My grandfather liked beautiful things. As a kid, I would follow him around the kitchen while he cooked, watching the way he'd assemble plates. "It has to look good," he would tell me in Cantonese. See, the green bell peppers were too bland because they blended in with the other vegetables. The yellow ones (or "gold," as he liked to call them) looked the best.

Every memory I have of growing up and running around my grandparents' house involves me trying to get yeh-yeh's attention – and he always gave it to me too. We'd watch the laundry dry on the clothesline in the backyard. We'd walk around the backyard while ma-ma gardened. We'd sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. On weekends, he'd take my sister and me to the grocery store, and sometimes we'd get on the bus and go to the mall. At Macy's, he would point out the clothes that were the best quality and he would pick out new shirts and pants for ma-ma too. 

Our conversations were limited due to language, and I always wondered what our relationship could be like if I knew more Cantonese or if he knew more English. He spoke English better than ma-ma because of his years working in kitchens, but it was never enough for us to have long talks about anything substantial. 

Thirteen years ago, yeh-yeh had a stroke. It was my first year in college, away from home, and I remember getting the call about it. It was the first time I ever really faced the idea that he may not be around anymore. For my whole life, he was always there – stoic and dependable in his armchair with me sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. During commercial breaks, he would tap me on the head and laugh when I batted his hand away. Sometimes he would sneak me extra snacks ("shh" he'd say, raising his eyebrows) or a quarter or dime from his pocket. We sat like this even well into my teens and 20s.

That Christmas, after surviving the stroke, he greeted everyone who came into the house with a hug and a smile. It was unusual for him, but it was clear that he was grateful he got to see everyone's faces again. For us, we were grateful it was at least one more dinner together. 

We'd have many dinners again after that. Every health struggle, he battled – and won. "All you need to do is change out his batteries, and then he's good to go," my dad joked after yeh-yeh – at 98 years old – recovered from pneumonia and a COVID scare in the spring. It would take a couple days, but then he would be back to his old self, laughing and teasing. 

The last few years in the nursing home changed him. Before, he was so independent and strong; but seeing him confined to a wheelchair was hard. Whenever he saw his grandchildren or great-grandchildren, though, seemed to light him up. He liked the staff at the nursing home and they liked teasing him right back. "This is my granddaughter," he would say to everyone we passed while I chaotically wheeled him around in circles through the lobby. A volunteer who came to take residents out for walks around the building outside stopped us once to say hello. 

"Mr. King's gotta lot of energy!" he said to me. 

"I hear he's a troublemaker," I responded. Yeh-yeh scoffed and told me to shut up while I poked him in the face. 

Over the last few months, since ma-ma passed, my uncle set up regular Skype calls through the nursing home so my cousins and I could see yeh-yeh and say hi. Every session, yeh-yeh would tell us not to waste time or money calling him, but I think he was secretly happy he could see us all. 

We buried yeh-yeh this morning, the majority of us via FaceTime. With him in his casket was a green vest he wore regularly over the last few years, one of ma-ma's knit hats, and the UCI baseball cap I bought him one year. 

Today would've been ma-ma's 97th birthday. I guess he just couldn't wait to see her again to celebrate. 

At a socially distant funeral, there are no hugs allowed. At a socially distant funeral, tissue boxes are the only thing that can be shared. At a socially distant funeral, you stand in the sun and watch a coffin lowered into the ground by strangers wearing gloves.

You stand six feet apart from your loved ones, stance wide to avoid stepping on another person's grave.

You leave and go home.



My grandparents have always been the heart and soul of our family. On birthdays, we gathered around cake in the kitchen with the 70s-era wallpaper that never changed; on holidays, we miraculously fit everyone around a long table in the living room for dinner.

As the youngest of nine grandchildren on my father's side, my memories of these moments are a little hazy. I don't remember some of the finer details of what we ate or what we watched or what we laughed about, but I remembered observing: I watched the way the adults sat huddled together on the couch, trading gossip. I watched how my cousins interacted and made little notes to myself about the way they dressed or the way they spoke so I could mimic it later. I liked watching ma-ma watch everyone, smiling because the small house was filled with so much noise.

My favorite thing about ma-ma was her smile. She rarely understood what my cousins, sister, and I were talking about, but she still liked watching us. When she laughed, her whole face lit up. Sometimes, yeh-yeh would make a bad joke and she would shake her head but you could still see her lips tug up in a smile. When it was time to take photos, she always reached out to hold the person nearest to her.

She'd wake up early every morning to do tai chi in the backyard. She would tend to her garden and insist we take the vegetables home. She went to church every Sunday, where she was a leader in her community. When we stayed multiple days and nights, there was always at least one night she'd insist we do something fun like get pizza from Little Caesars or go to the sushi restaurant (that is now a Korean restaurant).

