Living Through My Children – Making the Pom Pom (Pon?) Squad

My daughter made the pom pom squad last week. It was a little strange to watch her the night before tryouts, practicing the turns and kicks to Devo’s “Whip It”. Even Peter came upstairs after watching her and her friend go through the routine shaking his head and saying, “She was dancing and doing this shaking thing. She has moves.”

It was a little strange because, believe it or not, I was a pom pom girl. My poms career began in junior high and ended abruptly my senior year of high school when scheduling conflicts between poms practice and newspaper deadlines collided. I opted to stay on as EIC and give up my poms, but despite never having good friends on the squad I missed performing. Back when my knees didn’t creak, I had moves. (Stop laughing!)

Anyway, I’ve been thinking back to that season in life and wondering what my parents thought of the whole thing. They didn’t come to any performances that I can remember, though I found a photo of them at homecoming with a “My daughter Jane is a Lancette” so I know they were at at least one game during my sister’s stint on poms. I vaguely remember my parents and I talking about whether or not being on the pom pom squad was something I could put down on my college applications and whether or not it would conflict with more important endeavors like school.

But one of the things that I remember about being on poms was that holding those blue and gold and then blue and white bundles of plastic gave me an exclusive look at social power. It was all very confusing to me; isn’t everything pretty confusing in junior high and high school? Suddenly, the geeky smart Oriental girl had access to the social elite. I spent hours in practice and at games with girls whose hair defied gravity and designer bags were both the envy and joke of us “regular” girls at school. It was always such a strange feeling, walking around in school on game days in my uniform. I felt part-phony, part-geek, part-mean girl. 

Now before you think this is all about teenage angst, I actually had a science teacher who laughed when I walked into class with my lettered sweater and pleated skirt. He laughed out loud and then made a comment to me in front of the class about how cheerleaders and upper-level science didn’t work together. Never mind that I was also fighting stereotypes about Asian Americans excelling in math and science (my passion was English and newspaper reporting), but now I was fighting stereotypes about girls and math and science.

Fortunately, the strength of those stereotypes have wavered some since my days as a pom pom girl. I’m not so sure if the social power structures of middle school and high school have changed all that much though. I wonder what my daughter will feel when she puts on her uniform for the first time and walks through the hallways. How will her friendships deepen and change? How different or the same will her middle school experience? Will the uniform help my daughter, whose teachers unilaterally describe her as quiet and shy, find her voice? And if so, what will that voice sound like?

I’m unabashedly proud of her. She knew that only 16 girls would make the team, which meant a lot of girls weren’t going to scream and smile when they opened up their envelopes. And when she found out that she made the squad but that a few of her close friends had not, she handled it with aplomb. I can’t wait to hear more from her.

Living in the Hyphen – Shame

Is there anything “good” about growing up in a shame-based culture? What are gifts of our Asian culture that we bring into our Asian-American culture? And how is Asian American culture (with or without the hyphen) different than simply a mix of what is the “best” of Asian and American culture?

Those were just some of the questions that we weren’t able to fully answer but left me with a vague restlessness after a focus group on Asian American identity at the More Than Serving Tea conference at Seattle Pacific University a few weeks ago. (To those of you who attended, thank you for making the day such a wonderful experience!) There has been a great deal of study done on ethnic or racial identity formation, but our time wasn’t designed to be a seminar but more of a conversation. So we talked. Some were more quick to identify our bicultural experiences as blessings while others were still wondering.

We often look at developing a sense of bicultural identity as taking the best of both cultures and shedding the negative, but one woman pointed out that some of what can be considered as “negative” cultural values can also be a gift. Her example:  growing up in a shame-based culture keeps her attentive to her conscience.

Through the years of ministering to college students I have spent a great deal of time walking young adults through the weight of shame – feeling not “I made a bad mistake” but “I am bad”. When you feel guilty, you might choose to apologize for the wrong, but when you are shamed there is little to do to save face. Most of our energies have been pored into shedding the shame and embracing God’s forgiveness.

So I was a bit taken aback by the suggestion that shame could be redeemed and be a blessing, but isn’t that what God does? Doesn’t God take my junk and redeem it? Isn’t it possible that the same shame that can paralyze me can be a gentle reminder that there are consequences to sin, to the “bad” choices we make, and that sometimes the consequences are far-reaching?

