Although, to my mind, the superstitions were silly and sometimes exasperating (and ALWAYS unsolicited), for my mom, who grew up in the Philippines, I guess these “folk beliefs” formed a part of her upbringing/her culture and heritage.  They reflected customs, traditions and old beliefs meant to help explain the frightening unknown.

Ironically, though, there seems to be no superstition that explains the terrifying unknown of why Asian moms have no boundaries when it comes to their children…no matter how old they get.

So.

My upbringing in industrialized America included wearing polka dots on New Year’s Eve, not vacuuming after 5 p.m. and writing with my right hand. These superstitious beliefs had to do with either inviting prosperity (and in the case of wearing polka dots, it also invited ridicule) or warding off evil spirits or beings, such as witches.

Now a grown woman, I’ve shunned my mom’s superstitions in favor of what’s factual and wise.

Facts:
1. We gave a house key to my mom in case of an emergency.
2. Before my husband and I had kids, we used to take showers together.

One autumn night, these two events came together horrifically.

Mom: Hello?

Me: Mom?!?!

Mom: Ann?

Me: Mom, what the heck?! I’m in the shower!

Mom: Well, can you come out? We need to talk.

Me: No! I’m in the shower!

Mom: But we need to talk.

Me: I’m in the shower with Edward!

Mom: Oh…Hi Edward.

Edward: H-hi, Mrs. Chung.

Mom: Ok, well, I’ll just wait then.

Me: NO! I’M IN THE SHOWER!!!

Mom: So take your shower. Who’s stopping you? I’ll have adobo on the table when you guys get out.

All the horror films in history can’t compare to the bloodcurdling scream heard from my shower when a tiny, old, demure Asian lady offered me chicken adobo…I didn’t think my husband could hit that high of a pitch.

Download it on Apple Music or Amazon Music. Click the image to play video.

Nevertheless, fast forward 2.6 million years later to my birth – to an accountant and engineer – both of whom did not sport bell-bottom jeans, over-sized sunglasses or afros. . . much less, own a single ABBA record.

My father, being Korean, expected dinner on the table at 6 PM when he got home from work.  My mother, being Filipino, provided dinner at 7:21 PM.  He wrinkled clothes.  She ironed them.  She washed dishes.  He mowed the lawn.

We celebrated most American holidays and traditions, and threw in a few of our own: Lunar New Year, Ash Wednesday, Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary day, etc.

There were some holidays and/or traditions, however, which never “took” in our household – wedding anniversaries, for example.

I asked my mom when I was younger why we never celebrated her wedding anniversary, and she explained that there were too many birthdays and holidays around that time, including Valentine’s Day.   Plus, wedding anniversaries weren’t something she and my dad grew up celebrating for their parents.

So, I just chalked it up to us being Asian.  You know, like weddings and rice.  We don’t throw rice at our weddings, we cook it.

Like most people I got sucked into Ancestry.com’s 14-day trial and have been hooked ever since.  I keep hoping I’m related to some ancient Korean emperor and/or Filipina native princess.  (Of course, who ever hopes they’re related to a hobo that got drunk, stowed away on a ship and accidentally ended up in America?)

So far I’ve found out that my paternal great-grandmother was an opera singer.  However, admittedly, I wince when trying to picture Korean opera.

Ancestry.com allows you to approximate dates.  And as long as you can enter in other factual pieces of information, it will display a list of search results that pulls from public records.

Me:  “Mom, sooo…when did you get married?”

Mom: “ I don’t know.  Ay nako, I can’t remember.  It was so long ago.”

Me:  “Around Valentine’s Day and your birthday?”

Mom:  “I told you I can’t remember.”

Me:  “Oh really?  Because…the city of Las Vegas remembers!”

Mom:  . . .

Me:  “That’s right!  According to the state of Nevada, you and dad married six months before I was born!  In August!”

Mom:  . . .

Me:  “What do you have to say to all the years of catechism you made me attend?!”

Mom:  “Ay nako, that was so long ago!  Now that you’re grown up and out of college, when are you going to get married?  I mean, you’re not getting any younger, you know?”

Me:  . . .

