Oenomel


Today I awoke to a symphony of birds outside my window. I’d fallen asleep with the door to my balcony open as it had been uncomfortably warm when I finally got home from the sloping streets of Santa Fe, and though I’d hoped to sleep in, I highly recommend this over the blaring siren call of an alarm clock. Yesterday felt like spring, a day for wearing shorts and strolling to nowhere particular. If you are anything like me, you’re saying, “I can’t believe it’s May already!” My good friends with green thumbs were bemoaning the hail, sleet, snow and rain we got on May 1: “But it’s May Day!” which led me to think of the real meaning of the phrase Mayday. A derivation of the French “Aidez-moi!” which means “help me!”, this international sign of distress was born in 1927, based on an Italian guy’s take on M’aider. This is improper French (take it from someone with entirely too little French retained in my head for the number of French classes in high school and college I’ve taken). To distinguish it from a casual mention in radio chatter of May Day (for which there are any number of celebrations, pagan and Christian) it must be repeated 3 times to be considered a valid distress call. This brings to mind scenes from all kinds of stories in which an incantation or phrase must be said 3 times in order for magic to occur.

Because I love words so much, I have daily deliverings of words of the day and daily prompts regarding words, most of which I read and tuck away in some obscure fold in my brain, but sometimes the confluence of the words makes it feel like there is some greater theme or scheme not obvious to the oblivious like me that demands to be written about. Today’s word of the day is oenomel, which means “something combining strength and sweetness.” The daily prompt when I began writing this post was the word Hope. In my strangely wired brain, a cry of mayday is a signal of hope.  It means we believe that our cry for deliverance from that which threatens us will be answered.  To ask for help is to believe in some small way that someone or something will save us.  Said 3 times, it is an incantation of hope, a belief in a stronger power to come to our aid in times of distress.  And, today, of all days, a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood seemed an appropriate day to celebrate hope.  If you have been blessed as I have been with a mother who has always been able to offer hope and strength in equal measure during times most dire and full of confusion, or with other strong women who stood in a mother’s stead to be present for you, count yourself among those who have always known hope, always known that any maydays would not need to be said 3 times, as the magic of the cry for mother needs only be said once.

Today I wish for you a day filled with birdsong and brightness, a day made for strolling with those you love, and a life in which you can be for others, an oenomel. I am thankful for my mother and all the strong women I’ve been surrounded by. I pray to honor their example.  Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers by every definition of the word, everywhere, from your local dragon mama!

 

 

 

 

 

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Imagine


I grew up in a town where being an artist was not valued in the same way as other more practical jobs. No one in that small town in which I grew up in ever introduced him or herself as an artist.  But in the days following terrorist attacks in Paris, Beirut, Syria, Russian jets being shot down over the Sinai peninsula, and countless other senseless killings, artists are the ones who are showing others the way through the tragedy and heartbreak.

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Through artwork, poetry, photography, and music, artists are showing the world how to mourn, drawing all of us together in community, and demonstrating solidarity in support of peace without the boundaries of language or religion or politics.  Art can cut through all the rhetoric of spin, fanaticism, and shouting, to show us the humanity that links us, and by doing so, reminds us again of what makes us more than the base creatures who perpetrated all of these crimes, which are crimes against not one people, not one country, but against all of humanity.

This musician is a perfect example of an artist who felt so moved to share in a perfect setting a song that draws us all together to mourn and to imagine a better world. If we can imagine it, we can make it a reality, and for this reason, I am proud to call myself an artist, too.

ImagineTellitSlantMama

5 things I Learned from Being the Mother of a “Late Bloomer”


The Bronze Award, to be placed on her Girl Scout vest.

The Bronze Award, to be placed on her Girl Scout vest.

