My favorite time of the year.

It’s getting to be that time where even in Southern California, the air is shifting and we’re all breaking out our turtlenecks, cozy slippers, pine-scented candles and hot tea. The weather is still so weird here around this time though; I remember a couple years ago when it was in the 90s on Thanksgiving. It may be superficial, but I’m already thinking about what I’m going to wear this year to Thanksgiving dinner — on top of the weather being weird, how do I dress for the amount of food I’m going to eat?! Haha.

In all seriousness though, this is my favorite time of year; because worked into our calendar and the things we celebrate are ideals of gratitude, thanksgiving, love, family, community and birth. My church congregation this past weekend “hung the greens” and decorated the building to mark the end of the church calendar and the start of Advent next week. After Thanksgiving passes, Christmas is right around the corner and then it’ll be the New Year. But my naming of those quick seasonal changes this time of year isn’t meant to make you feel anxious about the approaching holidays, or stressed because it’s all happening fast. It’s to hopefully help you take a step back this Thanksgiving and Christmas season, pause, breathe, and reflect on the goodness you have received, the things you’re thankful for and the uniqueness of the people you celebrate with. After you’re happy, sleepy and full of turkey, of course.

This year, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving with my aunts, uncles and cousins in La Canada Flintridge, and so my Aunt Gini asked me really graciously if there was any dish that was meaningful to my family that I wanted at this year’s Thanksgiving. It was so thoughtful, and reminded me of truly how meaningful the particularity of this holiday is for everyone. Each family’s, friend group’s or community’s Thanksgiving is unique and significant in particular ways to the people involved. Whether it’s sweet potatoes baked a certain way, mac ‘n cheese (both of which we never had at my family’s Thanksgiving, but both of which I’ve been delighted to discover at other people’s), pecan pie, a specific kind of cranberry jelly or gravy, or something totally different than any of those items, you know these particularities that I’m talking about. I’ve been part of more and more conversations lately on adoptive identity, narrative and journey; and I’ve been thinking about those conversations in combination with the celebration of Thanksgiving and in combination with the particularity and uniqueness of each of our stories. My story (as well as all of your stories), is both part of certain larger stories, like the Asian American narrative, the adoptee narrative, the Christian narrative, the millennial narrative, the female narrative, etc. — but it’s also particular and unique — transcendent and inclusive of each and all of these stories because it’s only and wholly my own.

In a sense, the way we as an individual, family or community celebrate Thanksgiving — the particularity of our family’s food and customs — is one reflection of our combination of each of these hybridized, interwoven and unique narratives that make up who we are.

For example, for me, the smells and flavors of Thanksgiving food and the warmth and memories associated with celebrating it on Ingleside Ave. in Pennington, New Jersey, with my mom, dad and sister, Beth, will always be conjoined and extremely sentimental in my mind and heart, now and for years to come, even as things continue to change for all of us.

We gathered around the table sometime in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes with exchange students from Princeton that my parents were friends with at the time, sometimes with other friends of my parents, but normally just the four of us. We played an ABC Thanksgiving game, where we went around the table, each saying things we were thankful for in alphabetical order. We played Hide the Pilgrim with little plastic figurines of a pilgrim boy, girl and turkey. We always prayed and thanked the Lord for the blessings He provided for us, recognizing that this day, in addition to every other, was from Him, for Him and centered around Him. We had the typical dishes — squash and green bean casseroles, stuffing, turkey, canned cranberry, mashed potatoes, apple, pecan and pumpkin pie. An outside observer may have thought it seemed pretty normal, a pretty typically American way to celebrate Thanksgiving.

But, if you haven’t experienced my particular family’s way of being together, who we are, what we eat, what we talk about, you can’t necessarily understand. Just like I can’t completely understand the way you celebrate with your family or your people. That uniqueness of your family and uniqueness of mine brought together around a common time of celebration, gratitude, love, comfort, feasting and belonging is what I so love about this time of year. It’s a delicious and tangible expression of each of our individual, family and communal stories — centered around food, the table, and ideals of love and gratitude — a deeply theological expression, whether we consider ourselves spiritual people or not.

So I hope in this time, we share our stories with each other — how do you “do” Thanksgiving and Christmas? I also hope we invite each other and others into our homes and our lives in this time, because that particularity and uniqueness that our people have can and should be shared with others.

Happy Thanksgiving! Eat lots of stuffing and green bean casserole for me! (or mac ‘n cheese, if that’s more your family’s thing)

xoxo, Joy

Small things aren’t insignificant things.

I wrote a poem not too long ago, called “My Small Things,” about a time when my ideas and dreams felt really small and unattainable; I’ve sure we’ve all been there. But I’ve also been thinking how “smallness” doesn’t need to equate to feelings of loneliness, sadness, despair, neglect or rejection by those around us. Small things can be really good things if we ourselves give them value in our own lives.

