International Day for Tolerance


Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the International Day for Tolerance established by the United Nations. The concept of tolerance is a curious one. If you say you tolerate something, it implies you are not enthusiastic in your support of it. So why would the United Nations pick the word “tolerance”? Why not acceptance or love or some other equally touchy-feely word? Could it be because they are realists, and don’t really believe in a goal in which all people in all nations could someday love or even accept one another? History, and even more specifically recent history, would support this more cynical viewpoint, especially as the backlash from the events in Paris, Beiruit, Iraq, and Syria have led to calls from governors in the United States to close their doors to Syrian refugees.

If you look at the word tolerance in its broader form, however, nuances emerge that perhaps could shed light on the choice of the the word.  In mechanical terms, it could be described in regards to the strength/ability of an object to carry a certain weight, or an object made to fit within certain proscribed standards and specifications. Increased accuracy of measurement and quality of instruments leads to improved tolerance.  A carpenter would choose a finely tuned saw with a razor-sharp edge to saw a piece of lumber into 2 pieces that would have the finest tolerance, meaning barely any difference between the two edges when placed next to one another.  The ability to “meet up” these two pieces which would allow for the best match would be one in which the raw edges have been honed to the point that the pieces can mesh into 1 stronger object.

Words have power, as we all know from playground taunts to criticisms from loved ones.  That power comes from the ability to evoke strong emotions.  Take the two words “refugee” and “migrant”.  Refugee has connotations of seeking sanctuary from harm, while migrants evokes movement for gain.  When we look at others, meaning those we consider different from ourselves, the words we use to describe them allows us to either shorten the distance between us and them, or bring them closer.  My family and I were refugees from Vietnam and stayed in refugee camps in the Philippines and Guam awaiting acceptance into this country, then became citizens through the naturalization process. Looking back at media reports regarding Vietnamese refugees who fled the war in Vietnam, the word migrant is not used.  So why the difference?  What is the difference between one group of people fleeing violence, bloodshed, terror and persecution and another?  Even the word refugee, however, implies that they are in need, and in fact, they are. But the fact also exists that some of the greatest contributors to this country have been at one time or another refugees.

This video highlights a few of these individuals including Albert Einstein:

http://www.attn.com/stories/3122/famous-refugees?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=viralvideoposttext&utm_campaign=videos

Yes, but, what about all the refugees who have performed acts of terrorism, the governors would argue?  How do we protect our citizens from carrying out their hidden agendas? Let’s take a look at some of these terrifying refugees, and postulate how much damage they can do to our country. Perhaps by studying them closely, we can figure out what their hidden agenda is. (all images attributed to Swedish photographer and twice-winner of the World Press Photo awards Magnus Wennman, from his photo project Where the Children Sleep).

http://www.buzzfeed.com/lynzybilling/where-syrian-children-sleep#.rhJ3ZV3jG

What happened to this that adorns a symbol of our nation’s compassion?

“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

If we look at the situation in regards to the Syrian refugees, using this broader concept of tolerance, it begins to make more sense.  We need the ability to carry the weight of knowledge in order to have an increased tolerance. The increased accuracy of measurement comes with our ability to look closely at the facts as they stand without the clouding that comes from fear, suspicion or anger, measuring them against the standards of truth.  The quality of our instruments, the minds and hearts by which make these measured decisions, should also be held to the highest standards and ideals upon which this country was founded.  We must polish our rough edges, to the point we can see that there is barely any difference between our two sides. We are human beings on both sides, and if we can increase our tolerance, we can again become the nation that our forefathers envisioned, one in which “the hungry, the poor, and the oppressed” can find sanctuary.

There is no easy solution to this.  We are a nation that already has hungry, poor and oppressed within our own borders. I want to feel safe in my own country from terrorist attacks. I’m not advocating for throwing open the doors to potential security threats. I don’t pretend to have answers for the multitude of problems that our world faces.  I don’t consider myself a political person, and certainly not one seeking controversy or conflict.  But when we as a people can look at small children in need, paint them with the broad brush of fear, and turn away from them, we are not living the ideals of tolerance.  Perhaps I am wrong to seek these ideals, but I know no other way of achieving tolerance than to view one another as human beings, remembering that we were all children once. As a mother, I cannot see pictures of suffering children without thinking of my own, and my heart breaks for these helpless innocents.