Shame and I are good friends. For the past two years, I’ve spent a good portion of time wrestling with a sense of failure as a daughter-in-law, wife, mother and daughter as Peter and I have become part of the sandwich generation (caring for both young children and aging parents). When we invited my father-in-law to live with us after my mother-in-law’s death, it was out of a strong sense of duty, honor and love. But during his stay with us I constantly struggled with a sense of failure and shame that the level of care I was providing to everyone in the household fell miserably short.

When the decision was made to move my father-in-law to live with my sister-in-law and then later into an assisted care facility, there was still no relief from the sense of failure and shame. (I grew up hearing, “We (meaning Asians, and specifically Koreans) do not put our elderly into nursing homes like Americans. We take care of our elders.”)

Some of you won’t believe this, but there is a sense that people in the Korean American community here talk about us in hushed tones. “Oh, yes, I heard. They made their father/father-in-law go to a nursing home because they didn’t want to take care of him.”  Others of you know exactly what I’m talking about.

So where in all of that was a sense of shame a gift? I’m still thinking about that one…Thank God I’m still learning…

Living Through My Children – Parent/Teacher Conferences

I’m so glad they’re over. Yesterday was our marathon day of parent/teacher conferences. As a child, I didn’t think much of these times. I just knew that the weeks prior to conferences our classrooms would be plastered with our very best work –  self-portraits, our best writing assignments and neat desks.

As a parent, I’ve learned that I need a balance of leaving my issues at the door,  being a learner in each new classroom, and being my child’s advocate and cultural translator.

My issues: When Peter and I had our first conference for Bethany’s preschool (!?!?) I realized how I connected her academic success to my parenting. Silly? Yes. Understandable? Yes. It was easy to take credit for her reading skills and social skills. I figured if I had to listen or watch people tsk, tsk me when the kids throw hissy fits in the middle of the cereal aisle I would take the credit for their better moments. Really, our kids are amazing…by the grace of God. I’m not saying they are perfect. They can use what little money is saved up for college or therapy. But as a parent I can’t take all the credit.

Culturally it was inappropriate for my parents to brag about me and my sister. If someone said they thought my sister was pretty or I was smart, my parents would smile, thank them and go on to tell the person at least one fault of ours – “Yes, she’s pretty except she’s not very tall. And, yes, she does well on her tests but not as good as I hear your child does.” The parenting theory of many 1st generation Korean immigrants was that compliments would only make our heads bigger but not in the brain cell/rote memorization sort of way. The result is my personal inability to receive compliments graciously. It’s always very awkward and a bit stilted because it feels so odd. Even though I think the world of my children, it is with trepidation I enter parent/teacher conferences because I never know how to receive compliments about my own children. My knee-jerk reaction is to say, “Yes, she/he loves reading, but she/he doesn’t want to read more challenging books.”

And then when I do hear the compliment and manage to acknowledge it, I have another overwhelming urge to find out how my child ranks against other children. I can’t help it. I think it’s genetic.

Being a learner: Each teacher has their strategies, goals, dreams, issues. Each grade level has its challenges. If I expect my child’s teacher to understand my child then I need to put in a little effort to learn about each classroom. I’ve also learned that the many teachers who influence my children are human. Some of them are just as anxious about meeting me as I am about meeting them. They have just a few minutes with each parent to communicate authority, expertise, understanding, insight, etc. It feels a bit like what I imagine speed dating might feel like.

I don’t think my parents ever considered themselves partners with my teachers, but that is how I have come to understand my relationship with my kids’ teachers. I’ve learned that if I don’t learn how to work well with the teacher’s style, curriculum, and expectations the only one who loses out is my child.

Being an advocate and cultural translator: This is what shouldn’t have surprised me but did. I know that I am Asian American, but being a parent I’m fascinated with watching and influencing how my children will develop an ethnic/cultural identity. I don’t recall every telling any of the children to be quiet in the classroom, but I was floored when teacher after teacher commented on my daughter’s “quietness”. They would say how she was a good, solid student, but without fail one of the first things each teacher would mention was that she didn’t often raise her hand to offer up her opinions.

I asked if we could look at a photo of my daughter just to make sure we were talking about the same child.

After about the third teacher I jumped in by asking why they were telling me how quiet she was. I asked if participating was part of the grade, and, if so, how participation was being evaluated. Don’t worry. I asked all of these questions with a motherly smile. 😉

It turns out that all three of my children do not raise their hands in class and only answer when called upon. Their teachers call them “respectful” and “considerate of his/her classmates”. I’m not saying that those traits are Asian, but respecting elders and honoring community are high values the kids have learned in very Asian ways. The boys don’t call their older sister by her name. And I’ve even seen Bethany do a slight bow when she meets “an adult”.

