n. the sad feeling of a place that was usually full of people and noise but now is abandoned and quiet
I saw this post on Facebook today entitled “15 Feelings You Have Felt But Didn’t Know Have Names“. I’ve experienced all of these feelings in my life at one time or another but today, and maybe for a while, it will be kenopsia.
Nary a sound. Nary a movement, in a home that once was bustling with life.
No one warned me that the silence at home, the absence of random noises from my children, would unsettle me. I thought I would welcome the stillness now that they’re gone, but all I feel is emptiness.
I miss hearing the toilet flushing at unpredictable hours. The kitchen is not the same without the clunking of forks on plates and the microwave door opening and closing. Even the little chime that announces the comings and goings at the front door has ceased.
I no longer have a reason to bake cakes and cookies or make large amounts of food for all the kids’ friends who come by to hang out. I miss the battalion of hungry mouths, grateful and happy to be fed. People told me to find a hobby. That was my hobby.
My daughter’s room quietly awaits her return
It takes years to build a family, and that family makes the home what it is. Now that half of the family is gone, it feels like half a home.
My eldest child is all settled in 420 miles away, ready to begin his second year at college. Two days before that, we dropped off his younger sister, anxious and excited for her new adventure as a freshman in university. As both my kids begin their lives away from home, I have to begin a new life without them.
The house is quiet — too quiet, really. Even the cats don’t make enough sounds to match the normalcy before. Running the washing machine should help, except there aren’t enough clothes to wash. The dishwasher sits empty; even the dish dryer has enough space. Only two forks and two plates sit on the rack waiting to be put back on the cupboard.
My sadness is overshadowed by my joy for my kids. This is what I committed nineteen years of my life for; to raise children who would grow up excited and raring to chart their own paths.
Sophia sent me messages last night of how much fun she is having, meeting new friends, and discovering so much about herself. Santiago shared a photo of his new mattress inflating in his new room, and excited for his new bed frame to arrive. “Love you, Mom,” he texted, and it is all I needed to read.
Now the work of adjusting to a new life begins. In the kids’ absence, my relationship with my husband is more apparent. What was easily set aside for the kids’ needs, can no longer be ignored. Now we will discover how much time we enjoy spending with each other, and how much time we need to be alone. It is like learning a new dance.
My own life takes centerstage as well. I can no longer hide behind my children’s lives. My work as a mother now transforms from hands-on childrearing to behind-the-scenes consulting. All the time I spent driving to and from school and dance classes, attending school events, making breakfasts and dinner, taking them to parties, helping them with school work is now time for myself. Maybe that’s what the quiet is for: for me to hear what my soul is saying. There is more to my life than being a mother.
My home will always be my children’s home. But what once was a haven, is now a harbor. When my children need me, I will be there for them. I will always be a mother. But it’s also time to find out what else I can be.
My son Santiago thought it would be a great idea to take videos of his friends exploring abandoned buildings and posing in front of cool graffiti. After doing a search on Google, he found several “abandoned” locations in the Bay Area that he thought looked great and immediately planned to make a day of it with his friends. He convinced his sister to come along too, although now she says it was her idea to join them. It never occurred to the nitwit that there is no such thing as an “abandoned” property in the Bay Area. No living fool will discard land, of any size, in this hot multimillion dollar real estate market; but 16 year olds never think of these things. Come to think of it, 16 year olds don’t really think at all.
August 24, 2019, was the day it all happened. Knowing full well that I would never allow Sophia on such a venture, Santiago pretended they were going to Union Square in San Francisco to hang out with six of their friends. So they lied to us.
The six boys gathered at our home shortly before noon. In the group was Justin (chubby, Chinese American, with a rice bowl haircut and always suffering from congested nasal passages); Brian a.k.a. Guatemalteco, (5’1” skinny, fair Guatemalan who is the quiet boy in the group and has a very sweet demeanor); Jaski, (charming, 6’2” skinny East Indian who wears a black turban and is very articulate and well-mannered); JJ (Santiago’s Mexican best friend who is like a second son to me); Amador (handsome Hispanic boy raised by very strict Catholic parents. Santiago said his mother is the scariest woman he’s ever met. He is a notorious playboy in school but also not the brightest bulb in the tanning deck); and finally, Sam (brawny Caucasian with a round baby face and a tough demeanor. He is also a natural actor and Santiago’s favorite person to have in front of a camera). Together with Santiago and Sophia, the entire kaboodle left at 1pm to walk to the BART station.
