For my people (the mothers)

For my people, the mothers, who are told their womb is barren. An empty vessel. The ones who use needles, pills, and anything artificial to reproduce. The ones who are deficient. Broken. 

For my people, the mothers, who are told they can’t bring forth life, the thing that society and science say women are supposed to do. The mothers, who feel like they have failed. The ones whose bodies failed them. 

For the mothers, who every time they see a pregnant belly start to cry. The ones who are angry and scream until their voice is a whisper. 

For the mothers, whose partners will never understand. Who live in a lonely prison of their own suffering. 

 

For my people, the mothers, who are hopeful, discouraged, hopeful, discouraged, hopeful, discouraged, until a miracle seed grows inside their belly. 

For my people, the mothers, whose breasts start to swell with milk, and feel nauseous at the smell of feet and grocery stores. The ones who learn to trust their bodies. 

For the mothers, who give of their bodies and souls. The ones who give a part of themselves, so their hearts can live outside their bodies. 

For the mothers, who have a mother, yet never had a mother who showed them how to be a mother. The ones who had to make it up as they went. The ones who don’t want to make the same mistakes and erase generational trauma. The ones who carry a heavy load. 

For my people, the mothers, who are grateful every day for the miracle that is life. The ones who are honest that life is never a straight line. 

Coffee Talk

 Sun shines through the open windows telling me it is time to get up. I try to leap out of bed, but my legs are glued to the mattress. “Coffee,” I moan. Groggily, I force myself out of bed and walk down to the kitchen. I peer into the pantry and remember that I am out of coffee! I must resort to Plan B. I quickly get dressed, grab my wallet and jump on my cruiser to head to my local coffee shop. 

The sweet smell of coffee tickles my nose as I enter the Coffee Grinder, a long standing Ketchum, Idaho institute that serves organic coffee and tea, pastries from scratch, and other speciality items. 

I have an hour to kill, so I order my drip coffee in a porcelain cup to stay and take a seat. The owner, Nikki, is engaged in a conversation with a man I don’t recognize. They talk with ease, like old friends. He sits comfortably at the bar wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and sandals. Nikki gets pulled away to help customers, so he pulls out his phone and starts dialing up friends. 

“Hey Mike. It’s me, Steve. How are you? I’m in Sun Valley for Rufus’ funeral.” 

Pause. 

“I know it’s a tragic thing. But, lovely ceremony on top of Baldy and everything.” 

“So, hey, I would love to see you while I’m here.” 

Pause. 

“What am I doing these days? Well, I’m in the sandal business.” I look down at his sandals. Practical brown leather sandals. 

As I look up from the sandals, a lady and her son enter the shop. The son is all teenager: goofy grin, baseball hat askew. He scratches his head and ponders the menu. His mother makes casual conversation to keep the mood light. 

“Look at this, hon.” She walks over to a collection of medium-sized wooden bowls hanging on the wall. 

Her son saunters over, glances at the bow-shaped bowls and grunts.

Softly she says, “Aren’t they interesting?” Sensing her son’s indifference, she turns to Nikki, “Interesting story.” 

The handcrafted bowls are eye-catching; the smooth interior carved perfectly to entertain a salad or a bowl of fruit. Oblivious, the man continues to shout into the phone’s speaker about sandals and the bottom line. I look down at the man’s sandals again. The leather is cracked, the quality cheap. He dials up another friend, but reaches voicemail. He hasn’t turned around once to look at the bowls

 “I’ll be here for the rest of the week. Would love to see you.” I hear desperation in his voice. He makes another call, ”Is Bob around?”

I read the wood carver’s bio and learned that the artist fell in a climbing accident and ended up in a coma for a week. After he emerged from the coma, he discovered his true calling. 

I think about how ephemeral life can be and how differently people live their lives; whether they spend it rushing from one thing to the next, trying to reconnect with old friends as they pass through town or whether they stay in one place, living a simple life expressing themselves through their art. 

