Doraemon

The day I found out that Hiroshi Fujimoto died, a chapter of my childhood ended.

People often recollect memories from their childhood back to as early as age 4 or 5. I have no fucking clue how people manage to do this, because I don't have any vivid memories of anything in particular. I remember snapshops, still lifes and vague happenings. I can say with conviction that something took place (like my 10th birthday party), but I most likely couldn't tell you any details or how I felt. Except with Doraemon.

Fujimoto was one of the two-part genius behind Doraemon, or as I, and so many kids in Taiwan, knew him in Chinese -- 小叮噹. Doraemon, a time traveling robot cat from the future, was 大雄's best friend.  He had a pouch on his belly, much like a kangaroo, in which he extracted all sorts of gadgets and tools that helped 大雄 escape bullies, do better in school, and generally live a life that I so badly wished I had -- a life aided by this fantastical, futuristic creature. Some of the most handy tools included a small propellor on which you could plop on your head and fly, and a doorfame with a door which you could open and find yourself anywhere you wanted. If time traveling was required, as if it often was, all they had to do was to open the drawer to 大雄's desk, climb in, and there it was: a fully functional hovercraft that was ready to zip them off through quantum space.


For several years, when I was in elementary school, I traveled frequently to Hong Kong from mainland China. Given that my family was living in mainland during the 90s, when things like medical care was still incredibly behind, my mom would always take me to Hong Kong for orthodontist and doctor visits. These visits usually consisted of some form of oral mutilation, followed by me being dragged around the city while my mom shopped at Nine West or Marks and Spencers or meeting friends I didn't care for. Despite all this torture, visits to Hong Kong were my opportunity to pick up a brand new edition of Doraemon on the street. And once I did, nothing else mattered. I was lost in the anything-is-possible world of my favorite creature.


People can recall how much they loved certain cartoons or comics as a child. But Doraemon wasn't merely entertainment for me. It wasn't Ninja Turtles or Transformers. It wasn't even Sailor Moon (and I was obsessive about collecting Sailor Moon paraphernalia). Not only did I try to obtain every copy of every edition of the comic, I also watched every animated episode I could find. I had a Doraemon-themed science encyclopedia from which I read over and over, and Doraemon narrated casette tapes that I listened to almost daily, during bedtime, gobbling up all the scientific facts and concepts that only he could get me to learn. Doraemon was the inspiration for curiosity and learning for me. He was a constantly present, defining part of my life, shaping my perspectives on the world and how I exercised my imagination. Despite spending 13 years of my life as an only child, I don't ever remember once wishing that I had a sibling. But, shit, I can't even count the times that I so desperately wished Doraemon was real, and my best friend.

I don't remember when or how I found out that Fujimoto died. What I do remember, was a very real sense of loss, inexplicable and unfamiliar at my age. I knew that Doraemon wasn't "real." But the impression of his genius and guidance on me was. The death of Fujimoto meant the death of Doraemon as my companion and my friend through my tender age. There would be no more new adventures, no more build up of excitement in visiting Hong Kong. 

And with that, a subtle sense of innocence was lost. 

Kill your father

That was the goal of the first level. I was in a game with other players, and our first mission was to kill the man that was our father.

We walk through various rooms. We see him. He lunges at us. I run for my life, back to the starting point.

"Where did he go?" I ask. A fellow player points to a pair of feet underneath some curtains. "He's hiding, over there."

In the end, there is a confrontation. A couple of us surround him, but I am the one who charges when he doesn't expect it and trip him. My players cheer. He's on top of me with his hands around my neck, and mine around his. My hands squeeze tight, and I kill him.

I know he is not my father, but my eyes fill with tears.

Youth is not invincible.

Death.

It's the one thing that's indiscriminate. We often lament how unfair it is. How sudden or tormenting. How there was so much potential, so much ahead. Well, if anything, it's the fucking fairest thing in the world. It doesn't care who you are, where you come from, whether you're young or old, whether you're ready to face it or have never given it a thought. When it comes, it comes.

Life.

Goes both ways. Life is short, go out there and live. Death is always imminent, what really is the point? Is it really so ridiculous and irrational that people turn to a greater being to make sense of all this crazy shit? Call it a crutch, but why is logic and reason any less of one? Or even the acceptance of the belief that shit just happens, and there aren't any explanations. We all depend on something to get us to keep moving. Who's to say who's got it right? Who the fuck cares, as long as we're carrying on?