And she also did things that drove us a little crazy. Once when I was a toddler, before my mom had a picture session scheduled, ma-ma decided to cut my hair with no warning (the photos still make my mom sigh). When I was 4, ma-ma threw my favorite stuffed animal into the washing machine and Mom spent a long time sewing it back together (I still have it with me). She always scolded me for not eating enough because I ate fast, so I used to wait sometimes until she was watching me and I would purposely eat slow – and then she'd scold me for eating too slowly.

In 2005, I became the last grandchild still living at home while everyone else was in college or off working. The time I spent at ma-ma and yeh-yeh's house revolved around doctor's visits or errands that my mom drove them to and from. Ma-ma and I would sometimes walk around Kaiser while yeh-yeh waited at the pharmacy. (Once, we found a vending machine and she gave me quarters so I could buy chocolate for us to share.) I'd watch yeh-yeh later at Target picking out new kitchenware. Sometimes we'd go to dinner and then go back to their house to watch Wheel of Fortune or the end of Kings games.

I know I didn't always appreciate ma-ma the way I should have. Looking back, I've realized how lucky we all were to have had ma-ma in our lives. A few years ago, my cousin Mel interviewed ma-ma and yeh-yeh about their lives on tape. At the end of it, she asked them what lessons they wanted to share with everyone. "No matter how many generations," yeh-yeh said in Chinese, translated by my aunt, "remember unity. Don't be mad at each other for little things."

I can see ma-ma nodding her head. It's why she loved seeing us gathered in her house, I think: Unity. Family. Forever.



Only 10 of us were allowed inside the chapel. Three of my cousins, my sister, and I were part of that group. We filed in separately. Yeh-yeh sat in his wheelchair next to the casket, peering in every so often where ma-ma lay with her Bible. One-by-one, we approached for final goodbyes amid the flowers and the red roses placed lovingly to the side (she loved red roses; yeh-yeh always bought them for her). We weren't supposed to hug yeh-yeh, but I snuck in a quick hand squeeze (I had received my negative COVID-19 results that morning) and my cousin Nathanie handed him a tissue.

The funeral home employees suggested we FaceTime family members who were standing outside or who couldn't be in town so they could see ma-ma one last time. We took photos through our tears, then sat in the pews and made small talk until it was time to close the casket.

Yeh-yeh was driven in a golf cart to the graveside, where the rest of us eventually gathered. There were a few chairs out, but no tents or coverings to protect us from the 100-degree weather. My uncle and a few of my cousins spoke, sharing lovely memories of ma-ma.

I glanced over at yeh-yeh in the golf cart occasionally, far away from the rest of us. I had made him a sandwich earlier in the day because he'd be missing lunch at the nursing home. He ate it while everyone spoke and then it was time to lower the casket. We threw flowers in, and then it was time to leave.

So many of the customs and traditions had to be put aside, which included gathering over a meal. Over the next couple of days, we gathered in smaller groups. I know when this pandemic is over, we'll find opportunities to celebrate ma-ma's life. For now, I'm grateful we got the chance to be together in some way: together – as family, forever. It's what ma-ma would want.

We waved goodbye as I walked out the door, and then I suddenly woke up. My bedroom was still dark but I knew something was different about the world. Two minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text letting me know she was gone.

I went back to sleep, and tried to re-enter the dream for just another moment.

• She used to take Na and me on long walks in the morning. We would go to this office building that had an indoor public space. There was a giant fountain with a fish statue coming out the top. Ma-ma would always tell us, before we started walking, that it was "time to go see the fish." For a long time, we thought she meant actual, alive fish, so we were really confused.
• If I was reading a book on the living room couch, even if it was bright outside and I could see just fine, she would come over and turn on the lamp on the end table because she didn't want me to strain my eyes. 
• She didn't like watching the end of sports games if the score was too close or if they were going to go into overtime. It made her too anxious, so she'd watch up until the last couple of minutes and then leave the room. (I still do this sometimes too.)
• She made greeting cards and bookmarks for people. She always had card stock, stamps, stickers, and colored pencils ready to go in case she needed to bring a card to someone at church. 

• She was deaf in one ear (we always forgot which one) because of her years working at the cannery when they got to the U.S. Sometimes she didn't realize how loudly she spoke because she couldn't hear herself in one ear. This would backfire on her sometimes, much to our amusement.
• We made dumplings with her a few times, but using a mold. Recently, Na and I tried to fold our own dumplings by hand and it was really hard. We wish we had that mold.
• She loved to garden. She used to point out the vegetables to me that were just about ready to be picked and cooked. 
• She always knew when the weather report would be on on every local news station, and she knew what order to watch them in too. I don't know how she knew, but she got it right every single time.

