Category: Musings

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Sensible or Scaredy Cat?

Risk management is tricky business. To celebrate my mid-March birthday, Scott and I had planned to go to Hilma af Klint’s exhibit in Wellington, and finally visit Te Papa Museum. But when Omicron escaped New Zealand’s managed isolation facilities, we reconsidered our timing to minimize the chances that we might catch — or worse, spread — the virus.

First, we moved our trip forward to mid-February, figuring we’d beat the COVID peak, expected at the end of March. Then we decided to drive rather than fly. Driving would extend our trip by two whole days, but if we happen to catch Omicron while in Wellington, we’ll at least still be able to get back home to isolate in Thames. Finally, I booked us a hotel room with its own bathroom, kitchenette, and a three day cancellation policy. The shared bathroom and kitchen in the bed and breakfast we had booked suddenly feel like unnecessary risks.

We’ve been following the news about The-Convoy-and-associated protests, never imagining it would last this long, or get this tense. When I came across a map of the protestors’ activity I started to wonder: do we really want to visit Wellington at a time when the city is full of people who are not only gathering without masks, but actively harassing those who choose to wear them? As a person of color and an immigrant, do I really want to enter a zone rife with anti-Semitic sentiment? Where nooses hang? Where known white supremacists may be recruiting as others fearlessly share violent intentions?

A few years back, while applying for visas to live and work in New Zealand, my partner and I had to declare that we’ve never made public racist statements, or been members of a racist group. Now permanent residents, we enjoy most of the rights of New Zealand citizens, but there is still no guarantee we will be safe from their racist statements or actions.

My birthday happens to fall on March 15th. On that day three years ago, a white supremacist gunned down 51 innocent Muslim people in Christchurch as they gathered in their places of worship. Many New Zealanders were shocked that such a racially-motivated terrorist massacre could happen here, despite what many Muslims already knew — and had been trying to tell authorities — about anti-Muslim sentiment. If I’m scared about what this protest means for New Zealand’s future, I can’t help but wonder how the Muslim community feels about what’s happening in Wellington right now.

Every year, on the anniversary of the day my partner and I immigrated to New Zealand from San Francisco, people around the country light off truckloads of backyard fireworks. Every year I joke that all this fanfare is in honor of our immigration. The truth, of course, is more complicated.

In 1605, English Catholics had had enough of being persecuted under the Protestant leadership of Great Britain. A group of conspirators hatched a plan to assassinate King James I and his parliament, gathering 36 barrels of gunpowder under the Houses of Parliament with the intention of blowing it all up. Their chosen date: November 5th.

As the date approached, however, some of the conspirators began to have second thoughts, particularly as they considered the innocent people that would inevitably get caught up in the blast. One sent an anonymous letter warning a friend to stay away from Parliament on November 5th. That warning eventually made it to the king, whose forces discovered the barrels of gunpowder under Parliament, along with Guy Fawkes, with only hours to spare before the attack. Guy Fawkes was convicted of treason, and sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Guy Fawkes Day is meant to be a reminder that traitorous plots will not be tolerated.

I’m not sure how many Kiwis are aware of this history, or see Guy Fawkes Day as anything other than an excuse to light off fireworks. If they are aware of the political backstory, do they see themselves as celebrating the government? Or do they align more closely with those who sought to bring the government down? Do they see any parallels between this event and what’s happening in Wellington right now?

On our first evening in New Zealand, the fifth of November, 2016, we attended a Guy Fawkes party at the home of some fellow Americans, friend’s of Scott’s. An older man who works with one of them brought, along with an enormous selection of fireworks, several MAGA hats. “As a joke,” he claimed, when we Americans failed to laugh along. Scott and I tried to stay awake for the fireworks but were exhausted from the flight, from jetlag, from the months of logistics related to securing visas and shipping our things across an ocean. We excused ourselves early, catching occasional flashes of light through the windows or our Uber as we crossed town.