Today, we attended a Girl Scout awards ceremony in which my middle daughter and her troop were awarded the Bronze Award, the highest honor a Junior Girl Scout can achieve. They joined other girls across the state receiving awards for community service projects ranging from collecting art supplies for the local children’s hospital to painting playground equipment to working with homeless shelters for Birthday Boxes.  Now that they’ve moved on to become Cadette Girl Scouts, they’ll be working towards the Silver Award, and then before they leave high school, the Gold Award, akin to the Eagle Scout achievement. I love Girl Scouts as it allows girls to progress at their own rate, make differences in their communities using their unique skills and ambitions, and encourages girls to accept others no matter how different they may be from “the norm.”

My middle daughter is a “late bloomer”, and definitely not “the norm.”  I can say this with certainty, looking at all the other little girls on the playground in their sassy pre-teeny bopper outfits. At 11 years old, she’s in middle school, a time that most of us look back at and shudder. Fifth grade was a rough one for both of us, but within a few weeks of the start of summer vacation away from the bullies, the happy-go-lucky girl she normally is resurfaced, and now she’s at a new school for artistically-minded children and loves it.  Academically, she is leaps and bounds ahead of all her classmates, but “less mature, in a good way” than her classmates according to her 5th grade teacher, who got that my daughter doesn’t fit any mold, and thankfully accepted her for who she is. I don’t mean late bloomer in the physical sense, though the orthodontist wants to wait for her to “grow into her teeth” and she is thinner than my mother would like.

“Are you feeding her?” she asks me, forgetting that at her age, I was also all awkward skin and bones, and in desperate need of braces.  Though she reminds me so much of myself at this age, in some ways we are very different. As a kid, I wanted so much to fit the mold. As an immigrant child with a very practical mother, I grew up wishing I didn’t have to have a bowl cut hair cut, noticing all the things others had that I did not.  I made my own path and style, mainly because I had to embrace what I had (translation:  I wore what my mom bought for me), but a little part of me always wished to have perfectly straight, well-behaved hair, Jordache jeans (yes, I know this dates me), and socks that matched my outfits.

The infamous Jordache logo

The infamous Jordache logo

My daughter has tons of cute outfits, socks in a rainbow of colors and a box full of hair bands and accoutrements, and leaves the house some mornings looking like a homeless child (as my husband laughingly says). He doesn’t get what I know to be true, that other mothers see her and judge me for letting her leave the house like that, that other kids judge her for not wearing the latest fashions, though she does not care one bit. I know I should not care, but I do–that others will see her and judge both her and I by the clothes that she wears, because that is the kind of world we live in, and I want to smooth the road ahead of her so growing up will be a little easier for my spirited little one. She has always been one to follow her own path, not caring and not understanding why others care so much about what she thinks or how she acts. She really just wants to be left alone to draw and write stories, though that doesn’t mean she will sit still and be quiet if she sees someone younger or more helpless being picked on. These are the things she knows to be true, though the bullies at her old school haven’t learned these lessons yet, and I am working on learning them, too.

Random doodling that she was going to throw in the trash

Random doodling that she was going to throw in the trash

1.What someone wears on the outside is much less important than how they look on the inside.  She asked me once if there is a rule in our house that clothing has to match.  The less fuss devoted to hair styling and brushing means more time to draw or write stories for her.  She stopped wearing skirts and dresses except for church, because she discovered it gets in the way of running around on the playground. She notes that some of the best-dressed girls at her old school are those who tormented her the most. Point taken.

2. A person’s physical age is much less important than his or her mental age.  She plays equally well with older and younger children and converses easily with adults, so long as they are willing to be kind and imaginative.  Some of her closest friends are younger than her, and partly this is because they are much better at seeing her for who she is on the inside, and she does not really care, though others laugh at her for playing with “babies.” It is also because she never talks down to those younger than her, never thinking herself better than them just because she’s older.