I watched her, this time around, in every interaction we had--at Christmas dinner, at lunch the next day, at dim sum a few days later. When she walks past her children or grandchildren, she reaches a hand out to touch their arm. It would look like she was using us to steady her balance, but it was a light touch and sometimes the person wouldn't even notice. Her wrinkled hands brush against us as she walks as a display of affection, of letting us know, "Hey, I'm here." Ma-ma has this way of shivering when it's cold that I noticed I do too. She scrunches up her shoulders and gives a quick and violent shake of her arms, as if the chills just attacked her from out of nowhere--and she doesn't just do it once; she does it three, four, five times, and then stops, as if she's suddenly warmer. When yeh-yeh says something funny, she smiles (no teeth) and shakes her head, amused.

I imagine that when ma-ma wakes up each morning, she already knows what jewelry she's going to wear, what color lipstick she'll put on, and what outfit she might like to put on. She always looks put together, just as she did 10, 20 years ago. Her hair was curlier back then, and she walked a little faster, but she's still so very much the same. She still loves us all very much the same.

Yeh-yeh is in the hospital. He has a fever and a cough, and it’s officially been diagnosed as pneumonia. They tested him for COVID-19. I am aware – now, more than ever – of fear.

I’ve felt this fear before, those times when people I loved were suddenly faced with intense illnesses or death. My grandfather, at 98, has battled a lot. He’s survived a lot. But COVID-19 is different, and I think about him alone on a hospital bed, disoriented by the lights and the noise. His English is basic, but nowhere good enough to understand the situation. Yet visitors aren’t allowed in the hospital, even to translate, and all I can hope for is that someone speaks Cantonese well enough to be by his side.

When I was a freshman in college, yeh-yeh had a stroke that sent him to the hospital. It was my first time living away from home and the first time I had to really confront the thought of not being there if something bad were to happen. As I grew up and moved farther and farther away, it was a reality that became almost inescapable, and by the time I moved back to California, I was just relieved to be a 45-minute plane ride away from some of the worst moments of my life.

But now, it didn’t matter how close I was. If yeh-yeh’s test comes back positive, I could be a 10-minute walk away and it wouldn’t make a difference because I still wouldn’t be able to see him, to try to make him laugh, to hold his hand, to pretend I wasn’t crying.

And, suddenly, I’m mad at myself. Why didn’t I try harder to retain my Cantonese? Even if yeh-yeh had a phone I could reach him at, my limited Chinese and his limited English would clash. It worked when we were in person, but over a phone line or even a video call, it didn’t quite make sense.

We say postponed, I think, because "canceled" is too harsh. In reality, I think we all know the truth.

Three-hundred and fifty miles away, up north, yeh-yeh and ma-ma are in a nursing home that's been locked down from outside visitors. At 98 and 96 years old, I wonder if they're wondering why the daily visits from family have stopped. I think yeh-yeh must know, at least. He's still sharp and has been reading the Chinese newspapers frequently, when he gets them. Last month when I saw him, he told us there were people dying in China and we should be careful.



One of the hardest parts about this new reality we've found ourselves in is not knowing how long it will be before we can all see each other again. It isn't just the physical distance that keeps us apart right now; it's also the technology barrier – the lack of means to even communicate – and, most importantly, the language barrier.

I used to envy my friends whose relationships with their grandparents were built on conversations that extended beyond, "Have you eaten today?"/"Yes." But my poor Cantonese and my grandparents' broken English ... We've always struggled to really communicate.

And yet I know, without question, that we love each other as much as people who can speak to one another every day. During last month's visit, I showed ma-ma pictures on my phone of Disney trips and my life at USC, and in between drifting in and out of consciousness, she would nod and smile and point to the familiar faces she knew.

Yeh-yeh is more talkative because, by nature of his life, he's had to be. We still joke around in small ways and he remembers how old I am. But he doesn't know what I do for a living or how I spend my days or what music I listen to or what foods I've decided I like and dislike.

But none of that really matters. What matters is that I miss them.

I've always had a soft spot for Thanksgiving – and not just because it's a holiday that contains a lot of amazing food (though that doesn't hurt). I love that it's a day for gratitude and to be with family and friends, and I love that the day lands during my favorite season.

Growing up, it was also the first event of a season of opportunities to spend an entire day with my cousins and aunts and uncles. As the youngest, I loved the change to observe everyone around me – how they interacted, what they talked about, and imagining how holidays would be when I was grown up enough to be part of every conversation.