Today I am grateful to live in a country that I still believe is the greatest country in the world, with all its flaws and complexities inherent to a nation that was based on free will and independent thought.  I am thankful I have the freedom to debate, and to question our leadership, and that I was allowed to become a citizen of this great nation. I owe all that I have and am to becoming an American citizen, and hope that I am doing my part every day to be worthy of these blessings.

More history on the Internationl Day for Tolerance: http://www.un.org/en/events/toleranceday/

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Liberation


Forty years ago today, Saigon fell.  It is a date engraved upon the hearts of many Vietnamese people, as well as many veterans. If you were old enough to remember, the images of helicopters, crying people with outreached hands, and flames are forever linked to this date. It is thought of as a symbol of leaving, of endings, and for some, of failure.  It has been called Black April and rebranded by those in power in Vietnam as National Liberation Day or Reunification Day. My veterans express regret and sorrow about leaving Vietnam like this, mixed with the relief of being able to go home. Some remain haunted by the images of those left behind, bound by the ghosts of the past, while the diaspora are reconciling the Vietnam they left in 1975 with the changes time, politics and money has wrought.

I am too young to remember leaving my birth country. I was a baby in my mother’s arms when we hurriedly boarded the C-130 that would take us to the refugee camps in the Philippines and Guam.  As with all immigrant stories,  ours is both the same and different from the thousands of other Vietnamese families that came to the US.  The date our family left Vietnam was actually April 26, 1975. My parents, grandmother, aunts and I were blessed to leave on an airplane, compared to so many others at the mercy of the seas who fled on boats, though this airplane had been stripped of all of its seats in order to fit as many people on board as possible.

My baby boy descending the ramp of a C-130.

My baby boy descending the ramp of a C-130.

When we finally arrived in the US, my parents set about making a life for all of us, though they had little resources.  My father’s first jobs were working for RCA as a repairman, and for a steel mill where he worked until he retired in his late 70s.  Because they had only 1 vehicle, my father would drop her off before the bakery opened before the sun rose, recalling today how hard it was to leave her there in the cold darkness alone so that he could make it to his 2 jobs.  She made so many pies, that to this day she refuses to make pies from scratch.

A pie made by me, and not my mother.

A pie made by me, and not my mother.

She then did back-breaking work in a nursing home, enormously pregnant with my little brother, lifting and bathing patients.  Under the watchful eyes of my grandmother and my mother’s two younger sisters, I learned English from watching Shirley Temple movies and Underdog cartoons, and reading Little Golden Books about Cinderella.

Eventually, our family saved enough money to bring my mother’s two brothers and their families here to the US, but not until almost 20 years later, after reeducation camps and deprivation at the hands of the Communists.  I had the advantage of growing up in America, with the constant reminder that I had cousins in Vietnam who were not as lucky, and so I, like so many other Generation 1.5 children, was pushed to succeed though hard work and education by my parents, who had left all they knew and loved behind with the hope for a better future for their children. Exactly 22 years later, surrounded by the entire reunited family, I was married on April 26, the date my wedding was changed to through a series of unplanned and unexpected events.  Now 40 years later, as a physician assistant, I am serving some of those same veterans without whom I would not have existed.  If not for the war in Vietnam, there would have been no need for a Korean firefighter to come to Vietnam.  If not for the American army base where my parents worked and met, there would not have been any seats for us on a C-130 to fly us all away from Vietnam.

Today, as we look back on this date, I was struck by the photos of this baby miraculously unearthed from the rubble of the earthquake in Nepal.  Pictures of helicopters, outreached hands, and flames are featured on news stories across the internet. Thousands of families have been separated, lost loved ones and their homes, and the date of the earthquake will forever separate their lives into before and after. And in the midst of all of this tragedy, we focus on the life of one small baby, liberated from the dust and ashes, surviving despite the tremendous odds against it.