Ned and I were enjoying a relaxing Saturday afternoon at home when at 4:35pm, Santiago gives me a call.
“Mom…? Uh…so yeah. Uhm…we’ve been rounded up by the cops,” he said nonchalantly.
“THE WHAT?!”
“Uhmmm…yeah. We—“
“What?! What do you mean…what cops? Where are you?!”
“Uh…we went to an abandoned building and uh apparently it’s not abandoned so uh the cops said we’re trespassing and you need to uh come pick us up or else they’re not leaving until you come get us and don’t worry they’re not charging us or putting us in jail but that depends on the owner of the building but uh they haven’t reached him so far so uh can you drive over here and uh can some of the boys get a ride with us isthatokay?”
I couldn’t think straight. My stomach started to heave and my head began to spin. Ned saw the panic in my face and immediately got up from the couch. Confusion ensued as Santiago gave us the address: 11 Industrial Way. Google maps showed the address was in Brisbane, CA, south of South San Francisco. I’ve never even heard of Brisbane other than the one in Australia.
Ned, in shock, asked me to call Santiago again to verify the location. The address was in an industrial area, nowhere near the heart of San Francisco nor any BART station. Surely the kid made a mistake. I got Santiago on the phone and told him to make me speak to one of the cops.
A Sgt. Giovanni Perez picked up and introduced himself. I also gave my name and verified that two of the eight kids were mine. I asked if the address Santiago gave me was correct.
“Yes it is. 11 Industrial Way.”
“In Brisbane, California?!” I asked incredulously.
“That’s right. We are in Brisbane.”
“Why?! How?! What are they doing there?!” After realizing that was probably the same questions the officer had asked the kids, I immediately told him it will take us an hour to get there.
“Then we will wait for an hour,” he said matter of factly.
At around 3:00pm that afternoon, the eight kids arrived at the Daly City BART station and took a bus to 11 Industrial Way. Santiago found this address during his search for “abandoned buildings in the Bay Area” and thought the property called Bayshore Roundhouse Train Yard looked really cool for a photo shoot.
Bayshore Roundhouse Train Yard, photo by Shawn Clover/shawnclover.com
Problem is, Bayshore Roundhouse was all fenced up to keep homeless vagrants out. Not to be deterred, they then set their eyes on a dilapidated building beside Bayshore Roundhouse and thought, it will do.
Not one of the eight kids noticed or even paid attention to the stacks of wood piled up in front of the building, or the cargo trucks parked at the end of the long driveway. The property was a storage facility that supplied restaurants in the Bay Area with charcoal and firewood for cooking. The company that owned it was called Lazarri Fuel. As an existing business in a city that is overrun by homeless people camping inside buildings and possibly causing big fires in a highly flammable environment, the entire area was equipped with security cameras as well as a security guard.
Since Lazarri is closed on weekends, there was no one on the property. Or so the kids thought. They found the entrance to the building; the door slightly ajar and barricaded with a slab of plywood. They looked at each other and decided to kick down the barricade. Four boys kicked the barricade once. Amador kicked it enough times to break the wood. First offense: breaking and entering.
They walked inside the facility and were immediately blocked by piles of wood and charcoal stuffed into sacks that was stacked about 8 ft. tall. Still, not one child among the eight had a light bulb moment that maybe all these wood and charcoal meant the facility was in use. They proceeded to climb the stacks of wood and charcoal to get further inside, soiling their hands, clothes and faces in black soot. Sam had black handprints on the entire half of his face. Second offense: trespassing.
After twenty minutes of vlogging, picture taking, and exploring, a loud voice called out from behind them, “Everybody, put your hands up and don’t move! Do not make any sudden movements!”
They slowly turned around, arms raised above their heads, and saw a young police officer standing at the entrance of the facility.
The officer then instructed them to form one line so he could see everyone. The kids saw a second officer flank them from behind, and a third one from the side. The first officer, who introduced himself as Officer Mendoza, asked them what they were doing on private property.
“Uh…exploring,” said one of the boys meekly.
Officer Mendoza repeated that they are on private property and are trespassing.
“No way!” Justin uttered in surprise. “Really?!”
They were then told that someone onsite called the police to report a gang had entered the facility.
“We’re not a gang!” Jaski said defensively, followed up by a whispered “Are we a gang?”
Officer Mendoza instructed them to slowly step outside in one line, which they dutifully obeyed. Once outside, they were made to stand against a tall stack of charcoal in sacks, enclosed in a large wooden crate. On the far left was Justin, then Sophia, Guatemalteco, Santiago, JJ, Jaski, Amador, and Sam. With black soot on the palms of their hands, faces, arms and pant legs, they looked like a line-up of chimney sweepers.