Three days later, Trump was elected as the 45th President of the United States. My new boss, a Māori man I couldn’t wait to move across an ocean to work with, offered me a hug when I came to work shellshocked the following morning. But before long he too was saying things like, “well, you got what you deserved, more than half of you voted for him.” I got tired of explaining how few people in the US actually vote, or the intricacies of the electoral system.

“Your timing was impeccable!” people kept saying of our move to New Zealand, as if I’d had any idea Trump stood a chance at being elected. I hadn’t been paying enough attention to the rise of alt right sentiments in the US. What little I’d heard I wrote off as too absurd, too fringe to be of real concern.

Are Kiwis paying attention?

I view New Zealand’s history of peaceful protests with a sense of awe. I have deep respect for ngā rōpū tautohetohe, the Māori protest movements and hīkoi, protest marches. Since moving here we have attended marches for climate action, rights for all women, and Black Lives Matter. It has been disheartening to watch the pandemic-era protests get co-opted by people espousing a narrow sort of freedom and a false inclusivity, both of which disproportionately affect the very people who pioneered Aotearoa’s protest traditions.

Of course I’d prefer not to live in fear. I too want to get on with life. How lovely it would be to celebrate beauty, to learn more about Aotearoa’s history at Te Papa, to see the Hilma af Klint show before it closes at the end of March. 

So we wonder: how much longer will the protesters be occupying Wellington? How exactly do they define freedom? Freedom for whom? At what cost? How will they know when they’ve got it? How bad will things get between now and then?

We have no way of knowing, just as we have no way of knowing when the COVID curve will peak, whether or not we will catch it, or what will happen if (when?) we do. If we let the protesters change our plans, are we just giving them too much power? Should we just get on with our lives, regardless of risk? We have until midnight tonight to cancel our hotel booking without penalty. I still can’t make up my mind.

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Care about the Climate Crisis? #BlackLivesMatter is tied up with your cause, too

On my mind these days:

Intersectionality. Privilege. Divisive binary thinking. What each of us can control and what we can’t.

Emotional labor… which is what it takes for people of color to educate others about the sources of racism, tools for anti-racism, and how to be a good ally (spoiler: there are many ways!).

That often-invisible spectrum that ranges from being comfortable to feeling uncomfortable to being unsafe to being physically harmed to being killed.

How I can effectively support people in making connections between the things they care about and the things they don’t usually choose to look at, especially when there is agency involved… without becoming jaded, judgmental, or unsafe myself.

 

 

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How are things in New Zealand during the COVID-19 pandemic?

Every time I start writing this update I hesitate because… it feels like gloating, and I don’t want to do that at a time when so many people are suffering. We are so so privileged on a normal day, even more so to be in New Zealand, and even more so to be here at a time of a global pandemic. And people keep asking, so I wanted to write up a few details to share.

On 22 March New Zealand’s Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern announced that within two days, the entire country would be going into lockdown for 4 weeks… which is where we are now. Everyone self-isolating, staying home, keeping at least 2 meters away from anyone if we do go out (for a walk or to get groceries); and interacting only with people in our household “bubbles;” all non-essential retail businesses and schools shut down; working from home only; no more indoor or outdoor events; no more air travel except for medical reasons or essential services like moving essential freight; most new arrivals into the country are being quarantined. She ended her speech with an appeal for people to be kind to one another.

To put things into perspective, there were a total of 102 known cases of COVID-19 here at the time of this announcement, which was prompted by the first known cases of community transmission… as opposed to transmission due to overseas travel or known contact with someone who already had it. To date there are still fewer than 800, most of which are related to overseas travel or contact with a known case (51% and 31% respectively), 1% due to community transmission, and 17% with causes still under investigation [source].