3. Boys and girls can be friends, as long as they like the same things and are nice to each other.  Some of her best friends are boys.  They like to climb trees, play in the treehouse/fort, tell each other stories, and laugh over funny animal videos. They don’t overcomplicate friendship by asking “Are you my friend friend or my best friend?” They just hang out and have a good time chasing the dog around or having Nerf gun wars.   She told me that the kids in her class with boyfriends and girlfriends are “precocious.” Wanting to make sure that she was using the word in the correct context, I asked her to explain what she meant by that.  “They all think it’s weird that Dylan and I are just friends, but I think they are doing and thinking about things that are waaay too advanced for their age, so that’s why I called them precocious.” Thank God for that!

4. Labels are for packages, not people.  In a world where marketing and spin is more important than content, packaging counts.  Packaging makes it easier for us as people to categorize, label, and move on. In medicine, we have the same tendencies, to label people with diagnoses, and then forget they are not a diagnosis, but people with a story. My little girl has been given many labels in her life, some of them by kids and adults who couldn’t look past the outside to the beautiful old soul within.  My little girl does not think like other people, so no surprise, she does not talk or act like others either, which instantly gets people’s attention.  She can talk for hours (and does) about her favorite fan fiction art, and laughs at her own inside jokes. The less polite ones want to know if there is something wrong with her, some label that can make them feel better, so they can shove her in a category, and get comfortable again with their preconceptions about gifted kids. Sometimes, I wonder if I have done her a disservice, by not teaching her how to camouflage herself except to those who understand the difference between a label and a person. And then I think, maybe the world just needs to learn how to accept her.  That doesn’t mean I think she’s the perfect kid or that we’re not continually working on manners and acceptable versus unacceptable behavior, because in the end, my job is to challenge her to get out of her comfort zone so she can become the best person that she can be.

5. It’s OK not to want to grow up.  As the oldest in my family, I always wanted to hang out with the adults and figure out what they were doing and saying as I found it so fascinating. I wanted to be an adult way before my time, something my parents encouraged–I learned to cook, clean and be responsible for my siblings and grandmother from an early age.  I thought that being adult-like would give me more control and more privileges, and traded believing in magic, Santa Claus, and fairy dust for worry, responsibility, and the lure of knowledge.  That doesn’t mean that I’m not raising her to be responsible, to work hard or to seek knowledge, but my little girl (at least for a little while longer) is very happy being a little girl. She still believes in unicorns, still believes that good will always win in the end, and that being a kid is way more fun than being a grown-up. I think she may be right, but, I’m not telling her that.

Novemberish


I really don’t like the month of November, and so when I learned that November’s adjectival form, Novemberish, means “dreary,” I wasn’t at all surprised.  I love autumn which symbolizes so many good things to me–the start of the school year, cooler days, and Halloween.  I didn’t get to join in the fun of Halloween much growing up, with parents who thought such American traditions odd  (“You want to dress up in strange clothes and beg for candy from our neighbors?  No.”) and so I thoroughly enjoy Halloween as an adult, with an annual Halloween costume party, dry ice in my apple cider for that spooky effect, and lots of candy.

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My little monkey

After Halloween though, I’ve always felt the sadness of having nothing to look forward to anymore. Though it is considered part of autumn, November feels bleaker, as the wind blows away the brilliance that dazzles us after the warmth of summer, stripping us down to bare branches.

Growing up in Michigan, I dreaded dreary November, knowing it would bring the Northern chill and gray skies with it.  Here in this desert place in which we’ve settled, the chill comes mainly at night.  We’ve put most of our plants to bed, and rain has been more frequent, a blessing in this arid place.  We’ve harvested the last of the first successful tomato planting for this brown-thumbed woman.

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This is All Saints’ Day which marks every first day of November, a holy day, and so I’m trying to think of November as a time of gestation, a sacred rebirth and time of building.  Though we tend to focus on the famous, better known saints such as Joan of Arc (my middle daughter’s personal favorite) or St. Francis (the pope’s namesake), saints are actually thought of as those who’ve attained heaven.   My grandma died in November, and so I think of her frequently at this time of year, missing her wisdom and the never-ending prayers she spent countless hours in, seeking peace and protection for her loved ones.