I smile as I leave, feeling thankful that I ran out of coffee this morning. If I didn’t venture out to get my coffee, I wouldn’t have experienced coffee shop life, where people’s lives intersect, if only for a minute.

Head On

His pupil got larger and larger, pulling me closer to him. Time stood still. Silent and suspended. 

“Bam!” My face hit his face. It was like hitting a concrete wall. Then, blood. So much blood. 

There was a full moon that night; it was Friday, January 13 and it was the first full moon of the year, ominously called the Wolf Moon. My friend, Heather, and I were driving through the desolate winter landscape of Central Idaho toward our friend’s 40th birthday party in Driggs, Idaho. We had gotten a late start and the moon’s light was guiding us like a beacon. Heather was in the driver’s seat of her Hyundai SUV. I was the copilot and was supposed to be looking out for big game on the road. We were talking about all the powder we were going to ski at Grand Targhee over the weekend when I saw him. He was starting his migratory journey across the highway to meet up with his herd on the other side. He was a 5-point bull, beautiful, majestic, and right in our path. 

There was not enough time to brake or swerve. We hit him head-on going 65 mph. More accurately, I hit him head-on. My head took the brunt of the collision since he was at least 7 feet off the ground. The airbags didn’t protect me, instead tiny shards of shatterproof glass showered over my hair, face, and torso. A piece of glass lodged into my eye. My face felt hot and my right shoulder was throbbing. I looked down to see blood dripping from my head. Was it coming from me? What just happened? Where was Heather? Where am I?

Surprisingly, I only broke my nose and suffered lacerations and bruising on my face. My jaw stayed in tack, most likely due to the ten titanium plates that were systematically placed in my upper jaw from jaw surgery I had when I was 13. My face has been bloody, bruised, stitched and iced more times than I can count. Once right before my wedding day, I went flying face-first off my mountain bike. My face hit the ground like a ton of bricks. I was petrified that I was going to have to walk down the aisle looking like Two-Face, the villain in Batman. But, the saga of my face all started on the day of my sister’s 6th birthday. 

We lived in our old house on Wapato Drive in Portland, Oregon. We lived on a cul-de-sac with four other houses. Our house had a long driveway with bushes on either side of it. My sister and I used to love riding our bikes up and down the driveway and out into the street with the neighborhood kids and friends. We would pretend that we were in the circus and do circus tricks, such as riding our bikes with our hands in the air, or one leg out behind us in a ballerina’s arabesque. I loved my bike with its yellow banana seat and streamers. I imagined I was the prima ballerina in the show and my bike was my dancing partner. We used to have judges and competitions to determine who had the best form and who was the most daring. I loved the thrill of performing. 

For my sister’s 6th birthday, she had a clown party. Clowns have always frightened me with their painted faces, colorful wigs, and silly costumes. I was 8 years old and too old to fall for clown tricks. I wanted to know who was underneath the clown’s disguise. 

I took the opportunity to go outside the mayhem and ride my bike. My bike is where I felt free and weightless. I could be anything I wanted on my bike: a bird, a race car driver, a ballerina! This time I didn’t have any judges, it was just me out there on my own. I was practicing a new move: a one handed arabesque! I lined up my bike perfectly to get some speed; arched my back, and lifted my right back leg and left arm to the sky. No one was there to see me gracefully hit the sidewalk curb and fly like a trapeze artist onto the asphalt. I lay there stunned and in pain. I had never taken a hit to the face like that. What felt like an eternity was probably only a few seconds. Once I collected myself, I got up, held my face so it wouldn’t fall off, and ran inside. The clown show was in full process. I ran to my mom, who was across the great divide between the door, 20 kids, and a clown. I didn’t care that I interrupted the show or potentially ruined my sister’s birthday. I longed for the comfort of my mother’s arms and the assurance that I would be okay. She delivered with hugs and ice cream. The show was momentarily halted as the focus turned toward me and my needs. But, as they say in showbusiness, “the show must go on!” 