To get a feel for how clearly and compassionately the Prime Minster announced the new alert level and associated guidelines, I highly suggest watching her deliver this speech (or read the transcript if video isn’t your thing):

Then take a look at this Facebook livestream she did from her couch a bit later:

I’m not saying things are perfect; the situation in New Zealand, like everywhere else, is going to disproportionately affect people who have fewer resources and support systems in place. It already seems pretty clear that they’re looking out for businesses more than people with a lot of the relief programs, but we’ll see what (if anything) changes as more and more people find themselves in positions where they can’t pay the rent.

Meanwhile, New Zealand already has an awful track record with regard to mental health, and I can’t imagine this period of self-isolation is going to improve that situation. My heart goes out to people who are enduring lockdown with people they’d rather not be in constant contact with, and especially women and children in violent households.

***

A few other comments and observations from our privileged perch:

Life feels oddly normal so far

We’re weeks behind the rest of the world as far as this pandemic goes, and everything feels relatively normal compared to the news we’re reading from elsewhere. Which makes it feel even more remarkable to me that the government is acting so decisively, so early. But maybe still not early enough to prevent community transmission from asymptomatic cases? To prevent essential workers from taking the hit for the rest of us? Who knows; we’ll find out soon enough.

Working (or not) and playing

Scott’s job is non-essential retail so he isn’t working, but the government’s COVID-19 wage subsidy program means that he’s still getting paid. My office had pretty much moved everyone to working from home before the lockdown, though neither of us has gone in to work since the 11th thanks to a road trip we took that weekend to go to WOMAD… the entire time we knew it was going to be our Last Hurrah before things got weird, and in hindsight, I’m amazed an international music festival even happened! We’ve been self-isolating since we got back to Auckland on the 16th.

It’s much more peaceful in the neighborhood without all the car and flight traffic. A few busses are still running, including the double-decker ones on a route near us, but all the ones we’ve seen are empty. The sidewalks, however, are quite full! It’s remarkable how many more pedestrians, cyclists, and scooter-ers we see out and about. The park near our house (the equivalent of Golden Gate Park, just add sheep, cows, and the second tallest volcano in town) is even more mobbed than usual. We’ve only attempted walking there twice before conceding that panting joggers were not going to stay a safe distance away from us. We regularly go walking at night now, and I try to obey my Fitbit every time it buzzes to alert me that I’ve been sitting on my ass for an hour.

Staying connected

Even under normal conditions, the internet quality in my company’s New Zealand offices is far better compared to the connections in offices in some other parts of the world (esp Melbourne, San Francisco, and London). I’m feeling pretty darn fortunate that we can stream video (Scott) or video meetings and calls (me) all day long from our house with no issues. It’s been really nice to connect with so many long-lost friends who are reaching out!

Our neighborhood (we live on a street that’s only one block long) has mobilized! One neighbor put a flier in everyone’s mailboxes asking for contact details, and another went door-to-door to collect the same from people who hadn’t responded… keeping a respectable distance, of course. I helped format their Google Sheet, complete with columns where people could offer and ask for help, and sent it out to everyone. We’ve lived here over year now and I still only knew one neighbor’s name, so I’m tickled to have been involved, and feel much more a part of the community now! Tūrangawaewae (a Māori concept I’ve written about before) = the place where one belongs ❤

Takeout, retail delivery, and mail in general

All restaurants are completely shut down here, including all options for “takeaway” (that’s what they call takeout restaurants here). Which means that everyone is cooking for themselves… whether they know how to do so or not!

And you can’t just order stuff on Amazon, because A) we don’t have Amazon here and B) New Zealand Post and couriers are only allowed to deliver to essential services: food, prescriptions, computers and tech that would allow you to work from home.

Grocery shopping

This is the longest section because this is all we’re doing outside of the home other than going to long walks in the dark…

It’s possible that what we consider “normal grocery shopping” — buy a bunch of stuff when it’s on sale, 10kg of bulk goods at a time, because we can, because we don’t live paycheck-to-paycheck — is actually hoarding? A few weeks ago we calculated we still have 3 months’ worth of pinto, kidney, and black beans left from the bags we bought 10 months ago. (An aside: New Zealand banned all single-use plastic bags last July so pretty much everyone brings their own bags or boxes to supermarkets now, it’s pretty awesome to behold!)