In the end, I come home wondering if I’ve done enough as a parent to help each of my children do as well academically and socially as possible. (Funny side note: the other night Peter and I were out at dinner with the boys and while we were waiting we whipped out math flash cards to pass the time. I had a “oh, my god, I can’t believe we have become our parents” moment as other diners stared at us like we were crazy or their child’s worst nightmare.) And then I wonder if I praise my children enough or too much. And then I wonder what the teachers really think about our kids and maybe even us? Please tell me I’m not the only one.

20 Years After High School – Reunion Recap

I’m glad that I went. It was a long night-early morning of reconnecting, reminiscing, laughter, and gratitude mixed in with a few moments of absolute amazement, horror, awkwardness and high school.

Things I had forgotten:

  1. Going to homecoming with D. Apparently we sat on opposite ends of the table at dinner, and after all these years he wanted to know why. Honestly, I had forgotten about homecoming and dinner, but thankfully someone remembered and remembered why I was incredibly annoyed at my sincere but rather energetic date. D, thank you for the rose in my locker and for being both endearing and annoying by calling me Kate and Kathryn all those years.
  2. The party at P’s house where someone ran outside and onto the roof of my parent’s Honda. D says that I blamed him but that it was really B who did it. I honestly don’t remember D or B being at P’s house, but I do remember the dent on the roof of that maroon Accord that I could parallel park like nobody’s business.
  3. All through school my last name was mispronounced simply because I had grown tired of trying to correct people. It was very strange hearing people scream my name out in recognition, “Kathy Kang” (as in rhymes with hang, Tang, rang, etc.). I made a promise that once I hit the college campus that I would go by the proper pronunciation of my last name.
  4. How weird it was to be a Lancette (a pom-pom girl). One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong…
  5. How difficult and confusing it was to be what my parents wanted me to be against the pressures of majority culture high school life.
Awkward and funny moments:
  1. Trying to remember the name of a classmate before said classmate made it over to me and T.
  2. D telling me in all sincerity that I was the reason he had to carry a big eraser around in school our senior year because he would try to erase the nasty things people would write on my “Kathy for Senior Class Council President” signs. (That election had to be one of the worst memories of high school for me, and it taught me how easily people could be manipulated, how mean people could be, and what courage in high school looked like.)
  3. A classmate appearing to have a wardrobe malfunction. I just cringed.
  4. How so many of us recognized a certain classmate, but then had nothing to say. I think I finally said what we were all thinking. I’d like to think that I’m a better person after 20 years, but some memories  were clearly seared into our minds.
  5. Realizing that T (one of my best friends from jr high/high school) and I had been crossing paths for years. The craziest thing? She is related to someone in my small group. Phyllis, are you reading this?
  6. The dance floor with 80s music playing and a 4-hour open bar.
This morning my sister was doing her best impression of a supportive sister by telling me that I was a dorky looking geek in high school, which was why so many classmates were surprised by my ugly duckling transformation. I know my perm was bad, and my glasses were really big and round, but was it really that bad? Really?
All in all a great night of catching up. Life has not been 20 years of coasting and fun for anyone, but it was great to hear how people were enjoying their careers and families. And as I drove home I thanked God for not leaving me as that 17-year-old in Roselle, for the tough lessons learned during and after high school, for my family and for my full, rich life.

20 Years After High School

In about two hours I should be about ready to take off for my 20th high school reunion. Yup. Twenty years since I graduated from high school and ran as fast I as could to college. Do the math. 

It has been fun reconnecting with folks I haven’t seen in years via Facebook – some were at my wedding, but most of them dropped off my radar as diapers gave way to time-outs and then spelling lists. We have tried to do brief recaps of the last 20 years – school, jobs, marriage, careers, children with a few photos. I can’t wait to find out how a drama crowd acquaintance became a pastor. I can’t wait to see my grade-school best friend and find out what she’s been up to. 

But the build up to this has been 20 years in the making because high school was quite an experience. I don’t know about you, but there are huge chunks of time that make me cringe, and not just because my hair was big or my glasses were even bigger. No, high school was four years of AWKWARD mixed in with moments of self-assurance and confidence, a huge dose of teenage angst and a dash of “no you didn’t”. I had a close group of friends, but we all had different interests. I was on the school newspaper, speech team, student council and pom-pom squad. I learned the art of toilet papering, and experienced the horror of having someone screaming nasty things while throw rocks through our windows. I learned how I could be simultaneously incredibly smart and stupid. I learned a little about a lot of things – photography, music, dance, physics, American history and trigonometry. I learned a lot about a few things – trust, image, cliques and the power of words.