St. Joan of Arc, image from www.catholictradition.org

St. Joan of Arc, image from http://www.catholictradition.org

It is thought that originally All Hallow’s Eve and All Saints’ Day was tied together as a way to co-opt Samhain in the Scottish Highlands (as many Church holy days were all over the world)  As my fellow Outlander readers know, it is considered “a thin time” in which the links between the world and other places are more open.

“The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence…This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow.” –Diana Gabaldon, A Breath of Snow and Ashes

In the Southwestern tradition, we celebrate Dia de los Muertos, which recognizes that death is a part of life, and honors it, instead of fearing it or indulging in sadness, with parades and make-up featuring calacas and calaveras (skeletons and skulls). Though this is a fact I deal with in my work as a physician assistant, this November I’m going to try to celebrate the lives of those who have died instead of mourning their loss in my life, thinking instead of what I’ve learned from having been blessed to have them in my life. In Mexico, it coincides with the Dia de los Innocentes, a day dedicated to deceased children, making it even more fitting that we think of November as a month pregnant with possibilities.

Some paint only half the face with calaveras, to demonstrate the continual duality of life and death.

I’m challenging myself to write a little every day, or a lot if the Spirit moves me, and to remember all the brilliance that precedes this month and using it to light my way through to the hope of heaven and rebirth.  I invite you to rethink November as well, to try to redefine Novemberish in your own way.  What will you do to push back the grayness that threatens overhead? What can you build in this month that rewrites Novemberish into the 9th month again?

Today I am thankful for a sunshine-filled All Saints’ Day, for a faith that does not shy away from honoring our dead, and for writers that inspire me to keep reaching for heaven.

7 Reasons Why I Love Working at the VA


If there is a word that means the opposite of a news hound, that would describe me. I get my news in small bits on my drive into work, but lately because I work at the VA, the news has been coming to me. People I barely know have been asking me with furrowed brows, real concern and almost prurient curiosity in their voices, “Sooo, how’s everything going at work?”

The funny thing for me is that not much has changed. I still listen to my patients’ stories and examine them with the same amount of care I always have. In fact, I would say, other than the comments I get from others because it is all over the news, there has not been much change in my practice. For everyone else I know that works at my facility, I would venture a guess that this is true for them as well. We are all doing the work we came here to do, despite news media reports, despite protestors, despite changes in leadership, despite insufficient staffing and budgetary concerns, because it must be done.

Coming from private practice, I will admit I had some trepidation about coming to work at the VA. As with any large hospital system, I was worried about fitting in after coming from a small community office. My fears were allayed on the first day of orientation. I knew very little about the military before coming to the VA even though my parents met on a US Army Base in Vietnam. I expected to get educated about rankings and how best to address people. In fact, none of this occurred. Instead the emphasis was put on serving veterans, those who have put their lives on the line for our freedom and our liberties. It didn’t matter where they served, in what capacity, what their rank had been, if they were a part of our military, they had in the (paraphrased) words I heard for the first time in orientation, “in effect, given the United States a blank check, payable up to and including their very lives.” Sobering, isn’t it? I have always admired those who were in the military, but after working here I have an even greater respect for them. As a PA, I owe my career to those who served in Vietnam and World War II. With the job market for PAs in its boom phase, I could get a job anywhere, so why do I work at the VA?

I work at the VA because:
1. There is nowhere else I’ve ever been where patriotism is not only seen everywhere, it is expected. I believe despite all the detractors, sarcastic comments, and negative reports, that this is still the greatest country in the world. There is a reason everyone still wants to come here, a reason why people risk their lives trying to cross borders and flee across seas filled with pirates and rapists to get to this country. Are there countries with less crime? Yes. Are there countries with better educational standards? Yes. Are there countries with less poverty? Yes. Is there any other country in the world, where we can have people protesting outside the gates of a hospital where we are taking care of our wounded warriors, and the only comment made by hospital administration is, please don’t stop to talk to the protestors as it will impede traffic through that gate. Why? Because these wounded of ours fought for our rights, including the right to free speech, even if it is to used to say they think you are wrong. As an immigrant, I am proud to call myself an American, and proud to serve our veterans.

