Reading with Mom

I haven’t tried to share books I’ve liked with my mom, even though she has been a big source of inspiration for me as a wannabe writer and I first read Asian American writers like Amy Tan because she checked those books out of the library.  Even though I’m a book person, I’m reluctant to give books as gifts unless the person has specifically requested a title, or seemed interested in the title or author before.  It’s a bummer to discover that a gift you gave is a dud, and even more disappointing when the gift is something in which you supposedly “specialize.”

As one of my Christmas gifts this year, I decided to try a book, Ha Jin’s short story collection, A Good Fall, which came out in late November.  I felt a little more confident about this because a) she read Ha Jin’s 1999 novel (and National Book Award winner) Waiting, b) Asian American writers seem to appeal to her (as seen in her Amy Tan phase and her interest in Waiting) and c) the short stories all revolve around the Chinatown section of our town, Flushing, Queens.  The book’s format as a dozen short stories as opposed to one continuous novel would fit in better, I reckoned, with my mom’s busy work life.

Half an hour after we opened the gifts Christmas morning, my mom began reading.  Confession: I read the very same copy that was in her hands only a few days earlier, before wrapping it, careful not to crease the pages or crack the spine too much.  Whenever I walked past her in the process of putting presents away, she looked up from her book, reading glasses perched on her nose and a magnifying glass in her hand.  (She does this because she doesn’t want to get a stronger prescription for her glasses).

“Did Ha Jin ever live in Flushing?”

(No, he did not–an article I read answered that question, which I had also wondered).

“I never knew there were bathhouses in Flushing.”

“I’m on [short story title].”

“Don’t you feel all his stories are a little sad?” she asked, when both my brother and I were within earshot.
“What’s wrong with that?  Does everything have to be happy?” my brother answered.
“Well, I like happy stories,” my mother countered.  “But I guess this is how he sees things.  All the people are very lonely.  The life of the immigrant, right?”

I didn’t say anything during this exchange, but was amused, as one of my classes this past semester discussed happy versus sad short stories and wondered why there were so many more of the latter.  My mom and brother could hold their own in a MFA class!

While I do agree with my mom on her claim that there’s loneliness in each story, we do differ.  My favorite story in the collection is “A Composer and His Parakeets” because I find it tender and rather charming–but my mom thought it “was a little boring.”  We both liked the first story in the collection, “The Bane of the Internet,” though the only thing she could say about it was that “it was short.”  I liked the blunt narrative voice.  While I think that Jin veers towards caricatures with some of the female characters, especially the nagging Chinese mother of “In the Crossfire,” my mom would argue that those characters are true-to-life.  I’m surprised she isn’t more bothered by the various female characters who are portrayed as distant/not terribly supportive wives and mothers with questionable parenting skills.  Female protagonists fare better than secondary female characters, but overall Jin creates more nuanced male characters, even when they’re not the focus of the story.  One would expect the cuckolded husband in “Temporary Love” to fly into a jealous rage when he discovers his wife’s affair.  Instead, he remains levelheaded but doesn’t forgive, manipulating his wife to financially support him through business school.

A Good Fall strikes me as well-balanced in other ways, however.  Both “Children as Enemies” and “In the Crossfire” focus on generational conflicts; the former takes on an elder’s point of view, while the latter is told from a younger person’s perspective.  “Shame” and “An English Professor” both deal with Chinese professors of English (that is, professors who teach English literature and are of Chinese heritage); a former student of the professor tells the story in “Shame,” while the narrator-protagonist of “An English Professor” is a professor (though not the same professor as in the preceding story).  A lot of literature that revolves around Asian immigrants and Asian Americans deals with economic hardship–while this is true of many individuals, this isn’t always the case (would Asian Americans be dubbed the “model minority”?).  Many of the characters in A Good Fall are financially struggling, but Jin also represents characters who have been settled in the United States longer, and who are moderately successful, such as the protagonist of “The Beauty,” who is a real estate agent.

As an English grad student, I couldn’t help but feel for the main character of “Choice,” a history grad student who is also confronted with turmoil over being Asian American and not studying something more practical.  (I don’t think I need to give examples.  You know the stereotypes). Like me, the character tutors to support himself–though I wish the story didn’t devolve into a love triangle.  My mom related to the professor in “An English Professor” and how he gets hung up over a typo (“respectly” instead of “respectfully”) and worries it will ruin him professionally.

“And it has a happy ending,” my mom said, further justifying her fondness for the story.

Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t be the most helpful person in workshop.  Pharmacists earn a ton more money, anyway.