I wasn’t ready to go to the 10th reunion. It felt too soon. Years ago a friend from church was so excited about his reunion. He was a popular football player, and he couldn’t wait to tell people about what God had been up to in his life. I remember sitting there thinking that as a “never popular newspaper geek” I wouldn’t know what to tell people.

So another 10 years later, and it feels right. I needed 20 years to allow God to chisel away at my judgmental tendencies and bring out much more grace and graciousness. I needed 20 years to live a bit more of the life I fantasized about and have reality soften the rough edges and give me a reality check. I needed more time to see how lessons learned about the power of words would run its course. And I needed more time to leave behind the restlessness of high school and sit in my own imperfect, beautiful skin.

But there is a little bit of high school still in me…I just did my nails, and I’m wondering what to wear that is “party casual”.

I ran into some new friends in town earlier today, and they all said the same thing:

“Have a great time tonight! And good luck!”

Peter isn’t coming. When I was in high school he was finishing dental school. Going that far back in our uncrossed paths gets a little creepy, don’t you think?

Wish me luck!

Birthday Traditions Made and Broken

Are birthdays a big deal in your family? 

In our home birthdays are a bunch of little things throughout the day for the kids. On their birthday, our birthday child gets a candle at breakfast (so far pancakes have been the trickiest because they aren’t thick enough to hold a candle upright for very long) and our version of the “Happy Birthday” song. They get their present from Mom and Dad in the morning, and then we send a small treat to school for their classmates. Dinner plans are up to the birthday child.

Yesterday was Elias’ 7th birthday, and it was the first birthday we missed the morning candles. I was in Indiana at staff meetings, and Peter held down the fort wonderfully. He picked up donuts for the class treat, presented Elias with his wrapped birthday gift. Peter even managed to get the kids to pose for a birthday morning photo. But, in the rush of the morning, the candles had to wait.

Elias reminded me as we were wrapping up the evening that he had not had his birthday morning candles. “Why weren’t you here to remind Daddy about my candles?”  It nearly sent me over the edge. I feel so incredibly blessed to have this amazing life – marriage, children, home, career. But this amazing life often feels like it’s perched on a very sensitive scale where the constant demands are weighed against the blissful moments. 

I wasn’t home because on this birthday, some traditions were more important than others. I wasn’t home because I had a work commitment I chose to honor, knowing I would be home to pick you up after school. I wasn’t home because I want you to know you are loved and cherished, but I also want you to know you are not the center of the universe.

And just so that I could work out my working mommy guilt, I took him to Target to spend some of the birthday money his aunt sent him.

Playing with a Full Deck

Does Obama’s race and possibly gender play into his place in politics? Does the fact that there has been a surge of support from white women for the McCain/Palin ticket have anything to do with race or gender?

I saw this post discussing racism and sexism, and maybe if I weren’t so annoyed with the fact that there is a major leak in the garage roof and several leaks in the basement I would put my thoughts together. 

There’s only time for rambling.

The question is an interesting one because personally I am tired of being asked to separate my ethnicity/race from my gender. I am an Asian American woman. You can’t take the Asian or the American or the woman out of me like you would pick the tomatoes or onions out of a salad. I can’t pick the race card or the gender card because both form my identity. I prefer to play with a full deck because that is how God created us – with race and ethnicity and gender. (Though as a mother of three a full deck seems like a rather high goal.)

I don’t fully understand Obama’s personal journey as a biracial African American man. When I walk down the street or drive through the neighborhood, no one is going to look twice at me. No one assumes I don’t belong. And I really don’t understand Sarah Palin’s personal journey as a white woman from a small town in Alaska. When my family went on our summer road trips, the small town stops were always the most unsettling for me. It was very clear to us that we didn’t belong.

But that’s me. How about you? Does sexism trump racism? Can there really be a separation of the two? Should there be a separation?

Youth Group: Then and Now or Asian American + Christian youth group = Depressed?

I started this post out wanting to write about how my youth group experiences were different than what I experienced recently at my daughter’s youth group kick-off…and then I read this article I saw on Angry Asian Man about how participating in religion may make adolescents from certain races more depressed – Asian American girls topping the charts. My guess is that my observation #4 is part of how culture and faith collide.

Noodle fencing and marshmallow archery were for me the personal highlights of my first “majority culture” youth group experience.

Sunday night, Bethany and I went to the youth group kick-off meeting while Peter sacrificially stayed home to get the boys to bed, nearly missing the first quarter of the Bears-Colts game. In all honesty, the church is still a bit new to us after a year so I was looking forward to putting together names and faces and children and to see youth group in action.

I grew up in an immigrant church where Sunday School was taught by Moody Bible students, hymns were sung in Korean, Christmas or New Year’s Eve services were a bit like a family talent show, and the fellowship hall smelled of steamed rice, kimchee, sparerib soup and barley tea mixed with Dunkin’ Donuts and coffee. If we played we played games like Mafia and Bunny-Bunny (which I know for a fact are still played with much enthusiasm).

Though it was a rare thing to live near other youth group friends, it was rarer still to attend the same school. Our families attended church less in allegiance to a denomination or physical community but to a cultural community that sometimes meant driving 45+ minutes to church. We were a rather homogenous group, but there was a comfort knowing that we understood each other and our families. There was competition and drama (so-and-so got a near perfect SAT score, so-and-so is going to Juliard, so-and-so speaks, reads and writes perfect Korean and cleans her room, so-and-so got asked to the prom) but I wonder if it was all easier to tolerate at youth group because there we were safe from the racial slurs and jokes and pressures to be something we never could be – white American.

Anyway, Sunday night both parents and students were present, and it was great to see the evening start with a birthday cake for one of the girls. We moved onto a rock-paper-scissors face-off/adult v. child. We were divided into teams (we were team Italy) and off we went to play and compete.

There were a few things that struck me Sunday evening:

  1. We started the year out together. I don’t recall my parents ever attending a meeting or being invited to one. They were still mastering the English language and American culture; anything they didn’t like they would correct at home until they could get the elders or pastor to deal with it.
  2. Parents and children competed, but there were no prizes or punishments. No “here are cookies for the winning team and oh, look we have enough for everyone” as my friends who grew up in the Chinese churches would describe. No winning team making the losing team do something embarrassing or no bundles of Ivory or Dial soap or Bounty paper towels as my fellow Korean Americans might recall.
  3. The entire evening was in English. I know that may sound strange, but again, having grown up in a Korean church youth group there was always a mix of English, Korean and Konglish (a mix of both language’s vocab, grammar, and pronunciation). I feel it even more now that we have been away from the 2nd generation Korean-American church and its subculture for the past few years.
  4. Not once did I feel guilty or ashamed. It’s hard to describe this, but I my spiritual formation is inextricably connected to an East Asian shame-based culture. So while we sang a few worship songs Sunday night, it “felt” different than what I recall youth group worship to be. The lights stayed on, there was more of a celebratory, upbeat tone, and the music set was short.

Overall, it was a great way to start out the week as Bethany and I chatted on the way home about the 7th grade girls and about how she understood the theme of remaining in a relationship with Christ plays out in her life as a middle school girl. Peter and I are hoping that our family will benefit from being a church with a strong youth and children’s ministry, but I can’t say that we don’t have moments when we ask ourselves if we should consider returning to our Asian American roots. Our church looks much like our community – predominantly Caucasian. Our children are growing up far more “American” than I ever did, but keeping them connected and aware of how culture and ethnicity connects with faith has become more complex with more choices and opportunities. How ironic. And now, reading about depression, ethnicity/race and faith the picture and choices become far more complex.

How will participating in a majority culture youth group impact my Asian American children or my biracial nieces and nephews? How will not being part of an Asian American community – Christian or otherwise – outside of immediate family impact them? 

What do you think? Did being in youth group help you through adolescence or make it more painful?

More Than Serving Tea in Seattle

I know that coffee is the official drink of Seattle, but More Than Serving Tea heads out to the beautiful Pacific Northwest Saturday, October 18 for a one-day gathering “for Asian American women to be inspired, encouraged, connected and empowered” at Seattle Pacific University.

The event is sponsored by Seattle Pacific University, Japanese Evangelical Missions Society, and International Students Inc., in partnership with local churches.

The idea for this event came from Bo Lim, scripture prof at Seattle Pacific University. He and his wife Sarah Han Lim, are friends of mine from their days in Chicago. We attended the same church and were in the same small group that was a source of life during the early-parenting days. Two years ago I invited Bo and Sarah to the More Than Serving Tea book launch party, but by then they were already in Seattle. They couldn’t make it down to LA, but Bo asked if I would come out to Seattle and the rest was a lot of networking, advocating and coordinating – on Bo’s part.