When I went to college, I stopped coming home for Thanksgiving. The timing was too short, I usually had to work, and I knew I'd be home for longer less than a month later when finals were done and Christmas came around. It helped that I had family in LA too, even though I wasn't used to holidays down here. And I'll admit it took me awhile to get comfortable with it: there was less lounging around in a warm home and more eating out at restaurants, and something didn't scream "holidays" to me the way I was used to, though in some ways, it did prepare me for life after college too.

If you follow me on Twitter, you might already have seen me tweeting about The Tiger Hunter, but I wanted to dedicate a blog post to it because I don't know how much I was able to really express in 140 character chunks.

I wrote a blog post for my pal Phil over at Angry Asian Man while he's taking a much-deserved break...

"We never talked about it. The word "undocumented" was nerve-wracking, confusing, and -- as it's been argued in my grandfather's circumstances -- not exactly true. Growing up, my sister and I were told many stories about our family history, but we had also been taught a moderately conservative stance when it came to immigration, about the "right" way to do things and the hard word that comes with that journey.

Which is why when, during a visit to California in April, I sat down with my mother to talk about this in-depth, she didn't use the word -- at least, not at first. Let me explain."

When I first moved away to college, I felt this sharp jab in my chest every time I thought of home. I had spent 18 years of my life living under the same roof as my parents, and suddenly they felt so far away. I was excited about the next chapter in life, but it still stung every now and then when I thought about how much I missed singing along to the radio with my mother in the car and how those days of picking peaches with my father and sister in the backyard were gone.

When I left college and parted ways from my roommates, my friends, my soulmates, I felt that similar sting. When I left California, that feeling was there too. And all the while, I knew it was nothing new -- when you spend an extended period of time away from the familiar, it's bound to hurt a little. Especially when you don't know when, or if, you'll see those faces again.

My 94-year-old grandfather was put into a nursing home a couple weeks ago. It was supposed to be temporary, and now it's permanent -- although nobody will say that word exactly, because the rest of that sentence is "permanent...until he goes." We don't really talk about death and things like that so candidly (which is perhaps why I'm terrible at handling grief), but I can't stop thinking about how, for the first time in 70-some years, my grandmother doesn't know how her husband is.

About nine years ago, my grandfather had a stroke. The doctors had said they weren't sure if he'd make it, and even if he did, they only guessed he had a year. That Christmas, he hugged everyone.

So I guess he's been living on borrowed time (though aren't we all?), but I think it's his nature to be scrappy. It's what you did to survive a war and coming to a foreign country and starting over again and again.

I've been thinking a lot about my grandparents since I moved across the country -- their past, our history, the moments I took for granted as a child when they would take care of me. People used to tell me how lucky I was to have three of my grandparents alive and able to see me grow up. I've never felt the weight of that sentiment until now.

It was recently told to me that "good little Asian girls" never rebel. That "good little Asian girls" are happy doing what their parents tell them, and that there's nothing wrong with that because that's just how they are.

That's just how, the speaker assumed, I am.

"That's an offensive stereotype," I protested, but was silenced by the man's reassurance that it was a stereotype for a reason. And, he emphasized, there's nothing wrong with it if that's what makes "good little Asian girls" happy.

I had to pause and ask myself if I should be offended by the ignorant assertion thrown at me. Perhaps this guy just misspoke, or he didn't mean exactly what he said.

And then I stopped myself from stopping myself from being offended and just let the anger bubble up. Why should I make excuses for others' casual racism? Why do I need to command myself to not be offended when I felt uncomfortable? Why should I let someone tell me how to feel about a label that's been placed on me?

When you walk through the door of my parents' California home, you're immediately placed in an impeccable living room. The white couch is adorned with silk pillows, the piano is dusted and ready to be played, and my mother's glass cabinet of international collectibles is unmissable. It's a living room, by name, but I don't remember much of my life happening in that room.

The room was always a room for entertaining, a room for visitors. The real living room, as far as we were concerned, was through the dining room toward the back of the house: the "family room," we called it. There was a plush floral couch, a TV next to shelves of videos and books, a corner for our toys when we were young, and a desk that held our computer--before laptops ever entered our lives. It was a room where we did all of our living. It was a room just for us.

But in every TV show I watched growing up, there were never two rooms for living as a family. On the sets of every sitcom family's home, the front door opened up straight into what I knew asthe "family room." It was the main room where the sitcom family would sit down for "family meetings and where conflicts and resolutions would often take place.

I could never understand how a family could keep its problems so close to the surface. How was it so easy for the Tanner girls to open up to their father? How could Will Smith be so candid with Uncle Phil after his father walked out on him yet again?