My roommate, Karley, introduced me to this podcast called The Next Right Thing, all about taking small steps forward in decision-making and life, and the host, Emily P. Freeman, talks often about the importance of small things. In one of the recent episodes I listened to, something that has really stood out and stuck is the simple idea of “point and call,” or naming things, big or small, for what they are and for their significance. This helps us better know and understand ourselves and what’s happening in our own lives. It also helps us think clearly as we continue to move forward. If you’re anything like me, you can reach the end of a tough day, or a good day, or just a very eventful day, and know that a lot happened but not take the time to process exactly what those things were and their affect on you. This can happen day after day, until you realize you have a lot to process and say or think about — it can feel like a weight is pulling you down.

So just for me — and if you’re interested in listening — I wanted to list some things that have been happening in my life lately. I believe that giving words to simple things gives them power and significance and lets us decide how we want them to affect us.

There is a lot that we carry around with us, and as a Chinese adoptee, I have lately been trying to process more how my story connects with other Asian American stories and how to relate to the AAPI community. This is one thing: I have been feeling disconnected from a cultural and ethnic story lately, and I’m not always sure how to proceed forward in understanding my own.

Another thing: I met with fellow Chinese adoptees last weekend in downtown LA for brunch, and we got to know each other and talked about our lives. It was really wonderful.

Another thing: I have my first published (well, published in print) article coming out for Inheritance Magazine this week! It’s in an issue called, Same but Different, and I’m really excited about that.

Another thing: I was reminded this past weekend, and have been lately, of how grateful I am for my little apartment in Pasadena, my dear roommate, friends, family, and church community. I love living in LA.

Another thing: In the middle of busy days and weeks, I have been trying more and more to practice mindfulness and self-care. Not “settling for” things I don’t really love, but taking them in stride. And in the meantime, taking time for myself whenever I can.

You know, when I was little, I always remember getting the comment “Joy takes pride in her work” on my report cards — you remember that?! Those generic comments your teacher could insert for you? I remember thinking, “well, duh, it’s my work and since I got an A, of course I’m proud of myself (no brainer)” — the words of the slightly haughty and naive little 3rd grade me. I’d ask my mom why they even offered that comment as an option because it didn’t make sense to me. Today I realize how radical a statement it can be to take pride in my work; I hate that as we get older, the world tells us more and more that we aren’t good enough or that we are what we produce.

Can we first take pride in who we are — and then in what we’ve done?

Can we tap back into those proud and confident third grade voices in our heads that told us we could do anything and we were good enough?

Can we name the small things we’ve accomplished or that we’re thankful for unashamedly and proudly for what they are?

That’s my encouragement for you today; thanks for reading!

Shanghai.

The old woman’s wrinkles cradled secrets and stories
tucked within the folds of her worn linen shirt and dumpling basket
 
Her ebony, beady eyes hold years of pride and mystery
her small, dainty feet have pedaled all the crevices of the city
 
The noodle soup man stands at his stall every morning through evening
he makes the best Muslim noodles in my neighborhood
 
Is that even right to call them Muslim noodles? 
His food welcomes natives and foreigners while he himself was displaced
 
Sometimes we need to take a pause, the sounds are overwhelming
but our lungs are gripped by heavy smog, we cannot find pure oxygen
 
Picturesque, vintage scenes like from a postcard
where does the value in things lie? Is it all being commodified?
 
It’s early morning and everyone is moving,
why don’t people pause to rest, to sip their morning coffee?
 
To continue quietly in the comfort of their own image,
to take peace and satisfaction in all they have truly accomplished
 
Do they take moments for themselves like I do?
do they take pride in who they are?
 
How I wish I could know their hopes, loves and dreams
what was their dream job, their favorite memory as a child?
 
What gives them energy, what do they love the most?
How do they have strength to continue moving at this pace?
 
When whiteness is the highest standard, 
blonde hair and blue eyes worshipped,
than who tells the stories of the old, wrinkled woman,
the noodle man,
the ones who hold so much in their faces,
and in their grasps?
 
The ones whose stories I long to know, 
I cannot be the one to tell them, I am the foreigner.

My mystery.

Still in the middle of my mystery
I feel anything but secure
it’s a story, it’s a history
I always wish I could’ve said more.

Mornings of serenity and frost
wilderness and rural churches
why there did I feel so lost
three years the lakes I searched.

Searched nature and world over
for answers to my questions
found myself without even one cover
yielding a story with my mention.

Because world over it didn’t exist
never could I hope to carry myself right
despite having stories to impress
deep down my heart lurked in its night.

We all looked the same
but more different we couldn’t be
falling asleep sad and frustrated
people looked but they couldn’t see me.

I find myself now in the city of angels
pursued a degree because I had the same questions
see myself in more peoples’ faces yet still it’s a challenge
how do I make money and do something relevant?