I can’t find the article now but apparently New Zealand is not expected to run out of anything because we grow or manufacture most of our groceries domestically, a fact which my former local-sustainable-food-systems-self would already have known… Meanwhile, the government is monitoring people’s reports of price gouging and apparently the #1 complaint is that cauliflower is too expensive, in some places costing up to $13 NZD (~$7.50 USD)!

Dispatch from Countdown (big Australian-owned chain): Big lines to ensure social distancing inside the store. Shelves empty of baking essentials, pasta, milk, yogurt, soap, feminine items… piles and piles of toilet paper though! The introduced very civilized limits on how many similar items any one customer can purchase shortly after people began panic-buying, and I appreciate that they have a priority assistance system in place to make it more likely that people who need it (folks over 70, people with compromised immune systems, people with disabilities, etc) can access to their online delivery service.

Dispatch from Tai Ping (our equivalent of 99 Ranch; a massive Asian grocery): When I arrived there was a long line to get in (again, because they’re attempting to keep things social-distance-friendly inside) and of course no line by the time I was done… and a security guard took my temperature with one of those touch-free thermometers before he’d let me in. Was very disappointed to discover that there was NO CANNED EEL left on the shelves and the tofu selection was a pale reflection of its usual self, but happy that their bulk section meant I didn’t also have to go to the bulk food store for oats. Only the white people (and I) were not wearing masks; I need to make some. They were in the process of installing plexiglass sheets to separate shoppers from the check-out staff while I was in there.

Dispatch from Farro (our much-more-limited equivalent of Whole Foods, and the closest store to our house): You have to check in using an online contact-tracking system before you can enter the store, but no lines at all! Hand sanitizer and wipes for your cart. Nobody seems to care much about the 2-meter-separation rule in there but they’re clearly taking care of their still-upbeat employees with gloves, masks, and full-on protective plastic shield enclosure-thingies at the checkout counters. Most items on my list in stock other than yogurt. We’ve pretty much decided it’s worth paying a bunch more to avoid the crowds and stay super local.

Anything else?

There’s probably other stuff that would be interesting to know? Let me know if you have any questions and I’ll report what I can.

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On the possibility of integrating past identities

I’ve been thinking about the difference between trying to let go of past identities I’ve held dear, vs somehow integrating them.

An example of a past identity: throughout my high school and college years I obsessed about becoming a climbing bum, and then spent another several years attempting to live out that dream in Yosemite and Joshua Tree amongst the climbers I used to read about in magazines. It never really felt right, and to be fair, I did a lot more hanging out with climbers than I did actual climbing. I hesitate to mention to people that I ever “was” a climber — even though it was very much my thing, for thirteen years! — because I’ve learned that people who are into climbing get very excited to attach all sorts of ideas onto me that didn’t even fit back then.

Still, I cannot deny the Climber in me. Whenever my body touches stone, or uses its fingers and limbs to pull the rest of my body upward, I am overcome with a strong sense of knowing: THIS is what this body was born to do.

Is that true though? Continue reading “On the possibility of integrating past identities”

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How being American in New Zealand shines some light on the Commonwealth

Toward the end of a yoga class I was attending this morning, the sounds of a very exuberant… school band? church band? began wafting in from the building directly across the street. Crashing cymbals, clunky piano, and off-key singing, oh my!

Our teacher closed the windows on that side of our room but frankly, I was more inspired by the live music. Much more moving than the canned soundtrack I’m getting a bit tired of hearing at every class, week after week; good thing I’m there for the yoga, not the music 😉

After class I stood under a tree and listened to the band for several minutes, inexplicable tears in my eyes, while they thrashed their way through This Little Light of Mine.

