It’s a cool summer evening and I’m standing on the spongy outfield grass of a local middle school trying to remember the points of properly throwing a frisbee: Plant the back foot. Look where you want to throw. Move the arm across the body in one smooth motion, then flick the wrist.
Relax.
I take a breath, turn, and throw, and watch the plastic circle arc up and far to the right of my target. With a pang of embarrassment, I watch my throwing buddy wave off my apologies as she runs over — waaaay over — to pick up the misthrown disc.
Malcolm Gladwell writes that it takes 10,000 hours to achieve expertise. By the count, I have about 9, 985 hours to go — roughly 20 hours a week for ten years — before I become an Ultimate frisbee virtuoso.
Growing up as a bookish girl in an immigrant family, it never occurred to me that sports could be fun. Also, even as a child, I hated feeling incompetent. The list of traumatic childhood memories associated with mandatory sports or physical activity is too long for one blog post: Standing on the outfield in kickball desperately hoping that (please, please, please) the ball wouldn’t come to me, being the last to be picked for a team, the torture that was the Presidential Fitness test — I could go on, but I will save the rest for my therapist.
For the past four years, I’ve watched my daughter Anna grow increasingly more devoted to the sport of Ultimate. I’d begun to regret that I’d never played a team sport. Over the years, I had learned to jog and even enjoy going to the gym, but learning a new sport seemed to be a privilege afforded to youth.
“If only there were a beginner-friendly way to play Ultimate,” I said more than once. “I’d totally sign up.”
So when a group of moms decided to form the Flaming Mother Huckers, how could I say no?
The FMH is a women’s Ultimate team made up of beginners or those who haven’t played for decades. We are good spirited and friendly, and we try hard. We are coached by experienced players (often our own children) who are generous and patient with our ineptitude.
I may hate feeling incompetent but, as it turns out, I enjoy learning new things — like how to throw, how to catch, and how charge across the grass toward my teammate — arms and legs flailing, looking every bit the uncoordinated newbie that I am — calling for the disc. Sometimes I catch it. Sometimes I drop it. But I hope it comes to me, every time.
This trip, costly both in time and in treasure, is now over. I’m grateful for rich time with my family (nuclear, original, extended) and for all the sights, tastes, sounds and…more tastes that made up our three weeks here. Three weeks in one city give you a chance to settle down a bit and get your bearings. I remember trying to find a place to buy a subway card (7-Eleven or any other convenience store), wandering around trying to get a new SIM card for my phone (easiest to deal with at the airport) and scrutinizing the subway map. That was just three weeks ago but I feel so much better oriented to Seoul now–that’s a nice feeling.
The trip brought up other feelings, too.
The house where my mother grew up, soon to be demolished.
My parents are in their early eighties. Also, my aunt just passed away, making my mom the last of her generation. All this conjured a this is it feeling around many of our visits and activities. This was it. My parents probably weren’t coming back to Korea again.
Mom paying her respects at the graves of her parents.
This would be the last time my mom would visit her hometown and the graves of her parents and siblings.
This would be the last visit with her nieces and nephews, especially those who don’t ever travel to the US.
When we were visiting my mom’s hometown — once a literal village, now a mini suburb of Icheon that is booming due to silicon chip manufacturing — my mom ran into one of her former classmates. As they were parting, he said, “when will we see each other again?” No one said it but “you won’t” hung in the air. This was it.
Holding the hand of a childhood friend.
The intensity of this is it was lightened a bit near the end of the trip when my mother said she’d like to come back, maybe with a tour group to see parts of Korea she wanted to visit. She had given and received all the family-related greetings. She had said the blessings and given and received gifts. Now she wanted to come back and sightsee. I’m not sure if that’s realistic or if she was also saying that to sidestep the burden of saying goodbye for good.
All my life, I have leaned on my parents to navigate visits to South Korea in general and my extended family in particular. This trip, I realized that one era is closing and another is beginning. Now it’s my turn to help my daughters connect with this part of their heritage and their Korean family.
Each morning and evening here in Seoul, my parents watch the news. As you might imagine, more than 50% of each broadcast is about the latest twists and turns in the drama between Kim Jong Un and Trump.
TV shots like this one are fairly typical.
Hearing the news from a South Korean perspective, one does note certain similarities between the two men.
My uncle laughs and calls Trump and Kim “brothers.”
Our Korean guide who led our visit to the DMZ commented that he wished the US would lean on the South Korean expertise gleaned from decades of relating to North Korea. (Yeah, don’t we all?).
My father is happy that the June 12 meeting is on (as of this writing) but wonders where China is in all this. A peace agreement between North and South would need the sanction of North Korea’s “big brother.”