2. I love working at the VA because I am surrounded by others who love taking care of veterans. I am blessed to work in a place where people are happy to be here. Many of them will be even happier once we get more providers to help take care of the many veterans who are signing up every day to be seen, but even despite being overworked, patients tell me everyday that they can sense how happy everyone is who works here. These patients talk about the smiles on the faces of workers here, the friendliness of all the people who stop to ask them if they need help. It is bred into the culture of this hospital, from the very first day of orientation, that it is our job to take care of all veterans, whether they are sitting in front of us in an examining room or wandering looking lost in the hallways. Many of the employees here are veterans themselves, so patients feel a kinship with them, bonding over stories of boot camp and battles.

3. History comes to life at the VA. From World War II veterans who endured the Battle of the Bulge to Gulf War veterans who were there when they pulled down the statue of Saddam Hussein, I’ve met so many people who were part of history from patients to administrators. Just walking through our hallways is a history lesson. Though we have our fair share of generic abstract hospital artwork, these are far-outweighed by the pictures of veterans, memorials and other landmarks that commemorate their accomplishments. And if you are willing to listen, there is nothing like hearing first-person accounts of what really happened behind the scenes by the men and women who had boots on the ground

4. The world becomes more global at the VA. Hearing their personal stories of exposures to radiation on Bikini Atoll, trudging through days of pouring rain during the monsoons in Vietnam, and life on board ships in the Pacific brings the world into my little office. Most veterans have been stationed in places I’ve never had the pleasure of going, and just asking them their favorite place to be stationed always yields surprising answers. I’ve learned about clear cockroaches on Marshall Island, hamlets in Germany found intact after the bombing ended, and blinding dust storms in Iraq.

5. Good quality health care is given here. When I worked in private practice, it was my responsibility to keep countless algorithms and guidelines for clinical practice in my head. A 65-year-old man with any history of smoking? I had to remember to schedule his abdominal aortic aneurysm screening, EKG, and cholesterol check. Here at the VA, electronic alerts for recommended screening pop up to remind us. Providers with years of experience are coming to the VA, tired of the same dwindling fee for service, pressure to succumb to the almighty dollar, and rising malpractice costs that are driving people away from and out of medicine in general. People forget that innovative research and groundbreaking discoveries were done first at the VA, including the first implantable cardiac pacemaker and the first successful liver transplant. In the wake of all the negative media attention, I’ve had countless veterans making a point to thank me (!) for helping them. Two of these veterans shared their stories of how their lung cancer and colon cancer was diagnosed early here, after coming from private practice, essentially saving them from much worse outcomes. Our hospital is a teaching hospital, like the one in Detroit where I did my internal medicine rotation, and the one in Ann Arbor where I did my first undergraduate research with the University of Michigan. Everyday, eager students from nursing, medicine, OT, PT, psychology and countless other disciplines come here to learn from people who are taking the time to teach others how best to care for our veterans.

6. The electronic medical records system here actually helps me to get my job done as opposed to impeding it. That is not to say that I love EMR, but being able to easily access records for a veteran who is sitting in front of me makes my life and the patient’s life a lot easier. I get alerts about patients’ labs, imaging, and consultations sent directly to my account on my desktop. This is more efficient than keeping a list in my head of all the patient results I needed to check on throughout the day. Veterans also can sign up for a program called MyHealtheVet which allows them to look at their own labs, notes, and reports through a secure gateway, enabling them to take charge of their own health.

7. And most importantly, I get to help heroes every day. In the grocery store, you and I might walk by these men and women without a second glance as we run in to pick up a gallon of milk. Every day I have the privilege of meeting, talking, and hearing from people who though most of them would not call themselves so, are heroes. They have saved lives, built bridges both literal and figurative, done acts of diplomacy under scrutiny in foreign countries, and done this for those of us who get to sleep peacefully in our beds. I look at the world very differently, realizing there is a story inside every one of us ordinary-looking people.

