Race

With the recent election buzzing about, race and the issues that surround it have been central in the public eye. I'm actually quite excited that conversations are being formed and issues are no longer being tackled from a fringe perspective where people can frame it as an issue being pitched by "fanatics" who see everything through a race lens but can actually tackle it as a legitimate issue that effects the life of every American.

With all the conversation about race being publicized, it's made me think a bit about my own experience as an Asian American and my racial identity.

Growing up in a predominantly white and asian suburb of Chicago, the issue of race seemed to center around whether you hung with a majority asian crowd or if you were a "white asian". I never had much of an understanding of what issues black americans were talking about in the public realm. And to be honest, there are prejudices that exist between Asian and Black communities.*

For the past year I've been attending a majority black church and for the first time in my life have had several significant and real friendships with Black and African Americans. And I'm starting to realize that there are significant differences in the experience of race in America and that merely being a minority doesn't allow me to understand the minority experience of all cultures. Pegged into the experience of a "model minority" [a phrase which has probably de-emphasized the Asian American experience], it becomes easy to sometimes think that Asians have somehow "overcome" the commonly stated barriers and abuses that come with racism and we often fail to see the struggles that other minorities have to go against.

Understanding that God has a place for diversity and has a heart for all nations helps me to see that there are no mistakes in God creating different cultures and races. There was no mistake when God made one of my good friends Ghanian American or Louisianian Black American. And there was no mistake in my experience as a Chinese daughter to two immigrants. And there was no mistake in my friends growing up as White Central Pennsylvanian. No experience is less valid and less important in how the Body of Christ is compiled [1]. However, there are broken places in all of those experiences and the body will only hurt by not acknowledging that [2]. It makes me wonder how having that understanding changes how I will view policies and mindsets that get put in place that choose to reinforce inequalities. But I also wonder how beautiful it will be when people see past the things that divide and see that we are all made in the image of God, made to reflect different portions of God.

[1] 1 Corinthians 12: 18But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be.
[2] 1 Corinthians 12:26If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.

*On a side note: I've been having several conversations about race with my parents the past few months. Sadly, there is still a lot of barriers to be broken down. It seems quite sad to me to think how stereotypes keep them from actually knowing the experience of someone different from themselves. But, so much of their immigrant experience of having to come over and fend for themselves has probably ingrained certain mindsets. Compassion seems to be the lesson that I have to learn over and over again when approaching my own racial cohort.

After sitting in grief over his loss and hearing the accusations of his friends, Job's wrestling with God leaves him with these words.

And I'm struck by their poignancy. and Simplicity in Trust.

"Agree with God, and be at peace;
thereby good will come to you.
Receive instruction from his mouth,
and lay up his words in your heart.
If you return to the Almighty you will be built up;
if you remove injustice far from your tents,
if you lay gold in the dust,
and gold of Ophir among the stones of the torrent-bed,
then the Almighty will be your gold
and your precious silver.
For then you will delight yourself in the Almighty
and lift up your face to God.
You will make your prayer to him, and he will hear you,
and you will pay your vows.
You will decide on a matter, and it will be established for you,
and light will shine on your ways.
For when they are humbled you say, 'It is because of pride';
but he saves the lowly.
He delivers even the one who is not innocent,
who will be delivered through the cleanness of your hands."
-Job 22:21-30

Politics According to an 87 year old chinese lady

I recently asked my grandmother, who is 87 years old and barely speaks English, whether she watched the NCAA finals. Usually an avid ESPN watcher, she surprised me by saying "What NCAA final?" She then chuckled and said, "To tell you the truth, I haven't been watching sports lately. I've just been watching Hilary and Obama fight on TV! And it's SO much fun!"

I asked her about her opinion of the canditates and she gave me her synopsis of all the issues and the debates that were going on.

"I really like Obama. His face is so good to look at! His mouth, when he smiles, it's like the sun is going to come out! But Hilary, she's always shaking hands and signing papers, shaking hands and signing papers."