Wanting to keep that light shining a bit longer, when I got home I discovered this:

Other than having seen recent headlines that apparently they’re thinking of moving to Vancouver Island, or is it Vancouver? — I am totally out of the loop. Had no idea they had gospel at their wedding, and I approve!

But I suspect that my ignorance of all things Royal makes me yet another kind of minority here.

***

Living in New Zealand has oddly shed a lot of light on aspects of my experiences living in Canada, where my mother is from. I suppose that shouldn’t come as a surprise given that both countries were colonized by the British, and are therefore part of the Commonwealth (aka the Commonwealth of Nations, formerly known as The British Commonwealth of Nations).

To a much lesser extent, living here has helped me recognize that certain experiences I’ve had in Hong Kong, where my father is from, are also the result of British influence.

Prefaced by some very substantive caveats (obviously not everyone is like this / I’ve observed far more similarities between New Zealand and Canada than New Zealand and Hong Kong / this is not an attempt to summarize ALL aspects of my experiences in those countries / etc), some of these common Commonwealth aspects I’ve noticed include:

  • British-style Tea as an Event (including varied, though always-specific personal expectations about preparing the beverage, and what to serve with it);
  • Less willingness to speak directly or engage in interpersonal conflict compared to my experience in the US, sometimes coupled with a bit more unexpressed intolerance of differing opinions;
  • A cultural commitment to remembering the lives lost during the first World War;
  • A sense that anything British is better than anything that might have been there before the British arrived (people / values / culture / animals / plants other than those deemed useful for selling back in Britain or elsewhere) or who might be arriving more recently, namely, immigrants from non-European countries;
  • An obsession with the British monarchy, including most recently the activities of Harry and Meghan… speaking of immigration.

The combination of these observations, plus several others that are much more subtle and difficult to articulate, have also given me a much stronger sense of my American-ness. Sometimes I even feel vague sense of pride that the American colonists of yore stood up to the British. It’s not constant, or concrete. “Pride” doesn’t even really feel like the appropriate word. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that it’s more a noticing that Americans chose a different path that resulted in some different outcomes, for better and for worse.

Most of what I feel as an American is a sense of shame that I am somehow representative of or responsible for the havoc wreaked around the world by American exports, including war and consumerist values. I cringe every time someone points out that something I tend to do is “so American.”

And I cringe even more when people here lump all Americans together when making an observation. Clearly they don’t understand that the US is an enormous AND enormously diverse country. No, not every single person in the country keeps the tap running while washing dishes, and no we certainly don’t all support our current president any more than all citizens of Commonwealth countries are the same or love the Queen.

I hold out hope that my particular way of being may help demonstrate that not ALL Americans are that bad, even if we do sometimes share some cultural similarities to each other, and even to the mythical America that Americans and non-Americans alike cling to.

May we all let our lights shine, no matter where we are from or where we find ourselves living now.

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Experiments in being an advocate for diversity and inclusion: what keeping quiet for a while has taught me

In most of the spaces I inhabited in Northern California, I had the privilege of being surrounded by very well-trained advocates for racial, class, gender, and a number of other forms of diversity and inclusion. The workshops, classes, community, and work events I frequented were excellently facilitated by people adept at leading the group through the setting of shared agreements. Once we had collectively affirmed those agreements, the facilitators and participants could lovingly but firmly call out — or rather, call in — any behavior that breached those agreements.

Even in situations where there were no explicit agreements in place, such as social gatherings, there was always someone more hip than I was to such matters who was willing to say something when anyone’s bias showed. In the rare moments when I did find I wanted to raise my own voice, usually online, I had people who could help me adjust my language before posting anything, and back me up once my words were out there.

These scenarios felt very safe and very comfortable. I benefited from the work of others; I could fully show up because I knew that what I shared would usually be received and held respectfully by the facilitator or the group itself, or that at the very least, someone else would intervene if anyone failed to check their privilege or veered into prejudiced territory, consciously or otherwise. And I trusted that my own missteps would be skillfully reflected back to me, giving me the opportunity to raise my own levels of awareness.