(Imagine: a writing workshop in which each MFA brought his or her mother.  If it was nonfiction writing, I can hear mothers saying,  “That is not true.  Things did not happen like that” or “That happened?  Why didn’t I know about that?”  For fiction, I suppose mothers might wonder how biographical their children’s stories were, or ask themselves how their sweet little children grew up to write such bizarre, lurid tales).

As I write this, my mom is about two-thirds into the book.  I’m not sure if she’ll finish the book before I leave New York on Wednesday, but I did let her know that the final story of the collection, which is also called “A Good Fall,” does end on an optimistic note.  I don’t think we’ll be starting a mother-daughter book club soon (I doubt she’ll want to read Moby Dick when I tackle it for my lit class this upcoming term), but sharing opinions about A Good Fall has been fun.

Merry merry

From my family to yours, best wishes for a wonderful day.

Yeah, I’m rockin’ a dress and red tights.  Pretty awesome, huh?

Relearning how to live at home

This has happened before: anticipating a stretch of time in which I’ll be free from school and work obligations, I tell myself I’ll write.  What really happens: I don’t write.  Such has been the case since the semester ended and I headed to see my family in Queens, New York.  (By “writing” I don’t mean writing here, my few readers, but writing towards the 200 pages standing between me and a creative writing MFA degree).

Things that I have been doing instead: making pathetic attempts at shoveling snow (that was Sunday, and only today, on Tuesday, do my arms feel normal again), preparing the weekday family dinners, cleaning various things as prescribed by my mom, eating copious amounts of Dove dark chocolate, and wasting time on the Internet.  I accept full responsibility for the last two activities, and am not really ashamed of the penultimate item.  (Why is it that I sound more pretentious when on break from academia, and less so when such vocabulary might be useful such as, say, in lit class discussions?)  Nor do I begrudge the first three activities, as I see them as part of what being at home–as opposed to being a guest–entails.

The night before I left Pittsburgh, I went to a bar with three of my classmates after my final class of the semester.  Since it was cold, I thought nothing of walking briskly from the building in which we had class to the bar about a block away.  It wasn’t until we were at the door of the bar that one of my classmates–we had walked in pairs, and I had been leading the way with another classmate–commented on our speed.  She walks with a cane, a detail I had forgotten.

“I think I’m ready for shopping on Monday,” she said in good humor.

When we left the bar, we walked more slowly, much to her relief.  I remembered the flight I was going to catch the next day, that in twenty-four hours I’d see my mom.  Though she walks with a cane and my mom does not, my classmate is much more able-bodied than my mother.  Just before class that night, she had sat on the floor with me outside our classroom, and I only had to hold out my hand to her to help her get up.  She walks much more briskly than my mother.  But as a person who walks quickly, I had to readjust my pace to synchronize with her, something I knew I would soon be doing with my mother.

The next night my mother picked me up from the commuter rail station in her car.  My brother had dinner ready when we arrived at the house.  When we sat down to eat, my brother opened two large vitamin bottles, and took one pill out from each bottle, setting them down by my mother’s cup.  She nodded in the direction of my right elbow, where there was a white pill box next to her reading glasses.

“Can you pass me my medicine?” she asked.

Greg took out two vitamins, again unprompted, the next night.  My mother asked me again for the pill box.

“Can I have half an apple later,” she said to Greg.

I once visited home when my brother was away, and had to prepare my mother’s nightly half-apple.  (Why not a whole apple, I still wonder).  Cut the apple in half lengthwise, scrape out the core with a spoon, and hand the half to my mother in a ceramic rice bowl.  Like my brother, I ate the other half of the apple every night.  My mother also falls asleep while watching TV from her bed each night, so I also had to fill in for my brother by going into her room, turning off the TV, removing the bedrest pillow from behind her back, and shutting off the lights.

Since my brother is home this time, he makes sure my mother has her apple half each night (or orange, if she so requests), and turns off her TV and lights before he goes to bed himself.  He takes out the garbage and does their laundry.  My tasks, other than making dinner since they both work weekdays, are supplementary–useful, but not absolutely essential: doing my mom’s gift wrapping, waxing dusty shelves and sills, Windexing dusty glass surfaces.  (Since I cleaned the chandelier in August, I get a pass from that chore this time–at least until next August, perhaps).

As I’ve said before, nurturing does not come easily to me, since I grew up as the youngest child in the house, nor did I grow up with animals.  Sure, I like to make food and share it with people.  But there are other moments when my brain doesn’t register what it ought to do, such as when I was on the fall writing retreat and a person complained of a headache.  My response was, “Oh, that sucks,” while two other people produced aspirin and even filled a glass of water for the ailing person.  When I do get things right, I often do experience the do-gooder feeling and enjoy it.