In other Seoul news:
The ongoing prosecution of former Korean President Lee Myung-Bak for graft.
The case of the wife and daughters of the CEO of Korean Airlines, who are in trouble for throwing tantrums and abusing their staff, bringing some of that staff from the Philippines under false pretenses, importing goods under false pretenses to avoid paying taxes, and on and on. Korean Airlines employees are protesting, too, against poor working conditions. They wear masks to hide their identities.
The #MeToo movement is making waves here, too. Female college students, a YouTube star, and others are speaking up.
Meanwhile, local electioneering has officially begun.
The news this morning showed a shot of a local candidate promising that on election day (June 13), Korea will be transformed!
Who do you admire? And what does the object of your admiration say about who you are and what you value?
My father, Kate, and I traveled 350km south of Seoul by high-speed rail to visit Bongha Village, the hometown of former South Korean president Roh Moo-hyun and one place my father particularly wanted to visit during our trip here.
Roh was president from 2003–2008. He was born right after World War II into a poor farming family. He did not have the means to go to college or law school but he passed the Bar on his own and became a renowned human rights attorney, specializing in the rights of students who were agitating against authoritarian rule.
The support of young people via emerging technologies like SMS messaging brought Roh to the presidency. He represented a new generation of Korean politicians who favored a good relationship with North Korea, even at the expense of the displeasure of the United States. He was also known for passionate speeches against political corruption.
He was an idealistic leader with slogans like (loosely translated) “a liveable world for all.”
Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to have been a very effective president. Constant pushback from the opposition party, an unhappy US, and his own failings as a leader made him deeply unpopular. He served one term and then retired to his home village where he started up an eco-farming enterprise.
About a year into his retirement from public life, allegations of bribery were raised against his administration and his family members. While he denied any knowledge of the transfer of funds, he apologized and said that he had lost the moral cause against political corruption.
On May 29, 2009, he jumped off Bueong’i Bawi (Owl Rock) and died a few hours later.
Bongwa Village has now become a memorial site. You can see where Roh was born, visit a museum about his presidency, see his grave, and even visit Owl Rock which is fenced off with barbed wire to discourage copycats.
President Roh’s suicide put an end to the corruption investigation against him and his family and colleagues. For that and for other cultural reasons, his death is at least partially seen as noble, a drastic gesture from a proud man.
Whatever you think of the man, his presidency, or his death, President Roh Moo-hyun activated a younger generation into political engagement and played an important role in South Korea’s herky-jerky journey toward democracy.
Seoul is a modern, global city with mega malls and supermarkets but we are lucky enough to live around the corner from a “jae rae si jang,” a traditional market.
At Mangwon market, you can buy any of the following and more: fresh seafood, socks, cereal, Korean rice cakes (dduk), many varieties of meat displayed under red lights, dried fruit, vegetables, fruit, side dishes galore. There are also innumerable stands where you can pick up (or eat in) kim bap, cold noodles (neng myun), blood sausage (soondae) and on and on.
The market makes my parents feel nostalgic and if we’re home for lunch or dinner, they enjoy strolling through and deciding what they want to eat.
Our favorite stand and dismayingly irresistible discovery has been a stand that serves up fried pastries made from chap ssal (rice flour). Basically, it’s a stand full of mochi doughnuts.
The ajussi who runs the place has started to recognize us, which isn’t hard when you’re a biracial family and you come by once or twice a day!
When I was in my early twenties, I got caught up in the fanciful notion that I would learn to properly cook a Korean dish or two. I figured this would take me–what–a few hours, perhaps? My 이모 (maternal aunt) had always been a fantastic cook so when she and I were both at my parent’s house for a family event, I asked her to teach me.
“I’m going to learn to cook Korean food, okay?” I said. I figured I could be her sous chef for the family gathering.
She nodded without comment.
The next morning, I woke up and stumbled into the kitchen. It was early but it was obvious that my aunt had already been up for hours. Washed and prepped vegetables were piled into large bowls. My aunt sat crouched on the floor, hard at work. She moved steadily, assuredly, without ceasing.
In that moment, I realized how presumptuous it had been for me to think I could learn how to cook Korean food in a day. My aunt had been working in the kitchen since she was a small child. She had the 10,000 hours for mastery described by Malcolm Gladwell, and then some. I, on the other hand, was an impatient youngster brought up short by my own hubris. I turned around and went back to bed.
My aunt, ten years ago.
My aunt passed away five days before we arrived in Korea. She was genial and relentless about feeding the people she loved delicious morsels of perfectly seasoned tastiness.
Even when she was battling the last stage of stomach cancer, she insisted that when we visited her she would cook for us. When my mother objected, my aunt scolded. “Are you saying you’ll come to my house but refuse to eat even one bite of my cooking?”