Officer Mendoza proceeded to ask them a list of questions: did they have any drugs on them, was anyone carrying a firearm, did anyone have sharp weapons, etc.
“What do you have inside your pockets?”
“My cellphone,” said JJ. Everyone else mumbled their cellphones as well.
“What’s inside your bags?” asked the shortest officer with blonde hair.
“My extra clothes, because I sweat a lot,” said Justin.
The cookies from JJ’s bag
“Cookies,” said JJ.
“Samosas,” Jaski answered.
“Samosas?” the short officer asked, surprised. “Like the triangles?”
“Yes, those.” Jaski answered with his big disarming smile. “My mom made them.”
“Wow. Healthy.” The short officer was impressed.
Sgt. Perez, former SWAT member, now one of the Sergeants of Brisbane police, approached the kids and introduced himself.
With a somber expression, he laid out the gravity of the situation. He didn’t sugarcoat the possible repercussions of their actions. If the owner decides to press charges for trespassing, as well as breaking and entering, it will be a felony offense. The officers then took turns explaining that this will stay on their record forever so good luck getting into college, getting a scholarship, finding jobs, etc. All eight kids remained quiet; the implications of their foolishness finally sunk in. Regret and guilt started to creep into Santiago since this whole excursion was his brilliant idea.
After getting all their names and addresses, the officers asked the kids for their IDs. Six of the eight showed their high school IDs. “You’re all from Berkeley High?” asked Sgt. Perez. The kids nodded in unison, except JJ who goes to De Anza.
“I thought Berkeley kids are supposed to be smart.” Brisbane police: 1; Berkeley kids: 0.
“What are you guys doing here anyway?” asked Officer Mendoza.
“We were looking for Bayshore Roundhouse to explore and vlog,” answered Santiago.
“Bayshore Roundhouse?” Sgt. Perez again. “Didn’t you kids learn geometry in school? Does this building look round to you?” he asked as he gestured towards the massive rectangular building. Brisbane Police: 2; Berkeley kids: 0.
Two of the officers then went into their cruisers and ran background checks on all eight kids. Another officer got on the phone and called out descriptions written on his small notebook to the person on the other line. The silence was torture, especially for Santiago. He is used to negotiating his way out of trouble, but this time, he is no longer in charge; and he has never been in this much trouble before.
Everyone came out clean on the background check and the officers started easing up on the kids. “We can’t reach the owner of the building, so we’ll call your parents once we hear from someone. You can all go home but your parents have to pick you up. You’re all free to give them a call.”
The blood drained from the kids’ faces.
“Uh…excuse me, Officer,” Santiago asked very politely. “But can’t you just let us go? We can take the bus home.”
“Nope. We won’t release you until your parents come and pick you up.”
Sophia finally found her voice. “Officer, please. I’d rather be locked me up in juvenile prison than see my parents.”
“Nope, “ Sgt. Perez was undeterred. “Call them to pick you up. We’ll wait.”
“Officer, be reasonable!” she cried out.
The Sgt. told them to hurry up and start calling. The kids got on their phones and new chaos arose as parents and grandparents freaked out, not understanding how they got from San Francisco to Brisbane. Some wanted to speak to the cops. Others, who didn’t speak English, demanded explanations in their native language. A cacophony of foreign languages pervaded the air: Cantonese, Spanish, Punjabi, Teenager English.
Most of the parents, like us, were coming from across the bay (Berkeley, El Cerrito, Richmond), so the cops had quite a wait. Not having anything else to do, and realizing these kids were just stupid teenagers and not seasoned criminals, they decided to tease them and have a little fun on their account.
The shortest officer, whom the kids now know as Officer Flores, asked the kids who was going to get a whooping when they got home. Everybody raised their hands. Officer Flores snickered and nodded towards the Latino boys, “But these three are going to get it worse. When your parents are done with you, you won’t be doing stupid things like this again, so that’s a good thing.”
They then started teasing the boys for getting their Jordans dirty. “Those shoes are way too expensive for these kinds of outings, man,” Sgt. Perez pointed out to Amador and Santiago’s Nikes that we’re black with soot.
“Yeah…that’s true,” Amador agreed somberly, looking down on his formerly white Jordans. “My mom is going to kill me. Twice.”
Sensing that the tension had ebbed a little bit, JJ decided to ask the officers what the most interesting case they’ve experienced on the job so far.