Real Life Stories

I'm currently reading a book called Same Kind of Different As Me. It's a novel that gives vignettes about two men living in Texas. One of them is a prestigious multi-million dollar art dealer. Another is a man who grew up as a modern day slave, a share cropper who lived in isolated poverty and who eventually hopped on a train to a city and became a homeless man. The book [which is a true story told in the two's own words] chronicles the lives of these two men as they're brought together by the rich man's wife, who happens to catch a glimpse of what Jesus talks about when He says to "love your neighbor and love the Lord". The book records their stories before and during their moments of getting to know one another, the challenges, and the transformation that happens for the both of them and then the community around them. I've appreciated this book so much because it seems to tell it from perspectives that are so honest to emotion and the reality of life. More than rich churches talking about the theoretical basis of "reaching the poor" and social structures and injustice, it's a real life story of about the reality of what Jesus' Kingdom looks like, what his love looks like, and how it transforms us and the relationships we have with people around us. I love these kind of stories.

Until it comes knocking on my door.

For the past two years of living in West Philly, our house has been consistently frequented by a homeless man who I'll call "Joe". It started out as a picture perfect "privileged person" and "homeless man" relationship. We would invite Joe over for dinner when he stopped by. We'd listen to his stories for hours, we'd laugh and hug, we'd pray together and we'd help Joe out with a couple of dollars as he had need. While it wasn't perfect, I felt like God had broken down some of the barriers of those two roles and had given us some pretty genuine interactions. Until he started coming at 3 or 4 in the morning every week. And while Joe has never out rightly lied or deceived us, friends who also knew of Joe told us he wasn't always honest [as if I've never lied or told partial truths to get my way!]. Suddently the suspicions began to grow and I felt the need to protect my space.

So Joe comes knocking on my door tonight and I invite him into our home to get out of the cold. After sitting and listening to him talk for a bit, my defensive shields go up when he mentions "needing a few bucks". Suddenly my compassion goes to the sidelines and I basically tell Joe that I need to go do something else [in essence, kick him out of my house]. And while I knew in my heart that it was wrong for me to ask him to leave into the cold as we were about to eat our steak dinner, I really didn't feel like being used. As Joe begins to realize that he's not welcome at our house at this particular moment, he begins to resort back into the "homeless man" speech - comments about needing money, helping him out. As he's leaving, I realize what I'm doing and offer him a ride to his next destination. He declines, saying he needs to wander around in the cold for a few more hours before he can go over. I tell him to come back if he needs a ride later on at night. But somehow I think that the damage done tonight was less so about him wandering around in the cold as it was me creating boundaries that shouldn't have been there.

It takes me back to just a few years ago when it wouldn't be uncommon to find myself sitting with a homeless man on the stoop eating a meal together, running around the streets of Philadelphia in the rain with a home cooked meal trying to find one of my homeless friends, or praying in the middle of the night with a couple that was beaten down by the roughness of the street. Perhaps it was idealism, but perhaps I just had less things distracting me from what the Gospel really teaches.

Matthew 6 is one of those passages that blows my mind. The passage talks about giving to the needy, storing up treasures in heaven, how we should pray, and then caps it off with "don't worry about your needs because your Daddy will take care of you". Somehow that chapter seems to tie together so much of how we're practically able to live when dealing with situations like Joe's. Of particular, Matthew 6:24 pops up for me"No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money". I've never thought of myself as someone who loves money ~ I work because I enjoy my job, I don't mind giving away portions of my money, I don't really need a lot of stuff to be happy. But, I'm realizing more that perhaps my love for money isn't the actual "stuff" that it brings as much as it's about the safe boundaries that it brings. Money seems to be the thing that most blatantly separates me and Joe. And somehow, inherently, I want to believe that my having money makes my motives more true, my actions more noble. But Jesus comes and ruins all of those pretty boundaries. Suddenly we all become poor and it's not about the amount of stuff that we have here on earth, but the riches that God gives us. Suddenly, there's not too much of a difference between Joe and I.

Wine Country

I've been vacationing the past week in California with my family. We've been treking around the Bay Area and spending a few days in Sonoma Valley. The lure of California is strong. Since being out here, I've been so relaxed, enjoying the beautiful weather, looking at scenic hills with cows grazing, yellow flowers blossoming from row after row of vines. There's been so many times this trip where the beauty has literally made me catch my breath and stop.