I know there will be many, and have been many who say this system is damaged. My answer to that is that all of medicine needs to be revamped, and if closer scrutiny is what it takes to make our healthcare system more efficient, then it is a good thing and I am thankful for it. This scrutiny involves recognizing what works and fostering this, especially so those who are doing the work don’t lose courage to keep fighting for good healthcare for our veterans. What does not help, and will never help, is negativity without action. And so, I ask all of you to share your stories of what works and what does not, and perhaps then we can use those pointing fingers to lift the burden instead of making it harder to bear for those of us doing the best we can.

The Ides of May for Those Who Grieve


It is there in the quiet lament of drooping branches after the tsunami.  We find it in the jagged edges of chaff in the harvest.  The echoing stillness of new-fallen snow in the dawn tells its story. Iridescent rainbows in brackish puddles of fuel and mud reflect it.  It stalks us through dreams, tracking our movements in stealth as we move unknowing away from moonlight.  Like the lightning on the mesa, it crackles through each hair like fire, leaving us bereft in its wake.   The cry of an infant in darkness waters its bloom in the hollow chambers of our chests.  The wedding toast is sour on our tongues because of it. We listen for the quiet flutter of salvation’s wings, and the silence burrows into the marrow of our bones.  The chill of untouched sheets bites the tips of our fingers.  Where can we find solace when everywhere our eyes rest and every sound the earth makes reminds us of it?

Each inhalation then is an act of courage, a willful acknowledgement of its lack of power over us.  We exhale into the grey mist that threatens to submerge us, and emerge drenched and stained, but standing.  And when we have gained the strength to open our eyes, we see the hordes of trembling others on this shore, and know we have never been alone.

Today I am grateful for those who stand beside us as we mourn, who hold our hands when we grieve, and for those who have been on that shore too many times and still have strength to teach us how to breathe.
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The Power of Names


I am a true believer in the power of a name.  Perhaps it is because as a writer, I know the power words can have to change mindsets and attitudes.  Perhaps it is because I grew up with the story of how my name came to be, and saw how it came to be both a self-fulfilling prophecy and revealing of my true personality.  Perhaps it is just because there is always a story behind each person’s name, and I love stories. Mine begins in Saigon, where I was born to a Korean father and a Vietnamese mother.  Whenever I tell people this, I always get the same reaction–“That’s a strange combination”.  Having never known any different, I really can’t say why this is, but purely from a personality standpoint, I can say my parents are two entirely different people.

Though both my mother and father grew up poor in war-torn countries, their stories are very different.   My father tells me stories of hiding out in the mountains of Korea from Japanese soldiers, and moving from city to city as my grandfather searched for work.  My mother wielded a machete to make her way through the jungles near her village in Vietnam while she scrounged for firewood and stole fruit from the trees of neighbors.  My father is a second son of six children, a golden boy who began providing for his family at a young age, helping to put his sisters through school.  My mother is the second-oldest daughter, but 3rd from the youngest of my grandmother’s eleven children, growing up in a very Catholic family.  My father loves music, art, and museums.  My mother was forbidden from reading novels with our family’s strict Catholic upbringing, but there wasn’t much money for novels anyway.  Before he came to Vietnam, my father had traveled all over, taking photographs with his Nikon and reportedly, as my mother teases him, leaving a trail of broken hearts.  My mother was betrothed to marry a boy from the next village over, but having never been there or met him, finagled her way out of the engagement by “forgetting” to notify him of her father’s death, thereby prolonging the time he would traditionally have to wait to marry her from 3 months to  3 yrs  (after the mourning period for her father had ended).  My father, a cultured man 17 years my mother’s senior fell madly in love with the determined young village girl, even going so far as converting from Buddhism to Catholicism to obtain permission from my grandmother to marry.