Mom:  “You don’t want your eggs to get old and go bad.  Then who’s going to marry you?”

Me:  But…you…I….

Mom:  “I’m glad you finally know. It’s about time you were mature enough to handle it.”

Me:  . . .

Like most people I got sucked into Ancestry.com’s 14-day trial and have been hooked ever since….like some bad Korean soap opera.

And if you know anything about Asian culture, then it won’t be a shock to you that I didn’t find out about it until my mom was in the hospital, having surgery to remove it.  The Information Highway – my mom is not.  Therefore it’s ironic to find out about my mom’s breast cancer on the Information Highway, itself (i.e. Facebook).

My mom grew up as a devout Catholic in post World War II Philippines, where women wore dresses, men wore pants, Frank Sinatra and Perry Como dominated the radio waves, and children were seen but not heard.  So you can imagine my mom’s shock when after 17 hours of labor, I pop out of the womb, asking, “Eww, what’s this stuff on me?”  Her shock and my questions only increased in frequency and amount from there.

Like most moms, mine tried to guilt me into doing things the way she would have desired them to be done.

Example: “Sigue, don’t listen to me.  No, don’t help me.  Even though I might end up on the streets in the freezing cold with only the clothes on my back…I’ll be fine.  I’m glad I survived 17 hours of labor to ensure that you have a good life.”

Knowing how conservative my mom is gives you a better understanding as to why her response to my hair being spiked and dyed blue in college was…less than favorable.

So as my husband and I entered my mom’s hospital room to rush to her side and find out what the was going on, a nurse greeted us.

Nurse: “Your mom is doing fine and is resting now.  The operation went well.”

Me: “Thank you so much!”

Nurse:  “We do have to talk about her post surgery care, though.”

Me: “Sure, anything.”

Nurse: “She can’t get that area wet and can only take sponge baths for a couple of weeks.”

Me: “Definitely.”

Nurse: “And her implants will have to be drained twice a day.”

Me: “Got it…Wait, what?”

Nurse: “Her implants will have to be drained twice a day.”

Me: “What implants?  Like something you guys inserted to help with the healing process?”

Nurse: Pauses, then says, “Your mom had breast implants that she asked us to remove in addition to the surgery.”

Me: “…What?!”

My mom had breast implants?!  Forget the blue hair!  My mom, the Virgin Mary, had a boob job!

My brothers and I have since tried to pinpoint exactly when my mom had it done, so we’ve narrowed it down to a few possible timelines, but nothing has been substantiated.

My cousins and close friends have asked, “Didn’t you notice?”

But really, who stares at the boobs of one’s own mom?  I certainly don’t!  And on top of that…ha, no pun intended…my mom has always dressed conservatively, so it’s not like they were ever…”on display”…thankfully.

So.

If you know anything about Asian culture, then it won’t be a shock to you that I didn’t know my mom had breast implants until after a stranger told me that she had them removed.

Sometimes my mom made Spam for breakfast: eggs, rice and Spam, and sometimes she made it for dinner: small cubes in Udon noodle soup or in fried rice.  The aroma from my mom’s cooking was wonderful.  It filled the house with a warmth that only comes from your mom buzzing happily along in the kitchen.

I actually liked Spam a lot as a kid.  I still do, but I’m more of a closet Spam fan now since it’s so not popular as an adult in ultra health-conscious California.  In fact, I place my cans of Spam behind my boxes of wheat fiber cereal and quinoa in my cupboard, which pretty much encapsulates me: healthy-looking Californian on the outside, gooshy “mystery meat” on the inside.

But I’ve just heard of a place where people who love Spam aren’t bullied or taunted – the Waikiki Spam Jam Festival!

“…several of Honolulu’s finest restaurants will be serving up Spam®Products in many different ways, so you can experience the enormous variety of its applications.”

Applications of Spam?  Ok, so this marketing statement wasn’t written well, but they make it up to you by giving you their secret recipe for Mini Maple Spam Doughnuts!