I’m not personally connected with SPU or International Students Inc. but the fact that JEMS is sponsoring the event is personal. As a freshmen at Northwestern University, I wanted a Christian community that spoke my heart language. I found it in Asian American Christian Fellowship (AACF), which at the time was affiliated with JEMS. It was there I heard the gospel preached and taught by a woman who loved God and believed the campus could be changed by Christ. My experience with AACF stuck with me and shaped my journey of faith in ways I could not have imagined at that time. AACF eventually affiliated with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship at the end of my junior year. Six years later I went into ministry with IVCF and AACF at Northwestern.

The other personal part is that this event started out in Bo’s mind.

Bo and his wife Sarah Han Lim are friends from their Chicago days. We attended the same church and were in the same small group during our early parenting season.

Two years ago I invited them to attend a book launch event in LA, but by then they were already in Seattle. Bo asked if I would be open to coming out to Seattle, and then he ran with it being the advocate and champion so many of us long for and often need. Why? Because self-promotion goes against every grain in my being. As an Asian American, the Asian part kicks in whispering “do not put yourself before others”. As a woman, I am not often in the places or positions of influence to promote others (though I do recognize this is beginning to change a bit for me, and even writing that feels a bit uncomfortable and self-promoting. ugh). As an Asian American Christian woman, all of that gets mixed up for me as I wrestle with being humble but being a good steward of my gifts.

All that to say it really is an honor to be invited to speak at this event, and I am looking forward to learning from and walking with my fellow Asian American women on this journey. You can go here to register or for more information.

I hope to see you there!

Labor Day

“Happy Labor Day, Mom!” was how Corban greeted me this morning. He asked us last night what Labor Day was all about, and we proceeded to explain how the day was intended as a day off for working folks. He lost interest before we could get to the part about trade and labor organizations.

Nowadays, Labor Day seems much more a marker of the end of summer, even though many schools in the area have already begun. Sunday service yesterday was down with many trying to get a final long-weekend trip in somewhere. The public pool closes today. The days have been hot, but the evenings have a touch of cool fall weather. The summer garden once lush with tomatoes is slowing down as I wait for the last few to ripen and for the early fall harvest to begin.

But it struck me that as I sheepishly asked my husband if he would be interested in spending Labor Day morning cleaning out the garage that I so often forget that work – whether it be the paid sort or not – is a gift from God. Yes, the fall messed things up quite a bit, but nonetheless, the work of creating and rest from that work is a rhythm and a gift God established for us at the dawn of earth’s time. I was grateful for my husband’s enthusiasm in joining me for a bit of work on a day set aside for rest. We cleaned out the garage, set aside a few things for a hypothetical garage sale, and delighted as we found refreshment in our work.

Growing up as a child of immigrants, work was not viewed as a gift but as a necessary means to an end. Without work there was no food, no electricity, no phone, no apartment. More work meant more money to get us closer to where we wanted to be, which was not where we were. There was a sense of anticipation of what achieving the American Dream could bring, but there was also a hint of futility that no matter how hard my parents worked there would never be enough to give them what they were hoping for us.

Many of my Asian American peers walk in this tension with me. We remember not having enough, but boy are we enjoying living in plenty. We are deeply grateful for the sacrifices our parents’ generation made in order to give us the opportunities they did not. My father was a busboy, worked multiple shifts, accepted a rewired lamp from our building super to light the room and a bike to ride to work, bought cheeseburgers for me and my sister as a special treat. It was no wonder he cried at my college graduation party, and it is no wonder that he and my mother can’t believe at our wastefulness and comparatively carefree spending. As the beneficiaries to the past generation’s sacrifices I see so many of us continue to pursue the American Dream but much more for ourselves, I am afraid. And before I am accused of throwing rocks at glass houses (or whatever that phrase is), I am the first to admit that I enjoy a cushy life. My children most likely will enjoy a similar lifestyle unless they intentionally choose otherwise or there is a failure to launch. I make choices and some sacrifices for my children, but nothing like what my parents had to do.

I don’t think my consumer mentality is linked to my Asian American DNA, but I do think there is a link. Hearing my grandmother tell me that how I do academically and how I present myself will prove to “Americans” that I am just as good or even better than they are at their own game – whatever that game may in the end prove to be – is now a part of me, whispers knit into my bones.

So on this Labor Day I sit here waiting for my parents to arrive, wondering how my life’s work will be more intentionally for God’s Kingdom come, and for God’s work to be done on earth as it is in heaven.

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