When I was born, my parents consulted a numerologist for help in naming their first-born daughter.  This to me is one of the most puzzling parts of the story.  When the story was told to me when I was a child, it was said as matter of factly as one might say “And then we took you home from the hospital.”  Looking back on the story now, I have a multitude of questions.  How long does such a process take?  Where might one find a good numerologist in Saigon? Was his or her name on a bulletin board in the waiting room of the hospital?  Was this a normal part of the naming process for everyone at that time?  My father was a fire chief, then a field engineer for the American military base in Saigon, work that is very concrete and physical.  My mother is the most practical person I’ve ever met. The concept of a numerologist being part of the naming process for these 2 people does not fit.  And yet, that is what I am told happened next.  This numerologist took all of our numbers, which I assume consisted of dates of birth for my mother, father, and me, and perhaps the time of my birth, and decided that I would be the peacekeeper between my mother and father, because they are such different people.  Thus my first name and middle name are meant to be said together, translating roughly into “the source of peace and happiness.”

I was in elementary school at the time I heard this story.  If you have children of your own, you realize early on that they arrive in this world with certain personality traits and qualities that emerge and persist.  My two daughters are both perfectionists.  My oldest is soft-spoken and prefers to avoid the spotlight.  My middle child is not soft-spoken, and prefers to do things her way.  My son is perceptive about people, and sensitive to their emotional states.  These are characteristics which are innate to them, ones that I cannot change, even if I were to try, and nothing that I knowingly taught to them.  From childhood, even before I heard the story of my name, I strived for accord between my friends or other children on the playground.  Am I who I am today because of my name?  Or was it just serendipitous that my name reflects the personality with which I was born?  I can’t recall consciously deciding to be someone who brings happiness and peace to others, as it seems to me to a worthy goal for any and every person, but did the knowledge of my name help to firm my nascent and innate desire to be a peacemaker?  Without a time machine, it is a mystery to know how different each of our lives might have been with different names.  Was the fact that my name’s meaning is positive change my perception about my life’s path?  I look at some of the more unusual baby names and wonder what will become of these children named Puppy or Pepsi.  My children are not named Puppy or Pepsi.

When my sister was born, here in America, my father asked for my help in naming her.  Thinking about this now, this also strikes me as strange, given that I had just turned 8.  I took the task very seriously though.  Being a very literary little girl, I went to my favorite stories.  At the top of my list of names was Josephine, for my favorite character in Little Women, and Sara after Sara Crewe from The Little Princess.  These girls were brave, smart, and kind.  These are the characteristics I hoped for in my first and only sister.  My father took my list of suggestions and actually chose one of the names I had provided.  And my sister is brave, smart, and kind.  I can’t take any of the credit for these virtues though I did help to name her.  She was born that way.

Today, I am thankful for my baby sister.  Sis, I’m sorry I forgot to warn you not to read this one in public.  I am grateful that my parents put thought into naming me and all of my siblings, and that none of us have names that might predispose us to being serial killers.  And as always, I am thankful for the power of names and words to change lives.

I love to hear stories of names.  So please feel free to share yours.  What is the story behind your name or the names you chose for your children or pets?  Do you think the meaning behind your name had any effect on who you are? Did you change your name, and if so, why?

Here is an article about the unusual names people have chosen for their babies in 2013, Pepsi and Puppy being real names, unfortunately:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2529425/Vogue-Nirvana-Tea-Reem-PEPPA-The-bizarre-baby-names-2013.html

The time machine I would use to explore alternative universes in which my name was not influenced by the numerologist.