Bonus: Mom’s Spam Fried Rice Recipe (aka South Pacific-style):

• 2 cups leftover rice
• 1-1/2 cups Spam, cut into match stick size pieces
• 1 egg
• 1 tablespoon soy sauce
• 3 green onions, thinly sliced
• Sesame Oil

Heat a small amount of sesame oil into a skillet and brown spam pieces on all sides. Mix in the rice. Mix the egg with the soy sauce and stir into the hot rice and spam. Stir gently until the egg is cooked. Sprinkle green onions on top and serve.

For an alternate version, see “Absolutely the Best Spam Fried Rice Recipe” at Food.com.

My mom grew up in the Philippines, and if you’ve ever visited the country, you’d know that there are no driving rules.  While on a trip to the Philippines a few years ago, I was the passenger while my uncle drove a 1960’s sky-blue Volkswagen Bug through crazy Manila traffic.  Evidently, the horn in that country is just as important as the gas pedal and brake; my uncle kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the horn.

The horn is used to communicate the following:

1. I’m cutting in front of you right now.
2. You better not break my stride by stepping into that crosswalk.
3. I’m creating my own lane now.

My mom learned to drive in a cemetery because my grandfather figured if she hit anyone, it wouldn’t matter because the person was already dead.

I spent my childhood in a typical track home in suburban Orange County, California.  My mom would back the car out of the driveway, and even though there was only one other car on the street 10 houses down, she would exclaim, “What’s with all the traffic?!”

It didn’t matter if we were just going to the grocery store, five blocks away; being a hardcore Catholic, my mom would perform a driving mass right before backing out of the driveway:

Mom:  St. Christopher…

Me and my brothers:   pray for us.

Mom:  St. Christopher…

Me and my brothers:   pray for us.

Mom:  St. Christopher…

Me and my brothers:   pray for us.

In all seriousness, my mom is really just a slow (kind of nervous) driver.  I know that my pre-schooler would get to school safely if my mom drove her….she might get there in three days, but she will eventually get there.

Boogers = Bad

Ice Cream = Good

Mom’s Fish Casserole = Bad

Cookie on the Ground = Good; Condition: Must apply three-second rule

As we got older, everything, including food, seemed to get more complicated.  In college, however, I thought of myself as adventurous: willing to try anything at least once.  Along the way, though, I came up with guidelines, which somehow became rules.

Food rule #1:  Must not be moving or for that matter, alive

Food name: Sannakji – Korean cuisine: small octopus cut into small pieces and served immediately, usually lightly seasoned with sesame and sesame oil.

On a trip to Korea, my dad took me and my mom to a seafood restaurant in the coastal city of Pusan in South Korea.  The restaurant had tanks of live fish, lobster, etc.  You could pick the type of fresh seafood that you wanted, and they’d prepare it right there for you on the spot.

Well, my dad had invited the taxi driver, who was a Pusan local, to join us, and the driver chose an octopus, which the restaurant promptly cut up and served fresh to us.  The Korean-style sushi was so fresh, though, that it was still moving!

In general, my mom raised me and my brothers with good table manners, but that day, not only did I not eat what was put in front of me, but I played with my food.

Fascinatingly-gross note: I found that you could get the sannakji to continue writhing on the plate if you squeezed lemon juice on it.

I found a YouTube video of a Caucasian lady in Korea eating sannakji (I know, she’s not even Korean, and she put me to shame by trying it.  I was ashamed for like a second):

http://youtu.be/-wV_awOfdc4

Food rule #2:  No fetuses

Food name: Balut – Filipino delicacy: a boiled fertilized duck egg, eaten in its shell.

Balut is something I’ve watched my mom eat, growing up, and for whatever reason, I never took to it.  Done.

Food rule #3: No blood (cooked or otherwise)

Food name: Dinuguan – Filipino stew of meat and/or offal simmered in a dark, spicy gravy of pig’s blood.  I suppose it’s comparable to the British black pudding.

Again, dinuguan is something I grew up with, but I never really liked it.  One of my brothers really likes it, though.  Of course, he likes rice (as in Anne) and the Twilight movies too.

Food rule #4:  No genitalia

Thankfully, this is the only food rule that was not created as a result of an actual experience I had.  However, my friends thought I should add this rule based on some cable television series about some guy who goes around the world, eating exotic delicacies including animal genitalia.  Check.  Food rule #4: No genitalia.