This beauty comes at a hefty price. As we've been taking tours of wineries and eating in fine restaurants, I find myself surrounded by a group that I've rarely encountered in the past year in West Philly. My favorite part of the trip so far has been in Sonoma, when a local bar manager took my sister and I on a segway tour around the rural roads. While whizzing around, we passed joggers with their large dogs, residents of a town where it takes a pretty penny to live. We went to the back of a cheese factory and walked in on some the people who rolled the cheese. They joked around with us in spanish for a bit as they covered the cheese rolls with cocoa. I had so many questions I wanted to ask the cheese roller man. In a land of expensive houses, where does he live while working at the cheese factory? Where is he from? How long has he been here and is there any crossover between him and that rich lady with the big dog?

While driving on the beautiful country roads, I wish I could stop by the small shack on the side of the road surrounded by rusty tractors and spend an afternoon just seeing what the culture of a migrant farm worker looked like. We see the product, a $90 bottle of wine, but there seems to be so much more depth in the culture of wine country than just the fine things that I enjoy while vacationing.

stories

We carry stories of people every day. Sometimes we share them and sometimes we keep them within ourselves. Earlier in the week I had taken care of a woman as she underwent some invasive procedures to confirm that the cancer had spread to her lungs. Her husband and son remained at her bedside for most of the day, sometimes crying, sometimes silently holding her hand, sometimes gently covering her feet with the blankets. I remember thinking that she exhibited such grace while going through such difficult times. Her son came up to me today to thank me for taking care of his mother. They had placed her on hospice care and the past few days had been hard for the family. When I mentioned to him that I thought his mother exhibited such grace, he smiled and said, “Yeah, she really is elegant isn’t she? But then again, she’s my mom.” I’m always grateful for the “thank you” from patients and families because it reminds me that it’s worth it to connect past the basic necessities of the job but I also realized that those are the “thank you”s that I wish I didn’t have to receive.

I was encouraged today when driving a coworker of mine back after work. It had been a discouraging day for me. I had caught myself several times during the day inadvertently spouting sarcastic or dry comments about patients and their illnesses. I felt disconnected, one half of myself truly enjoying the people who I was caring for yet the other half saying insensitive and insincere things that I did not really feel. While we were driving after work, my coworker started sharing all the stories of the people who she’s working with. And then she said the words that I had been battling with all day but was afraid to say, “I’m always afraid I’m going to become numb.” It was so freeing to be reminded that others go through that and that years of nursing doesn’t mean that I’ll fully understand or know what to make of the things I receive in the hospital.

Wheelies!

My favorite new thing to do in the city is ride my bicycle around. After hanging out with my co-worker who works two jobs, is in school and does marathons in her spare time, I decided it's about time I get off my lard booty and buy another bike [plus I got sick of driving 10 blocks and having to pay $6 at park-and-ride when I could spend that on delicious food]. It's been surprisingly fun! A few things I've especially enjoyed about my little bike [and yes, it is little...boo it was the only one that fit at the shop :P]

1. Scrub pants + bike = holy scrub pants. Scrub pants + little reflective velcro band on leg = nerdy looking but oh so lovely scrub pants
2. I really like it when you go down a hill and the wheels turn so fast that you pedal and it doesn't have any resistence. i have no idea why it's like that...you'd figure the faster you move your legs the faster the wheels turn. is biking down hills kinda like an activation energy...once you hit a certain point there's no turning back and your extra use of biking energy just doesn't do any more work?* i have nerdy friends, I'll ask them :D
3. biking in west philly is kind of like playing Frogger "don't die don't die don't die!"
4. sometimes the pedestrians are scarier than the cars [those crazy penn kids dancing in the street and flailing their arms can clothesline ya like that!]
5. biking in the cold and ears flapping in the wind is a bad combination. ouchie.