Note: When I began writing about losing my hair as a child, I was surprised at how many detailed memories I had locked away in my brain. I think I got that ability from my mother (that, and my nose, apparently).

This is a new draft of an excerpt that I've shared online in the past. Writing is, after all, re-writing...right?

My grandparents - most likely in Hong Kong, post-war.

I used to watch my grandma work on her garden through the living room window of her Sacramento home. The backyard was more than just a place to grow food; it was a place we explored and pretended was another world. The grass was our soccer field, the clothesline was a jungle, and the sprinklers were what we imagined running through a waterfall must feel like. In the mornings, it was a tai chi space; in the afternoon, it was a playground.

As I grew a bit older, I was envious of my classmates and friends who lived near parks and whose parents allowed them to go to sleep-away camps and join sports teams. Their worlds seemed to have no limits to where they could go and where they could play, and yet I could only call the rectangular space in a Sacramento suburb my park, my world.

But I think I get it now.

Na and I spent a large part of our childhood calling our grandparents' home our own home, so it goes without saying that the story behind that front door is as important as the one housed in my parents' two-story home. To get to the home my parents built and nurtured, you have to understand where each of them came from: from different homes in different places, all traced back to a country halfway around the world. Both sets of my grandparents found love during war, and escaped into Hong Kong when the Communists came. Their worlds changed dramatically, and even more so when they came to the U.S. at a time when a quota stopped many Asians from doing so. I get it now why they stuck to their kin, afraid of being the obvious foreigners.

Mei gok - "golden land." A land of opportunity. My grandparents didn't do it for themselves; they did it for their children and their grandchildren, and the generations to come. It never occurred to me as a child that the stories of war and torture and escape weren't just inside the pages of an unwritten book. These were the realities of real peoples' lives, my families' lives. The wealthy landowner who was tortured and killed and his wife who committed suicide were my great-grandparents. The diligent engineer who abandoned proof of his educated status to avoid being taken, the young girl who hid her younger family members during war...the soldier and the nurse who stood by the Nationalists until they lost...those were my grandparents.

I get it now why they held us so close when we were young, and spend their days and nights worrying about us now that we're older. I think there's still a lot of pain for what they lost back home as children and young adults. I think they want to make sure that despite all the people they couldn't quite save, they could at least save us from whatever might hurt us.

They came to America with broken hearts, and so I get why they pushed us so hard: to make sure we we were strong enough one day to push on despite our own heartbreaks and struggles.

I don't think my grandparents know how much their grandchildren know about their lives back in China. I remember the look in yeh yeh's eyes when he saw the book of old photographs we'd put together for him from old photo albums we found in their spare bedroom. It must've been 60 or 70 years since he saw many of those faces in person, and the stoic army man I remember growing up with disappeared for just a moment. I wished I could unlock his heart for a second and know everything he was feeling, but I know I'll never know. I can only hope I understand the strength he and my family mustered up to keep going despite all that had happened.

After spending a short week in Beijing and seeing thousands of faces that reminded me of my grandparents, I was overwhelmed just thinking about the sacrifices so many of our elders made for us. And as a child, I know I never appreciated it, and the funny thing is they never forced me to appreciate them for what they did. They stayed quiet so much of the time about the things they saw, the emotions they felt, the anguish of losing everything they knew. When we fought and cried and pouted over what we thought were robbed childhoods, they knew better. I know better now. I get it.

The three of us at my commencement.

For Mother's Day when we were little, Na and I used to get up early and "make" breakfast. I write it in quotes because it consisted of Dad opening the fridge and staring blankly into it, and then the three of us pulling whatever it was we found that was acceptable for a fancy breakfast: waffles (of the pop-em-in-a-toaster variety), whip cream and fruit, eggs, Pillsbury biscuits. Dad would make the coffee, and then we'd run up and wake Mom up right as the food was ready. Part of me thinks/knows that Mom used to pretend to sleep in so we could do this because she always was an early riser.

Inside my grandparents' home: the cross-stitch my mom made with all nine grandchildren's names and birthdates; the mantle lined with all of our graduation photos; the wishing tree from Mel and Kim's surprise baby shower we threw them back in August.

Families are frustrating. I think they're supposed to be, or else we couldn't learn to appreciate them in times of crises and need. I was born into a strong community full of strong individuals. It's a large family, full of aunts and uncles and cousins who feel more like a second set of parents and siblings. I think one of the saddest things about being away from all that now is the realization that if I ever had kids, they won't get to experience that too.

I've never thought of myself as much of a family person, but the more time I spend with them as an adult, the more I miss them. As the youngest, I never really got to bond with my cousins the way I wish I could have. Perhaps this is why 'communities' are so important to me: because they remind me of my most significant, yet distant, one.