Last night, my brother was slow in coming to the dinner table because he had just finished making sugar plums.  (Yes, really.  He was also on a fruitcake-making kick several years ago, and also had homemade yogurt and homemade frozen yogurt for me to try when I came home this time).  I opened my mother’s multivitamin bottle, and handed her one tablet.  I was so proud of myself for remembering and not being asked.  When Greg sat down at the table, he reached for the same bottle.

“Your sister already gave me one,” my mom said. “It was a gray one.  I think it was the Centrum.”

“Oh,” my brother said.  “Did you get a calcium tablet?”

Well, shit.  There were two bottles.  And I forgot the pill box at my elbow.

Maybe I’ll get it right before I leave New York.  But next time I come back, I’m sure I’ll have to relearn the rhythms of family life.

Champagne wishes and cookie dreams

When I entered grad school and received an invite to the MFA welcome party, I was surprised by the location of the party: the house of the then-program director.  At a professor’s house?  I’d never heard of such a thing as an undergrad.  Professors’ offices had only given me a glimpse of their personal lives–their selection of books, a photo here or there, or the odd Boston Terrier figurine one of my undergrad thesis advisors had.  I had known less about my instructors who only had cubicles, as they had even less personal effects lying around.  The MFA program director’s house is large and gorgeous, filled with trinkets that I’m sure all have interesting stories behind them–considering this man was buddies with Ray Carver and is the inspiration for the protagonist of Michael Chabon’s novel Wonder Boys.

I admire the literary credentials of the professors here in the writing program–multiple books, shorter pieces that have appeared in a ton of prestigious publications.  Of course I’d love to have such accomplishments under my belt.  I also covet the professorial domiciles I’ve visited.

This is the last week of the semester, so I’ve been busy with my own schoolwork in addition to working with undergrad student-athletes at work.  In lieu of class, one of my professors hosted a party at her house.  With a plate of homemade cookies and a copy of my final paper, I hopped into a car with three of my friends/classmates.  On the way there we listened to songs from the Glee soundtrack (love it) and Miley Cyrus (not a fan, but her music’s appropriate when you’re feeling jovial, I think).

Within two minutes of setting foot into my professor’s house, I knew this was yet another house for which I’d lust.  Beautiful kitchen!  A glorious back deck with a view (though it was too cold to linger on it, sadly).  Framed black and white photographs and daguerrotypes.  I’m not going to lie–a long table crowded with food always helps in my book.  I also appreciate the quirky, like the row of hooks by the front door, each with a number beside it–elementary school nostalgia.

The end of a semester is enough reason for celebration, but add one person completing his undergrad degree, two people finishing their grad degrees (a MA and a MFA), and the holidays into the mix.  For many of the other party guests, this was the end of their very first semester of grad school.  For Amy and I, this marks the halfway point (hopefully) of our three-year degrees.  Clearly three bottles of champagne (a fourth one in someone’s car, if needed) in addition to a lot of other alcohol were necessary to properly celebrate.  Plastic wineglasses?  We had ’em.

I say this with much affection: the MFAs are a gossipy, gossipy bunch.  (So gossipy that I was in at least two conversations that dealt with people at the party but not presently in the circle).  I’m not an articulate and erudite person, and the end of the semester is probably the worst time for me in terms of trying to hold my own in an intellectual conversation.  But no need to worry about that at this shindig.  I talked butts and boobs (and other less vulgar things, too, I swear).  Listened to strip club stories and stories about crazy cousins.  Looked at photos of my professor’s wedding this past summer.  Giggled perhaps a little too much with a classmate-friend over the party give-away box (thanks, fruity champagne that went down easily).  When words did fail, I just plucked one of the many cookies off the food table.

By 11:15, however, I was ready to lie down and go to sleep.  I was so tired that I walked out on the serious conversation that was taking place in the kitchen about how to run MFA workshops most effectively.  On the drive home, I revived a bit, especially when Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” came on in Amy’s car:

Whoa, we’re halfway there
Livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand and we’ll make it–I swear
Livin’ on a prayer

Three semesters done out of six (just six, no more, pleasepleaseplease).  Halfway there.

More like Yogi Bear

If you were to ask my friends what stereotype I best fit, I think the most popular answer would be treehugger/greenie.  I’m a vegetarian.  I don’t have a car.  Walking is my favorite form of transportation.  I prefer tea over coffee.  I subscribe to Vegetarian Times.  I bring my own bags when I go grocery shopping.  Since my apartment building doesn’t recycle paper, I amass a large stack of papers, junk mail, magazines and catalogs, and then talk a walk over to a nearby school that has a paper recycling receptacle.