*even when I'm old and well, old...there will always be chemistry jokes! but even with all this biking I'll never be able to lose any of the fatty folds in my intestine because of the conservation of omentum...
ha. ha. ha. get it? :)

Humanity in the Hospital

Sometimes I wonder what happens to the heart when you have to bounce back from seeing losses in the hospital. There are times I feel like being a nurse feels like I'm acting in an absurd play, to know the right things to say and the right times to say it. Even on an oncology floor where death frequently occurs, the process of placing a patient on hospice and helping them die still feels slightly unnatural and out of place. Even with the compassionate and understanding friends I have on the floor, it still feels out of place to say "I'm sad" and grieve the loss of a patient. It often makes me wonder what it's like with the residents, who often don't have the benefit of time and space to process the things that they're seeing or the collectiveness of staying in one place to be able to recap moments shared with a patient who has died. Does it grow numb after a while or is it a mechanism of survival to turn off and keep going? This week, after a whole day of conversing with the wife of a dying thirty year old man, she looked at me and said, "It must take a lot of strength to keep working on this floor and see this everyday." Her comment made me wonder what strength looks like. Does strength look like the ability to keep going? Sometimes it seems like so little is talked about amongst staff about how patients affect us. A coworker of mine once told me that all we can do is just provide for the need and move on. Yet, we let individuals affect and change us every day, should it not apply to those that we care for? After watching my patient and his family grieve over their loss, I came home that night and for the first time in a long time, cried over what I saw. It felt good. I felt human.

Vocation

It's taken me about one month to fill out a form for work. The form is a self-evaluation with examples from practice of my competencies as a nurse. It's HUP's way of awarding its nurses for what we do by providing a tier of clinical proficiency. In other words, a four dollar pay raise.

For someone who's cranked out a kajillion papers and projects, this four page application has been really difficult for me to do. My manager handed me the form and told me, "Cindy, this is your chance to brag about all the things that you do". The form wants me to list examples of how I fulfill different areas that exemplify competent nursing. Besides the fact that I have a hard time remembering what I did yesterday, finding examples has been really challenging. A huge part of it is because it's hard for me to think of nursing as competencies I have to fulfill. When I think of my job, I don't necessarily think of work. I don't think about the milestones I have to meet or clinical skills I have to obtain [although those are all things absolutely necessary to being a good nurse]. Simply put, I think of people. Try listing "likes people" under your skill set. Oiy.

That being said, filling out the form has made me think a bit about the word "Vocation". We sure spend enough time at our jobs, so what makes it so that it isn't so much "work" [as in labor] but a place we live life? A few quotes to tickle your mind:

"Vocation comes from the same root as voice, denoting the hearing of a divine call. Beyond knowing that God has a purpose for our lives, most of us spend little energy seeking out our vocation, especially in light of how the needs and the sufferings of our neighbors might inform how we use our gifts for divine purposes. There are plenty of people who are miserable in their jobs, for they have not listened to Gods call. And I would add there are many Christians who are not fulfilled in their spiritual lives becuase they have no sense of their gifts or purposes and they just run to the mission field to save souls rather than transform lives and communities using their gifts and those of the people they live among." -the irresistable revoluition, shane claiborne
"Many people mistake our work for our vocation. Our vocation is the love of Jesus." -Mother Theresa

home for the holidays

I begin this year in a sleepy haze of coffee induced happiness. A flurry of four days on the hospital floor has made for a welcome return to a quiet and empty house during the holidays. And in this state of Starbucks and cookie overload [if I ever become diabetic during the holidays, I blame Jesus getting born], I find I have much to be thankful for.

In a city often known for its roughness and harrowing crime streak, the city of Philadelphia has warmed me with its show of Brotherly Love during this holiday season. From friendly banter on the hospital floor, hearty pats on the back by interns who I've only met for 4 hours, phone calls from people who I haven't seen or spoken to for months, visits by homeless friends who offer their holiday greetings and come wanting to share a CD that has touched them, random invitations for homecooked dinners to midnight greetings and hugs from my neighbor Miss Chocolate, I find no lack of kindness. The quietness of the house reminds me that this city, even without my housemates, are full of people who remind me of God's presence and constant watch. Although Chicago will always hold its standings as "home" during the holidays, Philadelphia has found its place in my little heart.

A Happy New Year.