Thanks to a persuasive New Yorker review of Parenthood, I marathoned through all of the episodes up until the latest one and found that the strength of the show lies in the irritating characters that you can't help but care about (except, maybe, Kristina). Watching Parenthood makes me homesick, and not just because it takes place in Berkeley, but because it's the kind of community I can only see now through photo albums. We're all so spread apart--and yet, when there are celebrations or holidays that reunite us, it makes me yearn for that community to exist year-round. Despite the frustrations and the arguments and the drama, there's still a love that can't be tossed aside.

Mom always told us that her father reminded them that family is the most important thing because, at the end of the day, that's sometimes all you have. And I think it's true. Sure, you don't have to love them, but you choose to because they're yours, and whomever you choose to date or marry better appreciate that too because my family is made up of a fierce love that radiates toward everyone who enters our home. Be prepared to be engulfed with passion, care and encouragement. When it comes to birthdays and holidays and every little milestone, we go big. We'll love you because someone in our family loves you, and that's all we need to know.

Being far away from my family makes me feel less connected to my identity and culture. It's tough to go from being surrounded by it, to never having it around. And because I didn't seek out similar communities in college, I had friends who would joke about me being whitewashed which, secretly, really upset me. They have no idea, I would think, of who I am or where I came from. Maybe it's my fault for never saying anything.

Anyways, the point is...it's difficult for me to articulate how important my family is to me. Each one of them has something that makes them special and unique, and I could spend pages and pages just writing about them. It makes me sad that I won't have the opportunity to bring new people into this community while I'm thousands of miles away.

On the flight from Sacramento to Long Beach, I sat next to a young mother--only two or three years older than me--who was headed back home to Newport Beach. In the seat next to her was her daughter, Gigi, who was no more than two years old. When I sat down, the mother and I chatted briefly about her job in Irvine and about my job in DC. Looking at her, you'd never guess she had a little girl. Her skin was evenly tanned and her long brown hair was bright with blonde highlights. She looked more ready for the beach than for the hospital where she worked. In small white shorts and a red, striped crop top, she was struggling to keep Gigi in her seat. But she was patient and kind and kept her cool when Gigi would scream. She was strict when she needed to be and did not hesitate to reprimand her daughter for bad public behavior. But Gigi still screamed despite her mother's best efforts. As I watched them on the hour-long flight, I kept asking myself (as I often do when I see misbehaving children), "What would I do if this were that mother?" And everything in my mind was what she was doing, but it wasn't always working. I could feel the frustration coming from her as she tried to read her iPad, only to be disrupted by Gigi every minute. But she was patient and did her best, and I respect her.

I don't think about the idea of having my own family often, if at all. I almost can't imagine that far into the future--hell, I don't even plan what I'm eating for the day until I happen across food that appeals to me in the moment. But this past weekend, being reunited with my (paternal) cousins, aunts and uncles to surprise my grandpa for his 90th birthday and to celebrate two of my cousins' pregnancies with a surprise double baby shower made me think a lot about family and how lucky I am to have this one.

Family (and friends) gather to celebrate Grandpa Lee. (Photo from Mel)

Baby shower brunch--silly picture! (Photo from Mel)

Girl cousin picture! (1995)

"Family" has always been a difficult concept for me to describe to people who ask me about mine. My cousins have always felt more like siblings to me when we spend time together and my grandparents were another set of hands that helped raise us all. I always looked forward to birthdays and holidays because it meant seeing everyone, which became more and more important as we got older and drifted apart geographically. Unfortunately, being the youngest of nine, I didn't grow up with them the way they got to experience growing up, which makes me sad because I don't have those same memories and photos they all do with each other. By the time I was in high school and old enough to wish I had them to talk to, they were all gone and off to college or living their adult lives. I was always the baby of the family. But I do remember the annual visits for a few years out to San Jose and sleeping on the trundle bed in Kimberly's room; the times spent marveling at Mel's super cool room with the decorations that now, looking back, seem soooo '90s (was it you who had the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling? Let's be honest, I totally mimicked your style.); the afternoons spent fighting with Chris over the remote at the grandparents' house because he wanted to watch science programs on PBS but Na and I wanted to watch Power Rangers. All nine of us spent good chunks of time in and out of my grandparents' house, and that house--which had been home to my grandparents and their children after a tumultuous immigration to America that had them living in cramped quarters downtown before finally owning their own home--was practically a second home for my cousins and me.

Na and me with Grandpa (I think 1992?)