Sgt. Perez answered first. “Well today we caught eight idiots trespassing on private property.” Brisbane police: 3; Berkeley kids: 0.
Jaski then excitedly told the officers that he can’t imagine what it would be like to see a dead body for the first time. He wants to be a doctor, so he’s interested in dead bodies. He asked the officers what it was like to see their first dead body. Sophia glared at Jaski, “Shut up, dude. This isn’t Career Day.”
Standard procedure for all crimes involving minors require an officer from juvenile division to be called into the scene. Prior to the juvenile division officer’s arrival, Officer Flores painted a picture of a very strict and mean officer who doesn’t take shit from youth offenders. “You guys brace yourselves. Shit is about to go down.”
When the youth officer arrived, a towering black man with a very serious expression got out of the police car. He slowly walked towards the kids, which according to Santiago felt like forever. “This is probably what doomed men went through waiting for their executioner to get on the damned platform,” Santiago thought to himself.
The officer stood in front of them, gave each one of them a long hard look, and when he got to Sam, the last one in the line, he flashed a huge smiled and said, “I hope this teaches you kids not to do stupid stuff like this again.”
The kids said he was the nicest one among the three officers, and the others were already pretty cool to begin with.
When Ned and I finally arrived at the address and turned left into the driveway of the property, the sight of four police cars and the kids standing against the crates like criminals made my heart sink. Ned was a bundle of nerves.
Sgt. Perez saw us driving in and turned to the kids, “Whose dad is that? His face does not look happy.”
“I told you to lock me up, Officer!” Sophia cried out.
As we opened our car doors, Sgt. Perez signaled to Sophia and Santiago to step out of line and go to us. “Who is riding with them?” he asked. JJ raised his hand. “Okay, you can step out.”
All three kids ran towards me and hugged me while hurling a barrage of “sorry”. Ned walked straight to Sgt. Perez and shook his hand. I ordered the kids to get inside the car and walked towards the other kids. After greeting the officers, I asked the kids whose parents were coming and if everybody had a ride home. That’s when I noticed that half of Sam’s face was covered in black fingerprints as well as his hands.
“What happened to you, Sam? Are you alright?”
He smiled, embarrassed, and acknowledged he was fine. Officer Flores then said, “He wrestled a sack of charcoal. And lost.” Brisbane police: 4; Berkeley kids: still 0.
Out of nowhere, the juvenile division officer walked up to me and said, “They’re good kids. Believe me. I’ve seen all kinds. I know a criminal when I see one, and these kids ain’t it.” He then said that if this is the biggest trouble they’ve ever gotten into, then we’re doing something right.
The other parents started arriving, and they quietly snatched their kids out of the line-up and left as quickly as they could. Guatemalteco’s father, who is usually very amiable, didn’t even acknowledge us. We found out later on, when we got home, that their family is undocumented, so he was probably very scared for Brian and for himself.
When we finally got home, the tension was so thick, it felt like we had multiple walls in the living room separating each one of us, eventhough we were all in the same room. The kids sat huddled in one corner of the couch waiting for their sentence. Ned didn’t think it was right to scold the kids while JJ was there waiting to be picked up by his parents, so he stepped out to chainsmoke hoping it would ease his nerves.
I decided to look up the owner of the property online and found it belonged to Lazarri Fuel Company. An email address was listed on the site so I told the kids to write them an email apologizing for everything.
“Say you’re sorry. Mean it. Don’t make any excuses. Say what you were planning to do there and take full responsibility for your actions.”
All three started composing emails. Santiago sent a message to the other boys to do the same. They offered to do any work for them for free and to pay for the damage caused by kicking the wooden barricade on the front door. If the company decides to make them work at the property for a day or a week, loading charcoal and firewood, I would let the kids do it. There is no better way to learn that actions have consequences. I secretly hoped the owners took them up on their offer without pressing charges.
JJ’s parents arrived soon after and Rosa didn’t waste a second in giving a long sermon. For her (and for Ned) lying to us about where they were going was the most egregious part of this entire brouhaha. I have to hand it to the kids. They quietly listened to everything we threw at them. They didn’t try to make excuses nor attempted to lessen the severity of their actions. Guilty as charged.
We parted with our fingers crossed that everything will be alright. Best scenario is this will merely be an unforgettable but major lesson for the kids to think before they act, to always be honest about where they are and what they’re going to do. We told them we cannot protect them if we don’t know what’s going on.