But because I don’t like to be a walking stereotype, I was quite proud of one way I failed to fulfill the treehugger mold: I didn’t practice yoga.  When I used to have a Wii and TV at my disposal–that is, when I lived with someone with those things–I did do the yoga component  of Wii Fit as part of my workout, but I didn’t think of it as “real.”  Besides, I didn’t have an actual yoga mat.

Yoga is everywhere.  I know several people in different parts of the country who are yoga instructors.  A grad school friend of mine may or may not be writing about her experience with yoga as part of her manuscript.  I see people carrying rolled up yoga mats all the time.  There’s a yoga studio around the corner from my apartment–I’ve even seen mothers and toddlers going in together.  You can even buy yoga products at Barnes & Noble.

I’m sure you can see where this is going:

Yes, that’s mine.  It’s not from Barnes & Noble–it’s from Amazon, which isn’t saying much.

Why cave in now?  I’ve always been high-strung.  Grad school hasn’t been the gentlest experience for me, with faculty issues, a flare-up of my writerly insecurities, getting adjusted to new surroundings, and relationship troubles.  I cried a lot my first year.  This first semester of my second year has involved less tears, but I’m still not serene.  For one thing, my mind won’t shut up when it’s time for bed.  And I suppose I still cry more than the “normal” person.

“Have you tried therapy?” my professor asked me a few weeks ago, after I had begun crying in her office.

“Do you meditate?” she inquired later in the same conversation.

Another one of my professors is also into meditation, and even led us in meditation exercises in the course I took with her. Even though she held most of our classes off campus–many of them at the Phipps Conservatory, which I love–I found it incredibly difficult to let go of the thoughts running through my head.  New thoughts would pop up.  Was I breathing right?  Inhale, belly expand–Crap!  I’m thinking!

The closest I have been to a meditative state, I think, is when I walk long stretches in quiet areas, areas preferably with trees.  That’s why I enjoy the trails that cut through Schenley Park.  The dropping temperatures and waning daylight hours in Western Pennsylvania this time of year, however, prevent me from doing this as much as I like.  I needed an indoor activity that allowed me to move my body but was low-impact.

Gyms and fitness classes make me terribly self-conscious.  All the women who pile in and out of Schoolhouse Yoga, the yoga studio near me, look svelte and dressed in all the right yoga workout clothing.  Since yoga’s been trendy for several years now, are there actually any classes for people who are total beginners?  No, I’d rather not feel dumpy and foolish next to these other women.

Netflix has a Watch Instantly option, which allows members to stream select movies and other videos on their computers.  I find this feature incredibly useful when I’m still waiting for my next DVD to arrive in the mail, especially since I don’t have a TV.  I was browsing one evening and realized the Instant section had a Sports & Fitness category; there, I found Crunch: Candlelight Yoga.  The user reviews raved about how this video was good for de-stressing, how people did it before bed and slept better as a result.

I’d give it a shot.

The 44-minute video is a little cheesy, with the occasional background noises of birds and wind chimes and the amplified sound of breathing.  But Sara Ivanhoe, the instructor, has a soothing voice–and I appreciated her comparing deep breathing to making a Darth Vader-like sound at the back of your throat (yeah, I’m a nerd).  She also stresses that it’s okay if you can’t stretch out all the way in poses and that you should only go as far as is comfortable for you, which was assuring for me because I’m not a flexible person at all.  I did find myself concentrating more on my breathing and thinking less as I continued through the series of movements, all of which Ivanhoe explains well.

After the video, I washed up and went to bed.  While I didn’t fall asleep right away–I never do–it seemed like I tossed and turned less, and I didn’t keep rolling over to squint at the digits on my alarm clock.  The next thing I remembered was opening my eyes and realizing that it was the next morning.

In the waning days of the fall semester, I’ve been pretty consistent in rolling out my yoga mat and streaming the Candlelight Yoga video before bed.  Am I now awesome at yoga?  Definitely not.  I don’t think I’ll ever be a yogi–I have a better chance of becoming like Yogi Bear.  I still loathe the Downward-Facing Dog pose and I’m sure many of my other poses aren’t quite correct in form.  But I’m trying not to bring my sense of perfectionism into yoga–it pervades too much of my life already.

When I leave Pittsburgh for the holidays in less than a week, I won’t be bringing my mat with me.  Hopefully, I won’t need an outlet for stress relief as I take a break from school and see family and some friends.  I expect I’ll pull out the yoga mat again, however, when spring semester classes begin in early January.