When I look back on old family photos, whether they were before my time or included me in them, I start to think about what family would be like for me in the future. Would my potential offspring have the same sense of community I had while growing up? I truly believe the close family upbringing I had helped create the me that exists today. Would I be able to replicate that experience at all?

I'm excited to think about the additions to our family/FamiLee (lols) through marriages and children because the love that already exists is so overwhelming and how could you not want others to be a part of this? Sure, like any family, there are conflicts and disagreements, and I hear too often about so-and-so bickering with so-and-so, but in my opinion, none of that is relevant when it comes to the core of family love. The idea of having children will occasionally find me cringing, but I think I would want to have kids so that they could meet these wonderful individuals.

Grandparents--so elegant...

Grandpa at the house we all call home.

We put together a photo book for Grandpa that had photos from his and my grandma's early days in China to their family in Hong Kong to immigrating to America and adding all of us grandchildren to the mix. Looking at all of those photos makes me yearn for stories of the past. Even though Mom isn't their biological daughter, I'm fortunate that Grandma talked so much to her throughout the years about all of this so that she could pass down these stories to Na and me.

The more I hear, the more I want to hear, but that communication barrier between my grandparents and me exists all too prominently. It makes me wish I'd taken more care to practice my Cantonese so I could talk to my grandpa about his days serving the Nationalist army or I could ask my grandma about nursing school and about how she and my grandpa met during the war. I would ask my grandpa about how things were when they left China after the communists won and I'd want to know about the process and journey by sea to America, and what it was like from his eyes when they first stepped onto shore.

But all I have for now are photos and smatterings of stories passed down. There are so many more photos stored in multiple albums that we've been trying to scan for digital preservation. I love looking at these photos because they tell the story so well. It's probably why I was so obsessed with taking photos all throughout high school and college--because I've always had this secret fear that I'd forget it all and need the reminder. What would I tell my children when I couldn't remember a significant moment or two? But if they could see it...then it'd be like they were living it too.

Far left: Grandma, two friends from the boat, Grandpa and one of my uncles. A short stop in Hawaii on the way to America (1964).

Day 24 of that "30-Day Letter Challenge" (I told you I was slow with it): "The person that gave you your favorite memory."

Bah. This is tough. I can't think of one favorite memory. My life has been made up of invaluable moments that I hold dear. I had this conversation recently with Alan recently about my "favorite college memory," and I don't think I have one. It was the same with leaving Loretto--I didn't have one favorite memory; I had many. Different things happened at different stages of my life that meant different things in those different moments. Does that make sense?

I was known as the photographer back in high school, documenting everything for everyone. "I'm afraid I'll forget it all someday," I said to someone once. When I look back at those photos now, I can barely remember some of those moments. In some photos, I remember the exact details of the minutes and seconds leading up to the shot; in others, I've forgotten why it was photo-worthy in the first place.

I guess if I were to think about it in a broader way, if I were to think about my "greatest hits" (as Lost would have it), I could think of things. There are moments that've meant a lot to me, though maybe they don't mean much to the person/people involved. There are memories I have that stand out to me, but I've always wondered to myself: how do other people feel about those moments too? Were they just as meaningful?

The obvious answer is: it doesn't matter. Whether the person who shared a day or evening with you remembers it as vividly as you do is moot because we all perceive moments differently. What's meaningful to you may not be meaningful to someone else, but the unique memory of it in your mind and the feelings it personally evoked are what make it special. It's how we classify favorites that others may not understand.

My favorite memory...

When Na and I were younger, Dad built a play structure for us out in the backyard. This was before our crazy neighbors moved in, back when "Uncle" Bill was living next door, and then Steve moved in after he left. It was when our lawn was fresh and we still had the apple pear tree. The combination of smells from those pears and our peach tree made spring and summer the most pleasant seasons of the year. It's in these seasons that the random patch of daffodils Dad could never figure out how to get rid of would bloom, and the zucchini in the garden would mutate into a giant after a week of too much Miracle-Gro.

On weekends, Na and I would sit on the plastic, banana yellow swings that hung side-by-side on the metal structure Dad put together one afternoon for Na's birthday. We would compete to see who could swing the highest. We would practice jumping off the swings, pretending like we were gymnasts trying to stick a perfect landing. We would sit on the swings and read our Animoprhs and Babysitter's Club books until the sprinklers would come on by accident and chase us away. We'd swing and swing, tilting our heads back to look at the bright blue sky and fight over whether the clouds were shaped like bunnies or dragons or pirate ships.

My childhood was spent in that backyard. Dad would barbecue on hot summer nights and we'd sit outside, eating our corn on the cob and enjoying the sunset. When night fell, we'd light tiki torches and lanterns and dance around the grass underneath the stars. We would jump up and down as airplanes flew over us, waving at the blinking light in the distance, pretending as if that blinking light meant the pilot could see us so far from the ground. After ice cream or fruits, Na and I would get back on those swings, and swing and swing as if it were daytime, but instead of imagining cloud shapes, we'd look for constellations.

And then we'd go to bed. Na and I would talk. Sometimes we'd listen to music, the volume on our boombox turned down real low so Mom couldn't hear. We'd listen to the crickets chipring in our backyard through the open screen from our bedroom. It was comfortable.

I took it for granted, because as the years passed and our neighborhood changed, we stopped going out to that backyard. The garden died. Dad got distracted and would forget to prune the trees. When the peaches fell, it become a chore to pick them up, and years would go by where we'd have no fresh fruit to share or enjoy. The play structure got rusty and the wooden benches I watched Dad build one afternoon rotted. And then we got busier and busier and nobody had the time or energy to take care of that backyard. We neglected it, and by the time we realized it, it was too late to fix it. So we just let it get worse.

Last winter break, I stepped outside to the backyard for the first time since leaving Sacramento--and I mean really stepped outside, because waffling near the side gate and poking at the plants is not the same. I walked outside to the patio where we used to have our barbecues and didn't recognize that backyard anymore. The grass was all dead. The Japanese maple was dulled. There was no more apple pear tree and the peach tree looked as if it would collapse under the weight of its branches. The backyard grew old, just like the rest of us as we age. But that's the wonderful thing about memories: those never grow old. And that's why I still remember exactly what it felt like to be a child in that yard. Despite what it is now and what we let it become, it will always be something I loved.

When I was four, and Na and I had separate rooms, Dad went on a painting kick and re-painted the exterior and interior walls of our house. He let Na and me choose the color of our room (it had to be the same though because there was no way he'd buy more than one color that he'd probably never use again) and so we chose, as most little girls would, pink.

"Don't touch the paint," Dad instructed after he finished my room. He let me walk inside though to see the new color. When he wasn't looking, I reached a finger out and poked at a spot near the window. The paint got on my finger and left a splotch of the white wall underneath it uncovered. I didn't tell Dad (obviously) and he didn't notice.

Every time I go home, I always expect something to be different, but Sacramento rarely changes -- at least, not the Sacramento I see in my mind's eye. The landmarks are still there, the streets curve the same and my house still looks as if the trim was just painted that cornflower blue. With the exception of some additions and items shifted around, it feels like nothing has changed within my house. While I was living at home, I got so used to it that I hadn't realized how stagnant the environment was. The music notes from seventh grade are still on the kitchen walls, Yosemite Sam is still on the whiteboard, the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers poster is still on the closet and the splotch of white wall near my bedroom window is still there. It's all been untouched.

Sitting in my old room, I realized how much everything really has stood still. The posters and pictures and memorabilia on the walls are all the same -- from the Johnny Depp posters to old LHS paraphernalia. Old journals still line the desk and there's still a Gundam Wing action figure or two. You never really realize how much you change until you return to a place where your former self has been frozen in time. If I were to move back home and live in my old room, I don't think I could maintain any semblance of the person I've become. The longest I've stayed back in Sacramento since moving away has been, at most, two weeks for winter break. The length is not enough time to bring my changed persona back into my childhood environment.


When you leave for an extended period of time without making a regular appearance in people's lives, they tend to lose track of you and forget bits and pieces of who you were. Most times, they have trouble seeing that you've changed so their perception of you remains that of what they remember from "the good ol' days." I notice this the most in my high school friends, the people I'd had as my family for four years. All too quickly, that bond and connection falls apart unless you make a conscious effort to keep it up. Being hundreds of miles away, it's hard to do so. There's a desire to hold on to the people of the past in order to preserve your hometown roots, yet that keeps you from really moving on and embracing your present and, inevitably, your future. I let that happen for quite some time, and to no avail.

So how do you keep yourself grounded, knowing that the place you set your roots no longer has room for you to grow? I suppose the only answer I can suggest to that vague and open question is simply the title of this post: you have to have (invasive) roots before branches. We all "move on" in life, as nothing really remains static, and there's no sense in staying trapped in the past and dwelling in the fact that the place you called home is no longer really that. Growth goes upwards and climbing higher, despite not knowing how high that is or whether there's a possibility a branch will snap and fall, is the interesting part of that journey.

If I had truly known and understood that lesson three years ago, my experience in Irvine would have been different. But who likes playing the "what if" game? To be honest, I'm glad it took me three years to figure it out for myself because it makes the other trees and their branches that I've intertwined with all the more amazing.