Thus, I calmed down enough to watch the end of the show. The clown turned balloons into dogs and pulled a large rainbow handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He ended up being better than I thought and the moment of being scared passed, as I experienced more fear in the moment of hitting my face on the curb. Now I had a story to tell and a badge of courage that when you fall down, it stings, but if you get back up, you will be witness to the vicissitudes and marvels of life. 

It was many years later that I would experience this feeling over and over again. Each time, getting back up, being brave, and facing life head on. 

Random Autobiography

I was born sunny side up

On a Tuesday morning in August. 

Once, I almost lost my father to a drunk driver

Once, I felt betrayed.

I gained a secret sister.

I have tasted the salt of my tears

And drank from cool mountain water.

I have climbed up volcanoes in Alaska

And skied down glaciers in Chamonix. 

I have lost friends from making mistakes 

And lost my way 

Only to find a new path. 

I have felt freedom 

Riding a bicycle through the streets of Vietnam

Getting my driver's license.

I held my newborn baby in my arms

And felt her fingers tickling my chest. 

I have watched time pass

Through the wrinkles on my face

The scars on my body.

I have felt the pain of breaking my nose 

And the longing for another child. 

I have learned from listening to others

To the words of lullabies 

And to the beat of my own heart 

Calling me back.

Dancing School

I went to a small, sheltered school in Portland, Oregon. There were 30 people in my class, many of whom I had known my whole life. Boys and girls played together, but we still stayed in our boxes. We loved to play boys chase girls in elementary school. I loved it, because I could show the boys how tough I was by wiggling free of their firm embrace. I also loved it, because it made my heart pitter-patter every time Spencer or Adam pursued and caught me. It was my earliest memory of flirting. 

Back then sixth grade was still part of the elementary school. I liked still being in the same building where I first learned to read, tie my shoes, and do cherry drops. I wasn’t ready to grow up or act mature. My world was still familiar and safe. Mid-way through the year, our teachers told us that we would be moving to the newly constructed middle school building. Most of my classmates embraced this change, however, I was frightened. I didn’t want my life to change and go from being a big fish in a small pond to a small fish in a big pond. 

But, change is inevitable. On Friday we were in our old building and the following Monday we were in our new building. New desks, new faces, and lockers! There were also new social rules. No longer was it okay to play with the boys on the playground. Now girls stayed to one side and the boys stayed to the other. Instead of playing four square and tetherball, we sat around and “talked.”

But, the defining moment of my transition was the next year in seventh grade. In the 90s, every seventh-eigth grader in the Portland Metro area attended Dancing School. My mom was so excited for me to participate in this long-standing tradition. When she was growing up in Portland in the late 50s, she also attended Dancing School. Alas, not much had changed from when she did it to when I did it. 

Girls were supposed to wear long, fancy dresses with white satin gloves and patent leather shoes. Boys were supposed to wear slacks, collared shirts, breast pocket jackets, and loafers. 

We arrived at the Scottish Right Center in Downtown Portland on Friday nights dressed appropriately. If you were not dressed according to the rules, you were sent home to change or if you had too many demerits, you were asked not to come back at all. Once you entered the ballroom, boys were told to go to one side and girls were told to go to the other. Members of each sex stood there awkwardly until it was time to form two circles: one on the inside for the boys and one on the outside for the girls. We were matched up with a partner and must curtsey or bow to greet the other. Then, we watched the couple (male and female) demonstrate a dance move that we were to practice with our partners. This went on for an hour, frequently rotating around the circle until you danced with 4-5 different dancers throughout the evening. Whoever you ended up with would be the one who would walk with you to say “thank you” to the chaperones (the adults who were watching out for any funny business). 

Once outside the building, the gloves, dresses, suits, and formalities were shed and everyone met up at Petros Pizza. Now that the uniforms were off, another costume was put on. For me, this costume was harder to put on. I didn’t have boobs, shave my legs, or wear makeup. I looked around at all these new girls from other schools. Ones that I had seen in the glossy magazines and on TV. They felt foreign and scary to me. But, also mysterious and desirable. They were the ones that got noticed and were popular. They were the pretty roses, while I was the dandelion. 