Death is exhausting. I've been trying to look at it in the face to the extent possible. Not in the sense that I'm putting myself in life-compromising positions. I'm trying to understand it. Confront the idea of it. Come to terms with my loss, and the fact that I will die. That everyone around me that I care about will die. And that regardless of who and how, the rest of the world will go on doing what it does, and in the greater scheme of things, none of it will matter. It's so simple sometimes it's almost laughable. But only when it's not terrifying. There is nothing that makes me feel as vain and self-centered as thinking about my own death.

Life is simple, really. The complexities seem like indulgences. Ornamental details that make and keep things interesting. Otherwise, what's the point, right?

I used to find so much solace in spilling my guts.

Now all I want to do is hole up and disappear.

I'm having trouble identifying the cause of my increasing desire to leave. And I'm not even sure what it is I want to leave. Is it my apartment? While not atrocious, our neighbors do bug the shit out of me. Is it my neighborhood? Junkies and drunks. Is it the city of San Francisco? Getting cramped, getting old. Is it California? Been here too long. Is it my life as I know it? Need to molt and refresh.

I know I have a pretty serious case of the travel bug. But what if it's the thing that I've always feared -- that I cannot and will not settle anywhere? That I can be bored of anything -- relationships, lifestyles, environments. That I constantly need a change, and minor ones won't do.

The simple answer, though realistic, sometimes seems too simple. That it's taken a year for all the shit in 2011 to catch up with me. That, despite spending some time last year being utterly heartbroken and torn, right now is when I am starting to feel the intolerance for imperfections, the impatience with sentiments. The bitterness sinking in. The sense of gratitude for what I have slipping away from me more often than I would like. All that, paired with having been in the same place for over two years, is too much to bear. I want to run away from one thing, I want to run away from everything. I don't know how else to deal with this.

I've tried to rationalize things. Tell myself that the things that bother me are just a matter of attitude. That I just need to tweak my mentality. I'm not capable of lying to myself. Once I know I don't really buy it, I don't indulge in self denial. I don't put off the necessary. I care too much about being true. Being happy.

I constantly feel like I'm at a lack of air. Escaping, breaking out is the instinctual reaction. But it doesn't mean it's the solution, does it. But I'm tired of this self-diagnosing. I'm not desolate enough to not see the light at the end of the tunnel. But the light seems way farther than it's ever been. Either it's going to be a longer journey, or I'm going to have to running. Running is probably not even an option. Some things can't be forced to happen. Some things can't be rushed.

For the first time since I've moved to San Francisco, I don't feel like going back. For the first time, I don't really miss anything about it. I actually almost despise it. I know it's not the city's fault, or anyone in it. It's just become associated with all the fucked up shit that I've lived through while being its resident.

So what do we do with this bitterness. This intolerance and impatience.

I really don't have a fucking clue. But something will have to change. Soon.

Remember

The news about my dad's death was delivered to me through the phone, minutes after.

"Chieh, you have to be strong. You have to be strong for your mom and your sister."

That's all she said, and I knew. I cried. I screamed. I cried. I kicked the wall and punched the floor. I sat in silence. I cried. I lay in silence. I cried.

The night I returned to my parents' house, I walked into his closet, smelled and touched his clothes, and sat on the floor and sobbed until nothing was left. I did this after everyone else had gone to bed, and I did this several times during the week I was home for funeral arrangements.

I refused to view his open casket, because I knew that if I did, I would never remember him as he was in living flesh.

Since his passing, I've gone to his grave once. I thought I would speak to him, tell him about all the things that have happened, but nothing came out. I have a feeling it'll always remain this way.

Sometimes I imagine my wedding and walking down the aisle without him on my arm, like I'm supposed to.

It's been eight months, but there are still moments now where I realize that he isn't around anymore. If I glance at the garage door or walk up the stairs at my parents' house, it's almost like I still expect him to walk in, stern-faced and quiet. It's not that I have forgotten, but the fact that he's gone is something I repeatedly realize and digest.

These are things that I haven't told anyone. These aren't things I remember when I think about him -- when I think about him, I conjure up memories of the times we've spent together, his odd sense of humor, and his relentless dedication to making his family happy. Rather, these are things I think of when I think about the loss. Most of the time, the loss is barely palpable. But when it comes into focus, it's a roaring silence. It's like one instrument in your complex world of an orchestra going mute, and you don't realize it until you sit there and listen for its voice. And at that point, it's as if you've lost your ability to hear anything else. You forget all the times that the instrument has played off tune, and you know there is nothing else in the world that can sing the same way.