Nepalbabyrescue1

Nepalbabyrescue2

Nepalbabyrescue3

http://www.cnn.com/2015/04/25/world/gallery/nepal-earthquake/?sr=fb042915nepalbaby1030aGalPhotos

We rejoice in this story of life arising from the rubble and ruins because we all share stories of liberation, some more dramatic than others, but no less important in the way that they link us all–from the ashes of a fallen city, to a road not taken, a life left behind, and still we learn to build again.  True healing begins with that first turning towards the light of home, which is wherever we make it. This then is the true meaning of liberation, not that spun by those who would have us forget the struggles and the sacrifices of those who reached down and pulled us from darkness to true freedom.

Today I am grateful for my parents’ bravery and courage in the face of overwhelming chaos and tremendous odds.  I would not be who I am or where I am if not for all of their sacrifices. I am thankful for all of my family and for the astonishing grace of not having lost a single family member to the war.  And I pray for all those in Nepal, that someday, they will look back on these days, and be able to say they are stronger for having survived.

Please pray for the many medical and relief workers as they work tirelessly for all those affected by the earthquake, as well as the family members of Marisa Eve Girawong, a physician assistant who was killed there.  If you would like to donate, check out the Better Business Bureau’s website which has a list of charities providing aid to Nepal that meet the BBB’s standards of accountability, as well as InterAction Nepal’s website which can allow you to direct your donations to specific needs, such as medicine, food, or shelter.

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 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:

Flight


Embed from Getty Images

“I’m not leaving without my mother.”  Each time I hear those words in this story, the hairs on my arms stand up.  It is the story of the day we left Vietnam.  My brother says we are doomed to lead less interesting lives then our parents.  I think instead we are blessed. Recognizing these blessings is part of this burning away of all that drags us into the mire of living the unexamined life.

I am grateful today not to live in a country where we are in fear of bombs blowing up our homes, where we have to decide what country we should flee to, or worry about never seeing family members again.  This was what passed for normal for my mother and father in Saigon in 1975.  My parents worked for the American military at Tan Son Nhut airbase.  It was a dangerous position to be in, a liability if the wrong side won the war, a risk that could put my parents, and my mother’s family in danger for supporting the cause of freedom from Communism.

The fall of Saigon is officially April 30, 1975. A few days prior, my father came to work and was told to return to Tan Son Nhut Airport with only his immediate family–my mother and me, and one suitcase within a few hours time to insure a safe departure from Saigon.  My grandmother and my mother’s 2 young sisters had come to stay in my mother’s apartment in Saigon after they could not board a boat in Vung Tau to leave the country.  No one knew what would happen next, but my mother insisted that she would not leave Vietnam without her mother.  And so, all of us made it onto that airplane through the grace of God and sheer force of will.

Because of this, I have always been surrounded by strong women–women who have survived war, cancer, and heartbreak.  Because of this, I have always had the example of how to be a good mother, sister, daughter, and wife.  Because of this, I have seen the saving power of grace and forgiveness. For all of these things, I am grateful for a mother who knows how to bend with change, who has been broken and made whole again, and is still beautiful.  She is the woman who has always told me that she gave me wings so that I could fly.

My mother leading the way.

My mother leading the way.

As we start this 40 day journey into leaving behind fear, I’m joining others across the country who are keeping gratitude journals, and invite you to do the same.  The benefits of counting our blessings, so to speak, are manifold:  increased feelings of happiness, better relationships, more energy. . .The trick lies in making this a habit, of course.  Let’s hope that 40 days is enough.

Check out these other blogs for help with your gratitude journal:

http://www.aholyexperience.com/joy-dares/

http://momastery.com/blog/2014/03/06/gratitude-experiment/

And check out this research on forming habits (because I’m still a nerd):

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2014/01/02/how-long-it-takes-to-form-a-new-habit/