Sunday felt like an eternity. Nothing is worse than awaiting your teenage children’s fate. Will the owner be a vindictive person who wants to teach teenagers a harsh lesson? Will the kids have this incident on their record for the rest of their lives? Will this ruin their chances for a good future? How much will it cost us to get an attorney? It was a weekend of endless and stressful mind chatter.
Monday came. First day of school. Santiago was in fourth period when an email arrived.
All the other kids received the same email as well. I wonder how poor Robert Colbert reacted to seeing eight apology letters in his inbox first thing Monday morning. Santiago sent me and Ned a text message, ecstatic that the owner wasn’t going to press charges. We all could finally breathe.
I’m relieved that this incident was serious enough to be a wake up call for the kids but also comical enough to not be a traumatic experience. Nevertheless, I grounded the kids for two weeks and gave them a 9pm bedtime, which is the worst punishment you can give to insomniac teens.
As for the other boys, Guatemalteco is no longer allowed to hang out with Santiago. Jaski’s dad doesn’t want Santiago to come to their house for awhile. Jaski said to give him time and it will all blow over. Santiago is working up the courage to visit Jaski’s parents to apologize in person. I hope he does. Growing up isn’t supposed to be easy. It also doesn’t hurt to learn humility and accountability. The best men in my life learned these lessons well.
This afternoon, after picking the kids up from school, Amador called Santiago’s phone.
“Can I sleep at your house tonight?”
“Nah, man. I’m still grounded.”
“You’re still grounded?! For how long?”
“Another week.”
“Damn. Another week?! That’s harsh.”
“It’s cool, man. See you on Tuesday.”
When Santiago turned off the phone, I told him I’m surprised Amador wasn’t grounded.
“His mom is allowing him to sleep in our house?! After what you did?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t his mom supposed to be really strict?”
“Yeah. But his mom beat him up already so he’s served his time.”
My parents first met in my maternal grandparents’ house in Bacolod City. My Dad was visiting my mom’s sister whom he was working with on a theater production. Mom had just gotten home and was fuming mad because someone had parked his old banged-up Volkswagen Beetle in the middle of the driveway preventing her from parking inside the garage.
When she entered the living room, she finally saw the culprit who was blocking the driveway; a long-haired hippie slouched on a chair with his bare feet resting on top of the coffee table. Mother was not impressed. My Dad, however, has always said that at that very moment, he knew deep in his heart that, “…this is the woman I am going to marry.”
The first time I heard this story, I asked my mom if she said the same thing to herself upon meeting Dad. She replied, “Not on your life!”
And this, children, is what fairy tales are made of.
The first time my daughter heard me laugh, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be happier, funnier and more lighthearted than me.”
The first time my daughter saw me cry, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be braver, stronger, and more resilient than me.”
The first time my daughter heard me sing, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be more talented, more artistic and more expressive than me.”
The first time my daughter saw me accomplish something, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be smarter, wiser and more capable than me.”
The first time my daughter saw me resolve a disagreement, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be more understanding, more patient, and more fair-minded than me.”
The first time my daughter saw me act with kindness, she said, “Mom, I want to be just like you.” I said, “Oh no, Sophie. I want you to be more compassionate, generous, and more gracious than me,”
Then one day before her twelfth birthday, I looked at my daughter and told her she had become everything and more than what I had dreamed her to be. She looked at me and said, “Yes, Mom. I’m just like you.”
To see your daughter grow up to be a gracious human being with a beautiful soul is a blessing. To see a better version of yourself in your daughter’s eyes, a version you never see or refused to see is an honor and a privilege.
Happy Birthday, my beautiful, wonderful, magical child. Today I celebrate another year of loving you and learning from you.
Reading about the devastation caused by the Camp Fire and Woolsey fires in California, my heart breaks for the people who lost their homes and loved ones. Our skies have been filled with smoke and ash out here in the Bay Area for the past three days, preventing us from going outdoors, but that is nothing compared to the loss experienced by our California neighbors up north and down south.
A friend shared on Facebook that someone they knew in Paradise only made it out alive because he suffers from insomnia. He happened to be awake when the fires started coming his way in the wee hours of the morning, so he saw the text sent by a friend living across the ridge alerting him to evacuate immediately. He only had enough time to load his animals in his truck and grab important documents to take with him. He said the fire came so quickly that he had to gun down the gas pedal to escape the flames already following close behind him. He assumes there is nothing left but ash and smoke.
The papers today wrote about a Bay Area couple who was ready to move into their retirement home in Paradise, only to find out everything they had worked so hard for was no longer there. Some people didn’t even make it out of the fires alive as the flames engulfed them in their cars as they were desperately trying to drive away.
I cannot fathom how it feels to lose so much in a blink of an eye to something you have absolutely no control over. I am no stranger to loss. After escaping an abusive marriage, I found myself jobless, homeless, with no money to my name, and with two young children to raise. This did not happen overnight though. I had more than enough time, a couple of years, in fact, to think and rethink the steps I had to do to get out of the marriage. I also knew what to expect and what I was headed for the moment I stepped out of the home I shared with my then-husband.
For eight years, he designed our marriage in such a way that I would become completely dependent on him for everything. He convinced me to leave my career early on in the marriage to be a stay-at-home mom because he claimed it was better for our children. He was going to be able to provide more than what we would need, he claimed. He also had full control of our finances. He allowed me one bank account, which was a joint one, and he would provide me with a monthly allowance to spend on clothes for the children or things for the house. I honestly had no idea that this was abuse until I had my second child. This story is probably for another post but for now, I will say that I eventually decided that my freedom and my children were more important than the life I found myself living at that time. So I left.
Starting from scratch with nothing to my name was terrifying, but under the circumstances, it was liberating. I made the choice to leave everything behind because my freedom and my children’s future were more important than everything else I lost. So in my case, it was a bittersweet situation, but no one will disagree that it was the best decision I could ever make for myself and my children.
This is not the case for the people affected by the wildfires. They lost their dreams, their memories, their sanctuaries, their lives. Everything they worked so hard for and treasured in their homes for many years is now gone. They didn’t ask for this. They didn’t even know it was coming. Imagine doing whatever it is you do every day, like sitting down to dinner with your family, talking about mundane things, and finding out it was going to be your last? The fact that there was no preparation for what was to come or a chance to decide what to take and what to leave behind is heartrending. They had no choice in the matter. They had no control over their circumstances.
Life can change, drastically change, in the blink of an eye. The world as you know it, your world, can be completely gone tomorrow. My heart goes out to all of you who experience devastating loss. May you find the strength and all the support you need to get back on your feet and start your life again.
6:15pm – My son and his two buddies are in my kitchen attempting to make mooncakes for Mandarin class.
6:30pm – They don’t know where the cups, bowls, and spoons are stored. They can’t decipher lard from vegetable oil.
6:37pm – They found my pyrex measuring cup used for liquids. They’re measuring flour with it.
6:41pm – They want to drain the red beans that I boiled for them earlier today. They don’t know what a colander is. They ask Sophia. She tells them to Google it. Loud groaning ensues.
6:46pm – They found the colander. They dump the red beans into it. Red bean juice is dripping all over my counter. They’ve never read their recipe so they ask Justin to read the recipe out loud from his phone while one person holds the colander up high. Red bean juice is dripping on my kitchen rug.
6:48pm – The recipe said they need cheesecloth to strain the beans. “Mom? What’s a cheesecloth?! Is it made of cheese? MOOOOOMMM!!!!!!”
6:50pm – Someone says they need to catch the red bean juice with a bowl. After straining the beans, Santiago dumps the red beans in the bowl along with the juice. They start over.
6:51pm – Sophia walks towards me and whispers “How do you screw up straining beans?”
7:02pm – They have to cook the red beans with sugar and oil. They don’t know how to light the stove. “SOOOOOPPPHHHHIEEEE!!!”
7:07pm- The three of them are stirring the red beans in a pot over the stove. The. Three. Of. Them. “Double double toil and trouble…”
7:13pm – Someone says they need music. All three go to the office to choose songs. All. Three. Of. Them.
7:16pm – Sophia: “One of you needs to keep stirring this pot!”
7:17pm – “But it’s exhausting!!!”
7:18pm – Sophia suggests two of them start making the dough while one cooks the beans. Names are thrown out.
7:20pm- Still no dough makers.
7:25pm- Still no dough makers.
7:28pm – One boy is dancing.
7:31pm – Still no dough makers.
7:42pm – Justin says fine, he will do it. He asks Sophia where the flour is. The jar of flour is right in front of him.
7:57pm – I go inside the kitchen to ask if I can cook dinner. My kitchen looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. I do deep meditation breaths.
8:15pm – I finish cooking dinner. My son is still stirring the pot of red beans. He looks at me in agony. I practice tough love and walk away.
8:18pm – Justin asks for help with the dough. He says it doesn’t look right. I tell him he has to knead it. “I need you, dough,” he pleads. He really wants an A in Mandarin.