***

All that changed when I moved to Auckland. Continue reading “Experiments in being an advocate for diversity and inclusion: what keeping quiet for a while has taught me”

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More than one way to write a story

You may have seen Mandy Len Catron’s recent article, What You Lose When You Gain a Spouse. I share the author’s experience that many of the costs associated with marriage ring true for those of us who are partnered-and-co-habitating, if not actually married. 

But the part of the article that made me yell out loud in agreement was this sentence, a quote from psychologist Bella DePaulo:

 When the prevailing unquestioned narrative maintains that there is only one way to live a good and happy life, too many people end up miserable.

I believe we could replace “…live a good and happy life” with just about anything and it would still hold: when there is only one way to “raise a child,” or “save the world,” or “use gender pronouns,” too many people end up miserable.

I also believe we need to question the narrative that there is only one way to write a life story.

Six months ago I attended a long-weekend writing workshop to see if I wanted to sign up for the school’s longer program. The MFA-esque course in fiction and memoir writing would have required a significant shift in life priorities, and I was seriously considering it. I decided not to sign up for a number of reasons, including the fact that I found myself more than a little triggered by the main instructor’s assumptions that:

  • Being published would obviously be our primary — if not only — motivation for investing in such a program, and 
  • The only way to get published is to follow the very specific, tried-and-true story arc.

Now I’m not arguing that the Story Arc doesn’t work for that specific purpose, but I am Very Resistant to the idea that it is the ONLY way to tell a story. I know I know — you have to learn the rules before you can break them, etc. But some of us would rather not pay cash money for yet another experience of learning that we “have to” mold ourselves to someone else’s — or some entire tradition’s — definitions of how we should be in order to be “successful.”

(Related: except for one piece by Arundhati Roy, the authors of every single excerpt we studied, and every member of the longer program’s listed faculty, and every one of my fellow students, were white. I recently read a powerful account of a woman’s experience of racism during a writing class and am grateful that none of my fellow workshoppers behaved as unskillfully! Still, I am weary of wondering if I am the only one in the room who even notices details like those I listed above. And I wish it were possible for me to simply appreciate the curriculum, rather than also having to weigh the pros and cons of bringing up what — and whom — it leaves out.)

And so, rather than polish my craft under the watchful mentorship of professional writing teachers, I continue to write rambling, unpolished pieces for… myself. And you 🙂

***

Speaking of stories, I loved Tommy Orange’s There There. My friend Mike, the most prolific recommender of books I know, suggested I read it long before the New York Times listed it as one of their best books of 2018, but I didn’t get to the top of the waiting list for the library’s electronic copy until the end of December. Took me only two days to finish as I couldn’t put it down.

As a follow-up, Mike suggested Terese Marie Mailhot’s Heart Berries: A Memoir. “A much different book,” he said, “but crazy intense as well.”

Wow wow wow, so much REAL! 

And a very interesting structure. To be honest I can’t remember whether it follows THE Arc or not; there were so many other details that held my attention, including the author’s choice to name the names of those who had harmed her and her mother. 

Even before reading Heart Berries, I’d spent a fair bit of time lately thinking about:

  1. The ownership of stories (as in: what are the ethics of telling other people’s stories, even if they belong to the author as well?);
  2. The difference between what actually happened and what we remember, and how much / when that difference ultimately matters; and
  3. The many ways we (as individuals, families, institutions, a society in general) practice “healing” and “justice” in the aftermath of the various types of trauma we cause each other, sexual and otherwise.

There’s a lot to sift through and process. In the book and in our own lives, clearly.

The very next book I read was Maggie Nelson’s Bluets, also a memoir of sorts, which I discovered because a bunch of people on The Creative Independent (a collection of essays and interviews that Kickstarter publishes to support the emotional and practical needs of creative people) keep recommending it.