When she had to move to hospice, she still insisted on feeding us. She left instructions for her daughter, my cousin.
“Make oi sobaegi for Bora, because cucumber kimchi her favorite. Your aunt can’t eat very spicy things, so you need to make water kimchi for her. For Wes and the girls, you need to make a batch of regular kimchi.”
My cousin protested that she couldn’t both care for my (at that point very, very sick) aunt and make kimchi.
“Do it,” my aunt said. “You can leave me alone while you do it.”
When we met her grieving daughter in Seoul, she greeted us with homemade kimchi.
We arrived in Seoul in the middle of a record rainfall. Fighting off jetlag felt a bit challenging when our options were staying in our very small AirBnB home or venturing out into the downpour.
The rain was a drag but brought a side benefit of clearing away the “yellow dust” aka air pollution. The days that followed have been perfect: sunny, clear, and not-too hot. We’ve been running around mixing touristy fun with seeing family.
Seoul has changed a lot since we were last here ten years ago. The most obvious difference is the number of foreigners in the city. Ten years ago, my tall white husband and my biracial children were a novelty, especially in the smaller neighborhoods. People stared. Now, no one — not grandmas, not school children — even cast a sidelong glance. We are just a few among many foreigners.
On our first morning here, Wes and I witnessed an accident: a small car ran a red light and crashed into an older man on a bicycle. Strangers rushed to help. Police and paramedics soon arrived. While the situation was serious, the bicyclist seemed unhurt. The driver was apologetic and candidly admitted her fault. The police officers were courteous. The paramedics were as well. They took the bicyclist to the hospital for evaluation. I’m not saying that every accident in Seoul resolves itself this peacefully, but I couldn’t imagine any accident in the States getting worked out so cheerfully.
Later that same day, while sitting on a stoop in the rain outside a cell phone store, Wes and Anna were handed an umbrella by a lady walking by (she had two). She clearly had taken pity on these two foreigners who were dumb enough to step out into the rain without umbrellas. (We have rain jackets but this is definitely an umbrella-not-rain-jacket culture).
We decided that the theme of that day was the “kindness of strangers.”
Nothing catches the eye and enlivens the spirit more than a chunk of text with the word “boring” in the title, amirite?
As a person who enjoys self-improvement projects, I often rely on the excitement of new innovations, strategies, or products to kick start me down a path to better habits, less stuff, or more organization. The changes I’ve made in response to my church’s call to deepen environmental stewardship, on the other hand, have been rather pedestrian and (surprisingly) meaningful.
Eat Less Meat — raising meat for food is resource intensive and bad for global warming, so during Lent, Wes and I stopped eating meat and fish. Lent is now over but I’ve maintained eating less meat by cooking vegetarian meals at home and choosing the veg option whenever I can. I eat meat when it is served to me and as an occasional treat (hello, sashimi). On a side note, I happened to get a medical checkup recently and my doctor was really, really happy with my cholesterol levels. The last time I had a full check up was about a decade ago, which I realize hardly constitutes a baseline, but I do remember the doctor saying that my cholesterol back then was on the higher side of normal.
Buying less stuff — We know that our landfills and oceans are filled with a heartbreaking amount of plastic. So we should replace the plastic in our lives with glass straws, reusable produce bags, and bamboo to-go utensils, right? Not necessarily. One of the greenest things we can do is buy fewer things and use the things we already have. So I’m washing plastic produce bags, reusing the boba straws we’ve accumulated, and carrying around mismatching plastic utensils. We still have a ton of plastic in our daily lives but less new plastic is coming into our home. And, yes, many of you have been doing this for years and I used to make fun of you for doing so.
Utilizing community — I’m learning from the green warriors who are leading the way in my real and virtual community. For example, there is a woman in my church who collects mylar (chip bags, power bar wrappers) and many other hard-to-recycle items to send in to this website to raise money for her child’s school. She has agreed to collect such items from others — I’m so jumping on that bandwagon!
Bringing trash home — The El Cerrito Recycling Center is amazing. They take many things, including “plastic film,” which is everything from cling wrap to grocery bags. Also, the City of Berkeley will take any hard plastic (cups, yogurt containers, trays). Since we have such great recycling options, I try hard not to send things to the landfill (and, yes, I know there is an international recycling crisis right now because China is eschewing foreign plastic). So when I eat a Cliff Bar or Anna buys pearl milk tea, we carry the trash home. I have not yet become sufficiently radicalized to bring other people’s trash home…but you know, I’m open.
I would love to hear what everyday things you are doing to build a greener world. Happy Earth Day!
Date: Feb 16-18, 2018
Location: Joshua Tree National Park
Trail: Boy Scout Trail to Window Loop (out and back)
Total Mileage: 18 miles
Hikers (listed by hiking names, from oldest to youngest): Jake, Hot Lunch, Tricky Kate, Positive Pierre, Mountain Pup
I wouldn’t have chosen Joshua Tree National Park as the next destination in my still-nascent backpacking career, but it is just two hours from where Tricky Kate goes to college and the prospect of her coming along motivated us to overcome the biggest barrier to entry which was…
Water.
Joshua Tree is a desert (two deserts, actually, the Mojave and the Sonora) and therefore lacks natural, accessible (to humans) water sources. Because it is a desert, even if you do come upon water (from a recent rainfall, for example), you’re supposed to leave it for the desert critters.
Did you know that a liter of water weighs 2.2 lbs? Because it was winter, we figured we could get away with 4 liters of water per person, per day. For a 2.5 day trip, this meant that each of us needed to carry 22 lbs of water, in addition to the rest of our gear. Yowza.
February (and especially President’s Day weekend) is a very popular time to come to the park. We knew we wouldn’t be able to make it there early enough to snag a first-come-first-served camping spot, so we opted to hike out and spend our first night in the backcountry.
We arrived at the trailhead at about 5:30 pm. After filling out our (free) permit, we headed off.
As the desert landscape sank into darkness, the night sky filled with stars, the likes of which we rarely experience in our light-polluted world. The Dippers, the North Star, Orion’s Belt…we could name only a few of the innumerable stars we saw above us.
After walking for about two hours, we set up camp off trail (at least 500 feet, please) and went to sleep on what turned out to be a very cold night. I slept in my down sleeping bag wearing my rain jacket and a hat and still felt uncomfortably chilly. It was the kind of night where you constantly wake up because it’s hard to get comfortable and it’s so freakin’ cold and you have to pee but it’s too frigid to contemplate getting out of your sleeping bag.
The temperature had only dipped into the low 40s, but when we woke up we found ice floating in our water jugs. Jake explained that in the desert, 40 degrees can feel a lot colder because of the loss of infrared radiation to outer space. I’m still thinking about this one.
We ate breakfast and packed up and continued along the Boy Scout Trail in what turned out to be perfect hiking weather. We took a break shortly after the turnoff to Big Pine trail to scramble up Big Pine mountain. Positive Pierre bounded up the boulders like it was nothing. With my general fear of heights and my shoulder injury, I was the slowest of the group but everyone was very upbeat and patient with me. (This is not my most favorite feeling in the world, but I’ve mostly decided that if I want to keep exploring the wilderness, I have to just get over it.)
From the top of Big Pine Mountain. Not sure why Positive Pierre is looking so serious here. He was usually so…positive.
We made our way to the Window loop trail and set up camp among the surreal-looking rocks and boulders, then spent the rest of the afternoon napping, exploring, and climbing another peak where we discovered an enormous trove of what turned out to be bat guano. Eek.
We returned to camp and while we waited for our water to boil for dinner, I read aloud from the pages of a New Yorker article about polar exploration that I had torn out of the magazine and brought along (fantastic article — well worth your time to read). Despite all the snow and ice, Antarctica is a desert so it felt especially fitting to read about polar explorers’ travails and feats of endurance while we were huddled over our little camping stove in the middle of the Mojave.
Our campsite, night 2.
I was trying to explain to a coworker who had never been camping why it’s so fun. Camping in general — and backpacking in particular — usually involves a series of minor discomforts. You don’t sleep well, it’s cold, it’s hot, your muscles are sore, your pack is heavy, the food is terrible (though instant mashed potatoes and tuna packets never tasted so good as after a long day on the trail). So what makes backpacking fun? The five of us on this trip agreed that we had had a really fun time and itched to do it again. Why?
For me, it comes down to these things:
Nature! As Thoreau wrote, “We need the tonic of wildness.”
Exertion and simplicity — for a day or two, we were forced to unplug from our technology-filled lives and focus on the most basic aspects of life: food, water, shelter. While physically taxing, it’s mentally super relaxing for me.
Camaraderie — we laughed. A lot. We worked together and encouraged one another and generally enjoyed one another’s company.
From Wendell Berry’s A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997
IV.
Who makes a clearing makes a work of art,
The true world’s Sabbath trees in festival
Around it. And the stepping stream, a part
Of Sabbath also, flows past, but its fall
Made musical, making the hillslope by
Its fall, and still at rest in falling, song
Rising. The field is made by hand and eye,
By daily work, by hope outreaching wrong,
And yet the Sabbath, parted, still must stay
In the dark mazings of the soil no hand
May light, the great Life, broken, make its way
Along the streamy footholds of the ant.
Bewildered in our timely dwelling place,
Where we arrive by work, we stay by grace.