Conclusion:

When I was in college, I thought of myself as adventurous: willing to try anything at least once.  I’m not.

Because of some of those photographs (even in their rough, nascent state), I was asked to submit to an Asian American publication, which then led to a gallery show request. I didn’t know what I was thinking when I accepted because it was a complete disaster! I was fresh out of college, did not have a portfolio nor money…I don’t even think I owned my own camera!

Looking back, I can see that there was a need. Thus, the request. Looking around today, I can still see there is a need. But what is Asian American photography? Was my photography considered Asian American because of the subject matter? Was it considered Asian American photography because I’m Asian American? Or, should Asian American photography be considered anything that documents the Asian American experience? I suppose it’s serendipitous when one or more of those elements come together.

The questions seem comparable to “Are you guys a Christian band?”, which we’re often asked. We’re Christians in a band, which is different than a Christian band since the latter seems to connote a praise and worship type of style. We sing about the things that are important to us, which includes our relationship with Christ. However, our lyrics, like our music videos, do have lots of levels.

Why isn’t an engineer asked if he/she is a Christian engineer or a teacher asked if he/she is a Christian teacher?

I did a Google search on Gen X Asian American photography and photographers, but unfortunately, I didn’t come up with what I was hoping to find, which I guess was more of a substantial list of arty Asian American photographers.

However, I did find a list of Asian American commercial/photo-journalistic photographers:

http://www.aajaphoto.org/

Below, from that same list, are a couple of photo-journalistic photographers I found interesting for different reasons.

Jiling Lin – Although all of the photographs aren’t technically spot-on, I caught her vision, and the heart and soul of what she was trying to communicate. There’s an honesty and earthiness that comes through the work, and reflects the beauty and warmth of culture and family.

http://www.jazart.blogspot.com/

Michael Yamashita – The majority of his photographs seems to be of landscapes or people of Asia. There’s something beautifully-haunting about his photographs. I think it’s the style of his photography (i.e.: graininess, etc.) that captures and reflects the imperfection of humans and frailty of life.

http://www.michaelyamashita.com/

Let me know if you know of any good Asian American photographers. I’d love to view their work.

I was born in Los Angeles, and am half Filipino and half Korean.  My parents met in a Laundromat in L.A., an event that has given me a love for Tide and clean men.  I decided to make things more fractional for my children (because Asians are good at math) by marrying an Irish-American bloke.

Being first generation Asians, my parents were fluent in their respective native languages, but their common language was English.  So my knowledge of both languages is comprised of basic baby words (e.g.: hungry, water, full, etc.) and curse words.

Like every Asian kid, I grew up playing the piano (it was either that or the violin), but I “retired” (a.k.a. grew bored) at the age of 12.  But then, much to my parents’ dismay, I discovered the electric guitar and songwriting!  Contrary to my parents’ wishes of becoming a doctor, lawyer or engineer, I decided that I wanted to major in music and creative writing in college.  This, however, was too horrific for them.  So then I decided to try teaching, which I thought would be better; ironically, this seemed equally horrific for them.

The single most defining event in my life while at college was becoming a born-again Christian.  My mom, who had raised me and my brothers as Roman Catholic, disapproved of the conversion and said 100 Hail Marys to appeal, ironically, to the God whom I now knew personally.

Intent on changing the world, I graduated with a degree in education and sociology.  The fanfare from my parents was less than enthusiastic, but more emphatic than when I had dyed my hair blue.  Encouraged by this display, I sought my fortune in Fullerton as a grade school teacher.  It wasn’t there.  Thus ending my career as a teacher.

My experience as an educator, though, would ironically open up an opportunity for me to go back to writing and eventually music.  Although we used to gig a lot more, since having our own lives and families, we’ve had to do things a lot smarter.  So we make music videos to promote our music while we stay at home ;).

This blog is actually an assignment for a graduate program course I’m taking at one of the local universities.  It’s actually a pretty cool assignment :).  I hope to continue this blog journey together with you even after the quarter ends, but if that doesn’t happen, then I hope you enjoy your time here in this place and space for now.  Thanks for reading!