8:19pm – I show him how to knead the dough. He said he can do it now. I step away and announce that dinner is ready. The dough is abandoned.
8:45pm – Still eating dinner.
8:55pm – Still eating dinner.
9:08pm – Justin’s mom calls and tells him to go home. He asks Santiago and Jasky to walk him home. He lives a block away.
9:20pm – ……..
9:35pm – ……..
9:48pm – The two boys return and ask if they can continue making the mooncakes tomorrow. They are beat, they say. Sophia tells them that dough will be dead tomorrow. Loud groaning ensues.
9:50pm – I am overcome with fear that they will return tomorrow. I offer to finish making the mooncakes tonight. There is much rejoicing.
10:02pm – Six mooncakes are rolled and ready to be molded. Santiago offers to mold it. He smashes the first mooncake. It is now flat as a pancake.
10:05pm – Jasky tries molding the cakes. He does a beautiful job. He molds the rest of the cakes. He is not in Mandarin class.
10:24pm – The mooncakes are in the oven. Jasky is picked up by his dad. Santiago is excited. He can’t wait to see the cakes done.
10:26pm – I start tidying up the kitchen. Stress is slowly leaving my body. It looks like I will make it out alive after all.
11:07pm – The mooncakes are done. I take them out of the oven. Santiago is fast asleep.
This is a tricky question because I don’t think I can describe who I am in a paragraph, much less a couple of sentences. But if I were not to overthink it, I would say I am a mother to two wonderful humans, two cranky cats, a scurry of squirrels, and a second mom to all my children’s friends. I am happily married to my artistic and absent-minded husband (think Mr. Magoo), working full-time in the comfort of my own home which gives me the opportunity to sneak into the kitchen to bake bread, cakes, or cookies whenever I want. I love northern California, where I live. I enjoy the beautiful weather 275 days in a year; the other 90 days, not so much. I am a frustrated gardener but where I suck at plants, I make up for with animals. My little backyard is home to hummingbirds, squirrels, crows, towhees, finches, sparrows, lost cats (I have rescued three), and very recently, four aggressive and very loud scrub jays. I don’t know what I want to do with my life, but I’m looking forward to where this journey takes me.
For the past decade, I have been trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. I am a year shy of turning 50, and for the life of me, I have no idea what to do with myself. I’ve brain-stormed with family and many friends about new paths I could take; I’ve even filled out an application form at a city college to go back to school, but I honestly don’t have the same passion for anything, like I used to have in my twenties.
I took a skills test in one of those job sites that’s supposed to help you find your niche and guide you in the right direction career-wise. All my skills sounded good as hashtags, but nothing really that would qualify me for a better paying job with long-term prospects. I envy all these women in powerful positions with impressive acronyms at the end of their names: CEO, CFO, MBA, Ph.D., etc. They obviously knew what they wanted at an early age and worked hard to get to where they are now, and I respect them for that. I, on the other hand, can only claim one acronym at the end of my name, LAF. Lost As Fuck. What a “laf” indeed.
You want to know what I’m passionate about? I’m passionate about my house smelling of freshly baked bread and Snickerdoodle cookies. I’m passionate about trying out new recipes in my kitchen and surprising my kids with what I created when they come home from school. I’m passionate about crisp fragrant smelling sheets, sparkly clean bathrooms, a dust-free, and orderly house. I’m passionate about my kids knowing Mom will make them feel better if something is bothering them. I’m passionate about my pets feeling loved and safe, and having fresh food and clean water bowls all day long. I’m passionate about being there for people when they need comforting and want someone to talk to. I’m passionate about making people laugh and feel good about themselves.
If there is one thing I possess that I am very sure about, it is that I am a nurturer. I can nurture the hell out of anybody. The skills test didn’t think this was important as it obviously has no place in the job industry, but I think people in the workforce would be much healthier and happier if they were nurtured more. There should be a department in every office for the sole purpose of nurturing employees when they need it most. I bet people are more productive, creative, and dependable when they feel happier, comforted, and cared for. Heck, everybody deserves a ton of nurturing.
I’d make an amazing Nurturer Director. That would be my title: “Nurturer, Ph.D.” Overwhelmed and strained employees can come to my office anytime and I would welcome them with a cup of hot cocoa and a plate of chocolate chip cookies that I baked earlier in the day. It would be a different treat every day and always made by me, as there is just something comforting about homemade food. We would sit down in my comfy couch and talk about how they’re doing. They can say anything they want without fear of being judged, ridiculed, or minimized.