And now I would like to recommend it to you! Nelson’s writing in Bluets is beautiful, lyrical, and explicit in its exposition of the messy, nonlinear cycle of remembered joy –> nostalgia –> shattering grief –> –> coming back together again.

As I was reading Bluets I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between its structure / tone / the author’s approach to writing about vulnerability / relationships / heartache (etc) and Mailhot’s in Heart Berries. Because I like being right, I said to Scott, “she must have been inspired by Maggie Nelson,” though I knew full well he hadn’t read either book.

***

In an April newsletter from independent publisher Catapult, they announced their latest offering, Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative, by Jane Alison. I look forward to reading its “deeply wacky pleasures,” as described in this New Yorker review.

In the meantime I can’t stop thinking about the excerpt quoted in the book’s description: 

For centuries there’s been one path through fiction we’re most likely to travel— one we’re actually told to follow—and that’s the dramatic arc: a situation arises, grows tense, reaches a peak, subsides . . . But something that swells and tautens until climax, then collapses? Bit masculosexual, no? So many other patterns run through nature, tracing other deep motions in life. Why not draw on them, too?

I thought about sending a copy to the writing program’s leader, who also happens to be an acquaintance of mine, but I suspect I’m only tempted to do so for ego-boosting reasons (Scott points out that this piece isn’t exactly a conversation starter).

Also, it’s sold out.

***

A few weeks ago, after the similarities had been gnawing at me for months, I resorted to Googling whether anyone else had, in internet-discoverable format, compared Mailhot’s style in Heart Berries to Maggie Nelson’s in Bluets.

What I found was so much more exciting than that: an entire Atlantic article in which Mailhot describes Bluets as a critically-important inspiration for her own work, and tangentially, her marriage. 

She goes on to critique “the established MFA aesthetic” (which she describes as “essentially white”):

I’m suspicious of when we try to compartmentalize the formula for success as an author, instead of just inviting the person to be as weird as they need to be to express something. Let them be the person they’re supposed to be, instead of trying to mold them into the aesthetic of this moment. It’s so difficult and important for teachers to try to bring that weirdness out.

Again, I’m tempted to substitute any other description of identity where the word “author” appears here. Why not challenge the compartmentalized formula for success as a woman, a man, a couple, an employee, or anything else for that matter?

I read these quotes as Calls to Action to become the teacher / friend / sister / daughter / partner / colleague that I want to be: the one who, by fully embracing both my weird and conventional qualities, contributes to the cycle of bringing out the unapologetically weird and conventional in others. And I offer an immense Thank You to those of you who have let your own evolving self shine forth, as this has helped me come to love and express my own.

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We are now officially permanent residents of New Zealand + some thoughts on global mobility

On the 20th of February, I got an email from Immigration New Zealand (INZ) informing me that they’d approved our application to become permanent residents. I’m super relieved as this was kind of hanging over us for a while, even though there was very little chance that it would not work out in our favor.

Here’s what permanent residency means for us [I’m not an immigration consultant blah blah legal disclaimer check INZ’s website for the latest and greatest info]:

  • We can now vote;
  • Our continued existence here is no longer tied to my current job (not that I’m interested in quitting, it’s just nice to know I’m not stuck if it ever ceases to be a good fit);
  • I can now do jobs on the side (this wasn’t permitted on my specific work visa)
  • We can get credit cards (not to carry a balance, but to get cash back on all our purchases!);
  • We can buy a house (not that we can currently afford any houses we’d want to live in, it’s just that the new government here recently passed a law that foreigners cannot buy existing houses, only build new ones… and even before that law changed, banks wouldn’t give us a mortgage unless we were residents anyway);
  • We can go to school (we weren’t allowed to study for more than 3 months on our work visas before)…
  • …at local tuition rates (which are ~1/3 of the rates for foreigners, this number varies a lot depending on which program and which university);
  • We qualify for KiwiSaver, NZ’s retirement plan (employers are required by law to match employee contributions up to 3% for employees who opt into the KiwiSaver plan, so I’m signing up right away. And yes, if you leave the country you get to take your KiwiSaver funds with you); and
  • We’re pretty sure Scott’s existence here is no longer tied to our relationship… though we have no plans to test that out 🙂