I watched how they dressed, moved, and talked. I wanted to emulate them, so I could fit in and be liked by the boys. That night, I told my mom that I wanted her to take me bra shopping and that I needed to buy a razor to shave my legs. This is despite the fact that I was flat-chested and hairless. 

The next Friday night after Dancing School, I put on my new uniform (bra, tight shirt, and mini skirt). I looked the part, but I still felt invisible. I have never been a good actor. 

It wasn’t until the following year that something switched. I showed up at Dancing School and this time I was noticed. I had something that wasn’t bought at the store or manufactured. That something was confidence. 

Apo

It was spring 1998. I was studying abroad in Vietnam with 12 other American college students. We were there to immerse ourselves in the culture, people, history, and land of this Southeast Asian country. We followed the rhythms of the day as day turned to night.

In the evenings, we ate Pho at street-side stalls. The heat and the aroma wafted from the bowls, as we sat on our plastic stools. We slurped up the goodness as sweat poured down our faces. We were ready to take our full bellies dancing.

“Where should we go?” Jasmine asked as she stood up from her stool.

Anne, who had grown up visiting family in Vietnam, said between bites, “my cousins like to go to a place called Apocalypse Now.”

I took out my Lonely Planet guidebook and read aloud, ‘Apo’ has been around since 1991 and remains one of the must-visit clubs in town. It's a sprawling place with a big dance floor and a courtyard, and its eclectic cast combines travelers, expats, Vietnamese movers and shakers, plus the odd working girl. Expect pounding techno.”

Melanie smiled, “Sounds like we at least have to go check it out,” then frowned, “I am not sure how I feel about the “odd working girl” but in this city, it doesn’t surprise me.”

We followed the directions from the book and made it to the entrance of the club. Spice Girls, Wannabe, was blasting from the speakers. The dance floor was packed with people, mostly Americans and Vietnamese. 

“I think we need some liquid courage,” I commented as we made our way to the bar. 

“Yes, please.” Anne agreed. “Em muon bon Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, lam on,” she said in Vietnamese. 

With our G and Ts in hand, we headed to the dance floor. The music was thumping and the dancefloor was beginning to fill up with people gyrating to the music. I stayed on the periphery to get a better view and have some space. It was a little quieter and I could hear myself think better. 

A tall, dark, and handsome man came over to me. Oh no, I thought. I don’t know how to flirt. What am I going to say to him?

Since the music was so loud, he got close, a little too close.  “Hi,” he said. His eyes were the color of caramel.

“Hi,” I replied, fiddling with my drink straw. “Do you come here often?” 

Did I really just say that? I have been watching way too many American sitcoms.

“No, this is my first time here. My name is Jean. What is your name?” 

I detected a faint French accent. “My name is Hannah. What are you doing here in Vietnam?” I asked. 

“I am visiting from Cameroon. I am on holiday with some friends.” He motioned with his head to another corner of the dance floor. 

I had so many questions! I have never met someone from Cameroon. What is it like there? Is French the official language of Cameroon? My thoughts were interrupted, when Jean said, “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure,” Jean and I made our way to the dance floor. 

The DJ was playing Ace of Base. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics.

“I saw the sign and I opened up my eyes, I saw the sign.” Suddenly, I heard some kerfuffle. I opened my eyes to see five or six Vietnamese women hitting Jean with their handbags and screaming at him. I stood there motionless. What is going on? I thought to myself. He hasn’t done anything wrong? 

Jean was a big man, but looked powerless from the mob of angry women throwing their loaded handbags at him. He held up his arms to block his face, yielding to the injustice. It was then that I saw what the Vietnamese women saw: A black man dancing with a white woman. But, I didn’t feel what they felt. Were they trying to protect me? Were the women justifying their actions as brave and noble? This is so fucked up, I thought. 

“Dung lai!” I screamed. “Stop!” I pulled Jean away from the dance floor and ran to my friends, who witnessed the melee. 

“We need to leave NOW!” His friends also saw what was happening and ran out of there. 

All seven of us (four Americans and three Cameroonians) reconvened outside. 

“What just happened?” Jean’s friend asked in confusion. 

“I don’t know. I was dancing with Hannah,” Jean replied, as he pointed to me. “And then these ladies started hitting me.”

“Those women were racist,” Jasmine said angrily, “you were the target of their prejudices.”

“I didn’t think there would be racism against blacks in Vietnam,” Melaine said innocently.

I shook my head, “racism is systemic.”

From that night on, I started noticing microaggressions everywhere. The American tourists disregard of Vietnamese “street people.” The North Vietnamese disdain for the Western views of the South Vietnamese. The Vietnamese prejudism against Cambodians. Although these were isolated occurrences, racism and injustices did happen and still happen in Vietnam today. The night at the dance club proved that. 

After that night I was able to walk away and go back to the freedoms I have as a white American. Jean did not. I wonder where he is now and how he remembers that night. I wonder if he feels free. 

Gravity

“Let gravity do the work,” instructed my dad. I was small and needed some speed to get through the deep snow. We were skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho and it had snowed overnight. I had never skied in this much snow before. 

Some of my fondest memories are of skiing in Sun Valley. My family visited this mountain town every spring break and some winter breaks to ski on its world-famous ski runs and light, fluffy snow. At age 4, I took my first turns down Dollar Mountain in Sun Valley. I wore jeans, oversized ski boots, and a gap-toothed smile. I loved feeling the wind rushing by my head and the gravity pulling my body down the mountain. My dad would put me between his legs, so I could learn how to move my hips to make my skis arc. Soon, he let me go, so I could try on my own. At first, the runs were flat with little risk, but as I got more confident, the terrain became more varied. Eventually, I was skiing with my friends through the trees on runs called, “Dilly Dally Alley” and “Grandma’s House.” 

‘Let’s do that again,” I screamed in delight to my friend Nell. We would load the chairlift and do another lap until our toes and nose were cold and then we would go into the lodge for hot cocoa and french fries. When the day was done and the lifts were closed, we would drag our bodies home and regale our families with all our fun adventures. 

These spring break weeks were what I longed for all year. I loved being in the mountains and as corny as it sounds, “being one with the mountains.” I loved the challenge, the euphoria, and the adrenaline. I went back to these feelings every year, and eventually, boundaries got pushed and the challenges got harder.

My dad wanted to take me down Fire Trail, a black diamond run, the hardest classification for ski runs. The run veered off from another run and disappeared into the trees. It was so long and steep that I couldn’t see the bottom. The snow was also up to my thighs. My heart was beating inside my chest and my legs felt like jello. My dad was an accomplished skier. I looked to him for how I should ski: confident, effortless, and strong. I skied all over the mountain with him on groomed runs, but this was my first black diamond, powder skiing run. He took off first to demonstrate how to angle your body and let your skis float on the snow. He stopped part way down, so he could watch me and give me advice. I lined up my skis to face down the hill and pushed off with my poles. I made a right-hand turn and went to turn again, but could not get my skis to come with me. I ended up falling forward with my head facing downhill. Cold snow crept down my jacket and into my pants. 

“Dad, I am stuck!” I screamed in fear. 

“Throw your legs over your head,” he responded. I did what he told me and voila! I was back in position. I stood up shakily. 

“Don’t overthink it this time. Just point your skis downhill, lean back, and let gravity do its work,” my dad hollered. 

Okay. I thought. Easier said than done. But, here it goes. 1, 2, 3…

I leaned back and pointed my skis downhill. To my delight, it worked! I met him at the bottom with a hug and sheer adulation. 

“Can we do that run again?” I said with a smile.