As much as I can try to relate, or as much as any one of your friends may try to understand and sympathize, your relationship with your father and your mourning is something nobody can touch. There will be parts that you may choose to share, and there will be parts that you won't ever tell. I will tell you that you appear to stand strong through it all, as you have said to me, but you and I both know that when the lights go out and there is nobody around to be strong for, that's when you really have to face your demons, wherever they are, and we often choose to do it alone because so few others can understand.

Coming to terms with this kind of loss is not easy, and I expect it never will be. The music will never be the same, but those who love us will always be around to be our metronome, to add their ooh's and aah's, to be our top-hats or, hey, our cow-bells. And sometimes, silence, a blank page, will be what you need -- your own moment to be. To remember. To be angry, to be hurt, to be pained, to be thankful. To spend a moment with him and to grieve. But just as you should remember that you always have the silence, please remember all those around you who are there and ready to start the beat again and put you back on the score.

董

After several years of sitting on a tattoo idea, I finally did it.

I'm officially inked.

For several years, I played around with the idea of a potential tattoo. I'm not the type to change my body for cheap aesthetics. Fuck plastic surgery and crash diets. Forget piercings anywhere but on my ears (although I can/do appreciate body/facial piercings on others). But tattoos have always been a less absolute concept. I knew I would never be the type to get one just to get one or to get one because it was visually beautiful or gave me a certain vibe or appearance. That shit is for life, and if you know anything about me, I make damn sure that I can suffer the consequences before diving into anything long-term. I don't want to be in my 60's, skin stretched and sagging (worst case scenario, because I do plan on being a milf), wondering why the fuck I ended up tattooing a sparrow on my back or a barcode on my forearm (not to say these designs are always deplete of meaning... but come the fuck on). If I don't want to be wearing the exact same style of shoes (likely the exact same style to be found on hundreds of other people), every single day, for the rest of my life, why would I want the same shit on my body?

I'm not sure when exactly I got the idea, but family was the first theme that came to me. If there was anything that would stay with me for life, if there was anything that I would carry with me forever, physically and visually, it would something to do family.

The ironic thing is, I wouldn't say that I have been super close to any of my family members. I grew up without seeing most of my relatives; my dad traveled a lot when I was young; I was the only child for 13 years; I had very loving parents but a fairly formal relationship with them in the sense that I did not share a lot of my personal life with them -- not until I was well into my 20's. But I think I've always felt a certain distance with my parents, a distance that was sometimes painfully obvious because they were all I had as family in the U.S.

I remember observing the interactions between certain friends and their parents, and wondering why my family dynamic had to be so different. And it wasn't necessarily a self-imposed distance on my or their part. For some reason, we just naturally developed a relationship where we shared very little other than the typical -- academics, friends, and very occasionally, relationships.

I've written often about the relationship I had with my dad. It had been incredibly tense and awkward at times, but when the shit hit the fan, he always came through as the most dependable, positive, caring, generous and grounded person. Whether it was dealing with death in the family or my teenage heartbreak, he was there, and he stood strong, for everyone.

I've always known that I owe so much to my parents. I'm proud of the way they've raised me, and I'm eternally grateful for how they have provided for me, how selfless and responsible they've been and continue to be. I think the concept of having tattoos to do with each of them came to me in my college years as I realized that I always want to remember them. To be grateful for all that I have. To be aware that as much as I choose to depend on myself and my friends, as much as we may not have the idealistic, picturesque familial relationship, they are what brought me here. And I admitted to myself that I often forget -- forget that they're there, forget that they are so incredibly important, forget that I can depend on them. Forgetting is not something I want to do. And at some point, several years ago, the idea came to me to have my dad's family name and my mom's family name, in traditional calligraphic Chinese script, on each of my arms.

The idea remained an idea for a long time. When I went back to Taiwan last year with my dad to see his dying father, I felt similar conflicting sentiments as I did when I was 10, watching my mom's father wither and die from Parkinson's. To this day, I continue to say that the only regret I've ever had was my inability to be more brave, my inability to still love him, speak to him, and treat him like the grandfather that had raised me, taught me Japanese, and took me on moped rides. Instead, I treated him like the disease made him a stranger. I withdrew with fear, and I became silent. Granted, I was 10, but regrets like that hold no place in time or age.