Source: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v291/Riverwolf/tardis.jpg

My Self


Being both Vietnamese and Korean, but having grown up in America, I have a strange relationship with the English language and my mother-tongue Vietnamese.  Because I was blessed to grow up with my grandmother who knew only enough English to order some of her favorite foods (i.e., hamburger–preferably a Big Mac), I learned enough Vietnamese to allow me to understand the gist of most stories told around the dinner table, but not enough to ever allow me to be a diplomat (unless said diplomat was being asked to take out the garbage).  I never learned to read Vietnamese until I went to college, and it was there that I discovered several things.
#1. The reason I had such a difficult time understanding my newly arrived cousins wasn’t because there was something wrong with me (though some might disagree), but because they had a Southern Vietnamese accent, and I had been raised with my grandmother’s Northern Vietnamese dialect.  My grandmother survived not only the emigration from Vietnam to America (see my previous post Flight), but also a harrowing escape from northern Vietnam to southern Vietnam because of the Communists.

#2. The other revelation to me was how I even came to be born. Now, normally, taking a language class does not prompt a discussion regarding existentialism, however, having now learned the proper pronunciation for words and phrases that I had heard all of my life, I realized how poor my father’s Vietnamese is, which led me to wonder how my mother and father managed to have a conversation in those early years, let alone fall in love.  Their mutual language had to have been English, which was obviously a 2nd language for both.  One phrase which I had heard all my life, and realized later was being mangled every day was the phrase “Mình ơi”.   This is a term of endearment similar to honey or sweetheart, and primarily used between husbands and wives.   My father pronounces it “Me-noy”, which explains why it took me so long to figure out exactly what he was saying all these years to my mother.  When I learned the literal meaning behind the phrase, it made me take a closer look at my family.  You see, growing up in a fairly traditional Asian family, compliments and positive feedback are not the norm.  We don’t “hug it out” in our family.  Children are given nicknames based on practical descriptions: “Little brother, big sister, etc.”  And so, when I learned the meaning of “Me-noy”, I was taken aback by how beautiful it is.  Mình ơi literally translates into “my self” or “my body”.  I was instantly reminded of this verse:

“Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be as one flesh.” Genesis 2:24.

Mình ơi is at once beautiful and archaic.  It describes what one writer calls “the transcendent unity of husband and wife”, in which you become so much a part of one another, their body is yours and vice versa, while also describing the possessiveness that is inherent in marriage.  It pales in comparison to honey or sweetheart in terms of its depth of meaning.  Love thyself, or love one another, it is all the same if the true meaning of the phrase is felt.

In one passage from Scripture, Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me?”  And Peter answers “Yes, I love you” in 3 different ways.   What limits us in our understanding of this passage, and why I find the scholarship of the Church’s teaching so helpful, is that in translation from Greek or Latin, the words used for love differ in each sentence.   Love of God has a different word from love of neighbor or friend.  When translated to English, that meaning is lost as we have only 1 word for love, and thus the subtle nuances of the exchange between Jesus and Peter are lost on us.  In the same way, “Me-noy” went from “honey” to something much more meaningful once I understood the significance.  There is power in naming something, as it allows us to truly see its nature.  When we are able to name an unfamiliar noise as the knocking of a shutter in the wind, it changes our reality and our emotional response.  Understanding Mình ơi showed me the depth beneath a life in which sweet words are seldom said.  I love you is the dinner my mother cooks for all of us on our birthdays, planned for days in advance.  It is the shoveling of the driveway on yet another snowy day, and hours spent knitting socks for feet that grow cold at night.  It is that which withstands illness, death, and heartache and transcends the boundaries of our self.

Today I am thankful for languages, spoken and otherwise. I am grateful to have grown up bilingual and multicultural, as it has given me the ability to appreciate all that is unique and wonderful in each world.

Because I love words so much, I wonder what the phrases lovers use in other countries reveals about their culture?  I’ve shared a link to an article which lists a few, but please feel free to comment if you have an example of one used in your family or culture:

http://mentalfloss.com/article/55564/15-delightful-foreign-terms-endearment-english-should-adopt

This article is a lovely one which discusses the meaning of the word “ơi”:

http://diacritics.org/2011/erin-ninh-an-ode-to-%C6%A1i

And in response to yesterday’s post about Pi Day, a video response to Pi Day by Vihart, which because it is equally nerdy and snarky, manages not to make me like Pi Day less: