in 1984. And Lolopop's shirt didn't become vintage until Abercrombie & Fitch started faking vintage tees in 1999.

Furthermore, isn't it true that if three people are gathered wearing the same thing, then they are by definition a gang? Or in church? I forget. There's a fine line.

Well, at least we were rocking the "mixed family" thing. That wasn't so common in 1984 as it is now. Now, in California and on morning network news shows, at least, hapa peeps are ubiquitous. So, I guess we were kind of "ahead of the times" in that regard.

As if being mixed can be boiled down to a trend. Gah!

Never the mind. Forget I said anything. Plaid, cotton, church or gang. I know not from whence I come.

(But look how cute I am, sporting gender neutral yellow, a perennial baby fashion favorite! And not, in general, a good color on Asian-hued skin, but given my mixed-ness, I think I got away with it nicely.)

Love,

Killing Baby Brain Cells: Show Me the Bar Graph

Dearest Daughters,

There's new research published in Psychology Today by Darcia Narvaez that shows that letting a baby "cry it out" like we did with you two is, basically, THE WORST THING EVER IN THE WORLD. Exclamation point!

So. One thing. She's talking about crying, in general. Not, specifically "crying it out" or even, at bedtime, which most of the Internet discussion seems to be focusing on. Because people want to feel justified that the way they did something was the RIGHT way. There's no right way.

And, Dear Internet: I don't just let my children sit in dirty diapers and cry all day. But, I do let them cry at night. Gasp!

Firstly, stop worrying about the research: your children will be awesome

We, American parents, read and worry about EVERYTHING. Well, except for the ones who don't. And it's a great American irony that the privileged, well-informed (and usually well-educated) parents like me are the ones reading the research about putting babies to sleep on their backs or how abusive it is to let babies cry it out. Meanwhile, the parents who have the most to benefit from The Latest Greatest Research, don't have the time or the opportunities to learn why breastfeeding is good or why you shouldn't feed a baby soda from a bottle or why just talking to your child is the least and most you can do for them.

There is a lot of early childhood information that overflows our bookstores and computer monitors. And if you are from a demographic that reads that information, that has books in the house, that talks to your kid and worries about feeding it healthy food, then I say calm the fuck down. Your children will be awesome. No matter what.

Well, that's my approach at least. If I skip a day of reading to Bel, if I haven't taught her the ABC's and she can only count to ten at the age of three, it's not the end of the world. Granted, she has no discernible learning disability. That would be another story. But, she's going to turn out alright and read at grade level and go to college, simply because of the demographic circumstances she was born into. Recognizing this, is recognizing your privilege.

But, back to sleep.

Ancestral Parenting

Narvaez notes that there is an "ancestral parenting" approach that our society has lost. I have two self-contradicting points about this. Because I like to contradict and debate with myself. I'm crazy like that.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Santa is Real. Believe it OR ELSE.

Dearest Daughters,

Every direction I turn, there seems to be someone who doesn't believe in Santa. And they're on all sides of the fence.

Some people feel that Santa is a lie and they don't feel comfortable lying to their children. Except for when they tell them there's no more candy or the television is broken or babies come from Mommy's "tummy" (it's called a uterus, people, grow one and tell your kids the truth.)

And still other people feel like Santa is a secular figure that has no place in the "true" meaning of Christmas. Or they feel that way, and wracked by guilt find ways to somehow justify Santa and Christmas lights and killing trees.

Here's what I believe:

1) As your Uncle Bruce says, embrace the grey.

2) Traditions are wonderful things. We have Christian traditions. And secular traditions. And religious traditions that have become secular. We have ethnic traditions. And co-opted Jewish traditions, because you go to a Jewish preschool and latkes are yummy. Don't get me wrong. I'm no pick-and-chooser, nor am I a fundamentalist. When it comes to beliefs, I have convictions, but I'll never shake a finger at a well-meaning tradition if it expands your experience of the world and makes lasting memories. (See No. 1 above)

3) You better believe it. Santa is real. And though he can be generous, he's also a hard ass. He's a lot like, oh, say, me?

4) Because if you don't believe in Santa, he won't come. If you don't believe in the magic, then the magic obviously wasn't meant for you. So, we'll just pass your magic on to other children and we'll spend our Christmas morning doing the most mundane, lackluster, magic-less and loathed of all tasks: folding laundry.

5) Folding laundry makes me, very specifically, filicidal. So, basically. You can chose to reject Santa. Or you can live.

Make good choices! Because though I really love you, I really hate folding laundry.

Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday: The Story of Your Names - it's not that confusing

Dearest Daughters,

When it comes to names, Filipinos are not lacking in creativity.

One Filipino naming tradition is to give children a name derived from their parents' names. Maryvic. Joseann. Laurichal (I just made that one up). And after all that, they usually just use a self-explanitory nickname like "Boy Boy" or "Girlie." That's on the reals.

I'm a "meaning" person. Things in my life need to have "meaning" or else what's the point? I'm intense like that.

So, when we named you both, we basically followed the above principles: combine names and make sure the names have some significance.

Maribel: Mari- comes from my maternal grandmother, crazy Grandma Reyes/Acoba whose name was, you guessed it, Maria. The -bel part is from your daddy's paternal grandmother whose middle name was Bell. And she hated it. I hope neither of your great grandmothers are turning in their graves.

Danielle Jolee: was simple enough. We wanted to keep pulling names from our families and honor two amazing men, especially since we had bought and moved into our new house and received so much support from them in the year preceding your birth. So, we choose a name from each of your grandfathers, Grampa Beadle and Lolopop.

It is more of a Spanish-speaking world tradition to pass down both the maternal and paternal last names, but it's not unheard of in Filipino families. All of my siblings have or had (before marriage) some combination of Lola's (we all have the same mom) last name, Reyes, and our respective fathers' (there are three of them between the four of us) last name. Your Uncle Bruce's name is hyphenated. Your Auntie D used her last names interchangeably depending on context. And your Unkinan and I were given the middle name Reyes and the last name Gibbs. No hyphen. And the option to use either or both as we saw fit.

Anyway, all that is to say, that we gave you both the middle name Reyes. It is a Spanish name, given to my grandfather's family during colonial occupation of the Philippines, originally de los Reyes, shortened by immigration officials when he came to the United States.

And your last name, by traditional naming standards is Beadle. Which is totally confusing because your dad goes by his last name.

Actually, it's not confusing.

Call me a conformist, but you can't say I don't speak my mind.

Dearest Daughters,

In a world of limitless art supplies and boundless time and two year olds, I agree that there is no right and wrong. I believe in open-ended art and play. I encourage pretending and tinkering and open-ended conversation.

I do everything in my capacity to build my girls up. Not tear you down. Especially not with mockery and berating, but, I must admit, sometimes a finger shake. Right, Danjo, Miss Finger Shaker?

I've written before about grey areas and my desire to avoid making my children feel wrong, making you feel like there is only one right answer.

I've had these thoughts for the very same reason as Teacher Tom (via Intrepid Murmurings), who writes:

When we manage to teach children that there is a right way and a wrong way, they are learning something about black and white. They are learning something about their own judgement. They are learning something about rote and obedience. And I think none of it good, at least if the idea is to have them ultimately emerge from school as people who form their own ideas and have the courage to express them.

Certainly. I want you, my daughters, to be true to yourselves and to be courageous in your convictions and actions.

But, there's something about this approach to child-rearing that is too "perfect world" for me. Never offering guidance about "right" and "wrong" or communicating expectations of excellence.

Yes, in a perfect world, those are the children I would raise. Children who are self-motivated to learn and make good choices. Who don't hit each other because they understand that it hurts, who want to learn math because they understand its fascinating application to natural phenomenon. (Click on Teacher Tom's link about "obedience" above, for more on that. A whole 'nother post. Don't have time to go there now.)

But, in reality?

Have I Told You Tuesday: Where Three or More are Gathered

Dearest Daughters,

Ugh. I don't know why I'm being so serious and intense lately. It'll pass soon and I'll have something ridiculous and humorous to offer soon, I promise. Maybe some more college exploits? Like the time I tried to clean up a spilled drink with my flip flop, because I declared, "It's absorbent!"

Or not.

For better or worse, being a person of color in this country means toeing the line between shoving yourself in people's faces (educating the ignorant) for the good of all humans and knowing when to lay low.  It's kind of like parenting in that you have to learn to choose your battles. When will speaking up do more good than bad? Or when will it worsen the situation.

Lola has some particular "things" that irk her because of the world she was raised in where judgements were frequently and easily made. I wasn't conscious of these "things" until I had you girls. Like babies should wear socks. Shoes should be worn EVERY time you leave the house. Faces should be wiped and clothes should be clean.

Seems simple enough. But, then you become a parent and go out into the world of other parents. And you see a precious little white baby with mismatched clothes (however hipster) and a messy face. Maybe not wearing shoes. And you think nothing of it. You look at your own browner child with crazy, tangled curls, a dirty face and wearing red and purple together (in a decidedly non-hipster way). And you think, HOLY COW, my child looks like she just left a refugee camp and is "Fresh Off the Boat." And if you're thinking that, what are ALL THESE OTHER PEOPLE at the Target food court thinking?!?

It's unfortunate, but appearance does matter.