This time, at age 24 and watching my dad's father deteriorate, I was adamant about being "better." Being a supportive granddaughter. Being loving and present and everything I wasn't 15 years ago. But this grandfather was not someone I knew well. He was not someone I really ever had a relationship with. He was not emotionally strong. He would wimper and cry as he reflected on his ailing body, and I would sit there, eventually out of things to say, feeling frustrated at my silence and shameful of my desire to tell him that he simply can't fall apart like this. Because who was I, his granddaughter, to say and do anything but all the "right" things? The bottom line was, apart from the fact that we were related by blood, he was almost a stranger. But the sense of familial duty was so strong that the subsequent guilt was all I felt. But I realize that the most important thing in being there was not so much to see my grandfather, as I originally thought, but to be there for my dad. To be there with my dad.

My dad was graceful with his grief. He would pull me aside, knowing that I would lie awake, hearing my grandfather cry in the middle of the night, and tell me, "Your grandfather lived a long, good life. He's in his 90s, has overcome a lot, and is a lucky man. He has a lot to be grateful for." His voice never wavered when he spoke to his dying father. His gaze never faltered.

During that trip to Taiwan, I decided I would get two wooden chops made in a particular calligraphic script -- 篆書 -- of my mom and dad's family name. I had them made in my mom's hometown while traveling with my dad. He asked me what they were for. I just shrugged and said, "I just want them." Explaining a tattoo (that has to do with him) to him? Pffft.

It took me a while after my dad's death to feel like it was the right time. But as time went by, I saw more and more of how much I loved him. How, despite our frustrating inability to speak openly about most things, regardless of how unrelenting his sternness could be or how strange his temperament was, that I admired him and respected him so, so deeply. And I realized that I had not told him I loved him. Not since I could remember. But I loved him, more than I thought I ever did.

"董" is my family name. It is my dad's family name. It is my grandfather's family name. In Chinese, it looks almost identical and sounds identical to "懂," which means "to understand." Every day, it will sit beautifully on my left arm. Every day, I will be reminded. And every day, I will remember to spend a moment with him.

Catz.

Sometimes I take so many pictures with Benjamin that I feel like I'm turning into a fucking crazy cat lady.

Except I'd probably do the exact same thing if I had a dog. Or a chinchilla. Or whatever. Even a lizard.

What I won't do, though, is to make a fucking Facebook page for my pet.

Yeah. That, I won't do.

Let's do this, again.

Writing, that is.

Lately I've found myself preferring to sit in silence, to watch the thoughts dance around in my head on mute.

I used to find so much comfort in music. All the Lauryn Hill, Sage Francis and Common that boosted me through all the heartbreaks and rough patches. Not to say that music hasn't done anything for me lately, or that I haven't listened to a song and felt something stir.

I just.. want everything to be quiet, more so than ever. And maybe, considering that I've gone through the most tumultuous time of my life to date, that's... normal. Maybe it's my way of slowing time down. Enough of trying to find clarity, closure or comfort from someone else's communications. I need to start rebuilding from the inside. I need to hear myself.

I think I've also become more comfortable and accustomed to being alone. I used to hate being alone -- constantly surrounded myself with friends, talking on the phone, chatting online, seeking people to be with. I couldn't stay single for long, either. I just really fucking loved company. I also did almost everything with an ipod in tow. Now, I crave for lone bike rides, coffee breaks, walks or simply lying in bed by myself, listening to the street noise or staring over the neighboring rooftops from my backdoor. All this, in silence.
I think that alone speaks for how things have really changed in terms of where I am in my life. I feel a lot more grounded. There's not that sense of constant want and seeming insatiability that constantly nipped at me in my early 20's. I've got a fairly good grip on myself. My relationship with my family has gotten substantially stronger. And, well, I kind of love San Francisco and am seeing no reason to flee. The travel bug bites, as it always does, but there is a solid idea of 'home,' and things don't feel so transient anymore.

I guess I haven't written much because I haven't been able to speak much of what's been going on in my head. One, because everything just felt so personal, so private, that it seemed almost violating to write. And two, because there was so much noise in my head that for a really long time, it just felt like a deafening, incoherent roar. Or maybe it was just silence. You know how certain loud, dramatic scenes in movies suddenly transition into silence, especially when some shit hits the fan in its most climatic stage? That's what a lot of shit has felt like in the past few months. And only recently has it all started to die down. I can hear the monotonous humdrum of the city again. I can hear myself again.