So see, they continue but they take different forms
the mysteries of our lives
if we live into them, if we give them respect
maybe we will find

friends to guide us
a church to harbor us
a family to love us
a stronger self to carry us through.

Because the mystery is ours to write and solve
we always ask our own questions
we decide around what or who we revolve
and how we resolve our tensions.

Who we will turn to in our sadness and joy
who is with us in our darkness.
who we will show the side that’s smooth and coy
or who with we’re our authentic and full selves.

As I forge the story myself
I still feel less than relevant
but I think less and less that’s what it’s about
making ourselves feel important.

Truthfully,
we have always been immensely important,
valued beyond belief.
So the real question is:
how do we realize that,
how do we live into our worth?
it’s a relief to not worry:
is my mystery valuable enough to be seen?

But, to think about instead,
filling our stories with more meaning.
Meaning, not being worldly clout
but our strongest, truest sense of being.

Of freedom.

Caught in between
Worlds, cultures and faces,
where do I find myself?
but lost,
within a notion of who I have been
conditioned to believe
that I should be.
 
Shapes, colors, details, bone structures,
have torn the world apart,
have told us who we are,
have told me I cannot decide for myself.
 
But when I do decide,
what do I say?
what am I to know now who I want to become?
My face is not my culture,
It is not who I am.
 
But when I am free,
to act on something deeper than my tiny
nose, almond eyes and black hair,
am I ready?
 
Do I know what my freedom means or
what it can do?
How do I find something that has always 
been missing?
 
I need to construct, to redefine, to revert
and subvert that which has been
constructed for me.
 
Freedom is in this power to discover and create,
Can we look beyond?
Can we look within?
 
To discover that we are a human race,
never meant to be defined by borders,
shapes, colors, frameworks, details, or faces,
but by qualities,
 
Of love,
of creativity,
of compassion,
of discovery,
 
of freedom.

My small things.

They sit on a street corner at the edge of my heart,
vying for your attention.
But they’re drowned out,
because I’m too afraid,
that your dreams will engulf them.

Not because my small things are
            not as strong,
                        not as good,
                                    not as worthy,
but because they’re not only on a street corner,
on the fringe of your periphery,
but they’re in a box.

Only passersby, 
people driving, 
pedestrians, 
a young mom pushing her stroller, 
an elderly man walking his dog,
can see them,
if they’re at a certain angle,
if they’re paying attention.

My small things, they just sit in their box and wait,
because I’m too afraid,
to shove them in peoples’ faces,
to have them tell me, no I don’t
want to see those things,
hear those things,
            I want to listen to my car stereo instead,
                        I have to pay attention to my baby,
                                    to my dog.

I have too much to worry about,
too many dreams vying for my attention,
to spare a moment for your
small box of things.

Fully engulfed in the exhaust of other peoples’ dreams,
I wonder were they
            not as strong,
                        not as good,
                                    not as worthy,
or maybe the street corner just wasn’t a safe place for my small things.

Maybe they were never needed to vy for your attention,
maybe mine was enough,
maybe I was enough,
but because I was too afraid,
I never told you how small my things felt,
how my small things felt,
vying for your attention.

They’re
            just as strong,
                        just as good,
                                    just as worthy,
to be noticed by passersby,
to be held safely,
to demand attention.   

Kentucky.

The screen door swings open by itself,
and memories come out to haunt,
I don’t quite know why,
I’m remembering the summer of the fireflies,

of the smell of freshly cut grass,
Daddy just mowed the lawn,
the sweat upon my brow and lip,
because of the just-set, hot summer sun.

Why is it a place with a straw field that I always remember?
A looming house, a boy I don’t really know,
memories that may not be my memories,
I’m running across the field with a stranger.

But that’s kind of how Kentucky feels,
in my memory it doesn’t feel like my own,
it was someone else’s story my mind set out to steal,
and it’s only now I’m making that known.

But the memories take me back,
to a brick, one story house
nestled on Coltneck Lane,
how could I forget?
This really may be my story,
that place once held my name.

I learned how to ride a bike,
on the gentle decline of a church parking lot,
Daddy’s encouragement and grasp, my guide,
As I tentatively moved down that slope.

Momma dressed us up for Easter in matching dresses,
the tulips beamed too in the front yard photos,
we went to a neighbor’s house for supper,
and I ate at least two dozen dumplings.

I wore my dress-up clothes around the house,
I read around a racetrack,
I didn’t have a care in the world,
I definitely rocked that bowl cut,

This was me almost 20 years ago,
happy and carefree,
I had a little southern drawl,
I went to Trinity Academy.

And then the screen door slams shut,
the fireflies disappear,
it’s getting late,
and the heat feels too much to bear,

I wake up in another chapter,
a cold yet familiar place,
the sweat has dried upon my brow,
my memories erased.