The “permanent” part of our residency means that we can Continue reading “We are now officially permanent residents of New Zealand + some thoughts on global mobility”

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Why I didn’t go to Stanford

I wanted to start this story by stating that I didn’t have any interest in attending Stanford University in the first place, but that can’t be true. Why else would I have been there, surrounded by fellow students in a room much too small for the number of us who showed up to… to what? Impress? Ask questions of? Suss out? the guy Stanford sent to woo us into attending his esteemed educational institution.

This particular representative wore a suffocating air of self-importance along with his beard and tweed sport coat, and I quickly determined that I had made a poor decision by attending the meeting. “It wouldn’t be fair to compare our weather to that of other universities,” he humble-bragged at one point, ”but we do get approximately 300 days of sunshine a year.” I remember wondering: does it make it better or worse that he’s aware of how ridiculous he sounds?

But I perked right up when he asked, “Does anyone know what’s next door to the Monterey Bay Aquarium?”

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I had recently been inside the building next door, lovely from the outside with its ancient wooden siding, the inside packed with dusty jars and odd specimens. The man who once used this lab was nothing short of a hero in my budding-scientist eyes. I’d read John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez for California Natural History, which chronicles Steinbeck’s adventures with the larger-than-life character; the first seventy pages of the book is a moving eulogy to a man who clearly made an impression on everyone who knew him.

In other words, I knew the answer to this one.

“Ed Ricketts’ lab!” I blurted, relieved that the conversation might finally going in a direction that interested me.

I fail to remember what response Mr. Self Important was looking for. He probably didn’t expect one at all, so comfortable was he in his mansplainer’s role, though that term wouldn’t be coined for another fourteen years. But I will never forget what he proceeded to say to me, or the derisive tone with which he dismissed me, my hero, and any desire I may ever have had to associate with Stanford University:

“Ed Ricketts was a fictional character.” Continue reading “Why I didn’t go to Stanford”

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Ghost Ship memories

Two years ago today, Scott and I had been in Auckland barely a month. We were still living in this weird residential apartment in the CBD (Central Business District), directly next door to the record store where Scott now works.

We came out of a movie and I checked my phone, as one does. Amanda, a close friend of Scott’s and one of only three people Scott and I had in common before we met, had just posted a photo of Johnny, another close friend of Scott’s; he’s also a music producer and DJ. Before we left San Francisco, Scott and Johnny had spent weeks hanging out together at Green Apple Books as Scott trained Johnny to take over the music side of things there.

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As I switched over to my Facebook feed, I started to piece together what was happening that night in Oakland. In a bizarre and modern version of “real time,” we witnessed our other friends’ collective scramble as news of the Ghost Ship fire spread through an endless stream of Facebook comments.

Despite everyone’s efforts, there was no news about Amanda and Johnny until the next day. We eventually learned that they had both died in the fire that night, along with so many more.

Everyone had something to say in the days that followed. So many posts and articles and replies and clueless reporters and only a few that, at the time, I believed came close to appropriately capturing the complexity of what was going on (thank you so much Gabe Meline!).

Here is what I wrote a week after the fire, mostly for myself, as I struggled to process it all. Looking at these words now I am struck by my desire to do something despite a deep sense of helplessness. The relief / guilt. The felt sense of being oh-so-far away. How hard it is to comfort those who need comforting when our own holes feel so large. It still feels important to hold space open for Amanda and Johnny. For Scott and Shanna and Andy and everyone else who remains, and for everyone who loves anyone.

***

Oh shit fire at Ghost Ship
Nothing in the news
Maybe Twitter will have more info?
Oh jeez look at this video
We would have been there Continue reading “Ghost Ship memories”