And so, now, I'm going to start putting some of this noise into words.

And here goes.

When I was little, my dad was the fun one in the family. He'd always bring me gifts from his business trips abroad -- CD's, hair clips, stuffed animals, whatever I liked or wanted at the time. Mom was the one who disciplined me; dad was the one who comforted me when I cried, the one who told me fart jokes, the one who picked me up, threw me and caught me in mid-air as mom yelled at him to be careful. I fancied myself a daddy's girl.

Because of his work, we moved around a lot. When I was in sixth grade, he said to me, "We're going to move again. To America this time. When would you like to leave?"

"Moving... again? I just started sixth grade. Can I finish middle school? My friends are all here."

"OK," he said.

And true to his word, I finished eighth grade in Shanghai. The following summer, we moved here, to Irvine, and I began high school, living in America for the first time. I still fancied myself a daddy's girl.

High school wasn't easy for me. I was starting over in a foreign country, a vulnerable and insecure thirteen year old. I didn't understand why we had to leave the comfortable, maid- and driver-assisted life we had in Shanghai. Why we had to leave a major metropolitan city for…Irvine. And then, when I was seventeen, I had my first heartbreak. I thought I was so grown-up then, so ready to handle anything. No longer a daddy's girl. It was Dad who found me outside, sobbing, huddled on the driveway, babbling about some stupid boy. Dad hugged me, for a long time. "It's all right, my good daughter. Don't cry."

In college, my Dad picked me and my laundry up from my apartment. He and my mom thought it was better that I learned how to live on my own rather than live with them. One night in my third year, on the way to dropping me off at my apartment, he asked me why I wanted to go to law school.

"Because it's what I'm interested in."

"But there are a lot of interesting things. I don't think law is interesting at all."

"Well, dad, I think it's interesting. And I want to go to law school."

"Ok, good. So long as you find something you're interested in," he said.

"And makes money," I retorted.

"No." He said. "Money is useful, but money is not everything. You find something you love to do, and you do it. If you love doing it, you will be good at it. Naturally, you will be rewarded for it. Money is not everything."

When my grandfather was terminally ill with cancer last year, Dad and I went to see him in Taiwan. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find my dad sitting with my grandfather in the living room as my grandfather sobbed about his passing life. My dad would sit there in the dark and listen. "Grampa may cry," he would later tell me. "But he has been a very lucky man. He has led a very fulfilling, long life, healthy until his 90's. He has accomplished a lot, and he has a lot to be grateful for."

There are things I've taken away from my dad: my flat nose, pale skin and stubbornness.

But so much more.

My dad was a strong individual. He taught and encouraged me to be independent, to be strong for others – less by what you say, more by what your presence stands for. If my mom wasn't such a tough woman, I don't think he would have married her. If the life in Shanghai hadn’t been one of such ease and luxury, I don’t think he would have made such a strong point to move us here.

My dad believed in doing things by the books, sometimes to a fault. He did not believe in short cuts and easy way outs. He taught me to be a person of principle, to stand true to my word and to lead a life of integrity.

He taught me to appreciate and understand what truly matters in life -- family, friends and dreams. I would have liked to ask him what his dream was, as he spent decades of his life working so hard, following his job throughout Asia. I doubt he was very passionate about finance management.

I think it's fair to say that his dream, his passion, was to love and provide for his family so they can pursue their dreams -- my mom, who took her love of the outdoors to Yosemite, Zion, and Everest, and shared this love with so many of you; Lynn, my brilliant little sister who hopes to one day be an astronomer even though she could be an amazing musician. And me -- with dad's endless encouragement and support in all I have done, whether it was studying in Paris or working in London, surviving through teenage heartbreak or helping me file my first tax return.

My dad and I shared a lot of silent moments in the last two years. He wasn't a man of many words, and I often take after him in that respect. We shared a lot of silence in car rides, on long-distance plane rides, or just sitting at home, on the couch. Despite my initial anxiety with the silence, I had grown to be comfortable with it. It was something we shared, and it soon became familiar. We were not the type to say to each other, "I love you," or "I miss you." Our farewells usually ended with a wave, a short hug or with him watching as I backed out the driveway. But it has always been obvious how much he loved and cared for me, as he did my mom and sister. He didn't have to say it; he had already dedicated his whole life to it.

And while he won't be here today to hear it: I love you, dad. Very much. I always have, always will, and will never forget it.

Please don't disappoint me.