That’s what it was like to confide in my mother and be nurtured by her. She would just listen, and smile, sometimes hold my hand if the situation was very serious, and then maybe even laugh with me, never at me, as laughing is as therapeutic as crying, just less ugly. She hated the kitchen though, so there were no cookies when you came to her for comfort. But she ran such an efficient household that our cook would have chocolate cupcakes ready for us if Mom felt we needed it.
I suppose I was one of the lucky ones who grew up with a nurturing presence in my life at all times. Mom was and still is a high-level nurturer and I would like to believe I take after her. She was the stable, constant presence in our daily lives; the one we would run to if we were feeling angry or sad, the one we asked for things we needed for school, the one who listened when life became confusing or difficult. When life got a bit tougher and Mom had to work for a living along with Dad, Mom made sure our nannies took over the nurturing duties. We were never wanting for anything; she trained the nannies to make sure everything was covered, and even then, Mom would check in on us regularly despite her crazy work schedule.
Now it seems this kind of upbringing is no longer the norm and hasn’t been for many decades. When both parents have to work just to raise a family or a single parent for that matter, I can’t imagine how a mother or father could jump into a second shift as nurturer; they either don’t have any energy left for it or can only do very little of it. At this point, there is probably generations of people who were raised with very little nurturing or none at all.
I hear about my daughter’s nine-year-old classmate who has to wait outside his apartment door for hours until his mom returns from work. I know of a grade-5 teacher who collects all the leftover food from the lunchroom and packs them into little bags for one of her students who doesn’t know if his mother will be sober enough to have food for him when he comes home. There was another young boy we know about who always acted out in school because his mother left them and his father’s only way of coping is through the bottle. When the teacher asked to meet with the father to find ways to support the child, the father thought it best to just pull him out of school and leave him at home to fend for himself.
Imagine generations of unnurtured children who will grow up to be unassured, troubled, and most likely fragile adults. They will need to navigate their way alone through an already complicated and harsh adult life without the security and assurances that come with nurturing at an early age. I am no mental health professional, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a large number of people with anxiety disorders, depression, narcissism, or anger issues are due to an absence of nurturing during childhood. If people who were nurtured at a young age, such as myself, still experience anxiety, insecurities, and depression from the challenges of being an adult, imagine how much more difficult it is for the ones who were never cared for when they were children?
If nurturing can be prescribed as a remedy just like other therapies, I am sure I have found my life’s calling. I am ready to work at any time. My office is fully equipped with a pantry stocked with baking ingredients, two shelves of cookies sheets, cake pans, boxes of cocoa, and almost 50 years’ experience in caring, guiding, and loving unconditionally, trained and raised by a wise and expert nurturer.
My youngest brother has been nagging me to write for many years now; eight years, to be exact. He seems to think I can write well. I think I can write, I don’t know about the well part. I’ve never really gotten far enough with any kind of writing to really know.
To be honest, I have been trying to write longer than the nagging started. He does not know this, but the first time I heard about Blogger, I immediately created my own blog. I was so excited. I think I spent two entire days customizing my blog to make it reflect my personality. By the time I was done with how it looked, I sat down to write my first entry, and nothing coherent came out. It was as if someone plugged my brain so none of my thoughts could come out for me to type on the keyboard. It’s sort of happening right now too so I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes me three hours to finish this first entry.
Wanggo, my brother, told me writing is a mind-muscle exercise. The more you do it, the better you become at it. It takes a lot of practice and determination before it eventually becomes easier. It sounds a lot like an exercise program for weight loss. I have not succeeded in any exercise program for weight loss. As a matter of fact, I just canceled my YMCA membership because I was paying $64/month to hate myself for missing another day of exercise. I figured I could very well hate myself for free at home too.
Today is a different day though. Maybe. Not sure yet. But it’s a slow day at work and without putting another thought to it, I decided to Google ‘Word Press’ and opened an account. I confess I almost got stuck customizing the look of my blog (again!) but finally settled for whatever I have right now because I’m not as tech-savvy as I was 15 years ago. I also cannot get my brother’s nagging out of my head even though I live 7,158 miles away. It’s as if he’s figured out how to nag me psychically, even in his sleep (because it is 5:00am there right now), and I can’t shut him up. Maybe this is that moment he finally succeeds and I finally start writing. Maybe.
Does that sound like a good paragraph to end with? Can I actually stop torturing myself and publish my first post? Who the hell am I talking to?!
Thoughts Into Words 