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He announces that I am the adult female representative for the city-wide Hapkido competitions in April. He smiles and quickly leaves for a celebratory hot green tea where the fine line will be explained and my black belt shadow presented. I give way and bow following cultural rules, but wanting to strangle the lip gloss, long finger nail, long hair, giggling “cuteness” out of my married counterpart. I look away hearing the dig of a wooden spear against sandy grounds that my eyes have already pierced with a silent affirmation that I can fight my own battles. The least emotion shown, the better chance for success. So, I recall the peaceful elegant silence of the people I admire, and swallow all thoughts to the soft fleshy belly of survival underneath my tongue. I am still an immigrant in country where I don’t speak the language or acquired any education.

Femininity is an important part of her identity and although it’s culturally normal, I wonder if she ever feels frustrated and low. I wonder why she still continues a sport silently approved only to children, university students and older men, and why not do it correctly? I wonder if she is learning anything from me and if there’s anything I can take from this situation.

I breathe in and the second point in the fine print explained: the victory may not really be a victory. Many do not present themselves and the others forfeit. Very few will actually fight. “Well, can I be placed in the male division?” He shakes his head vigorously, “We don’t do that. America, yes, I know. Here no.”

Radical: It’s outside society. I am it to many. Avoided on the subway like nine foot muscular 300 pound black male in a dark alley; Attracted to by my exotic features. People are unsure of how to approach a small quiet female that loves an aspect of their culture and pride reserved only for men. Hesitating on questions and images inside kwan mats and bumping into me on a Saturday night with pink lipstick and parted hair.

The more I’m away, the more appreciation I’ve gathered for the States. There are dark sides to human nature regardless of time, space or location. Individuality has given people like Martin Luther King Jr. a chance to be heard and an opportunity to change the whole within 250 years of history.

I smile. For now, it’s okay. I can only do my best.
I sit in silence recreating battles and battlegrounds in metered breath and…wait.
Leaders destroy the followers and followers destroy the leaders. You have to be your own teacher and your own disciple. You have to question everything that man has accepted as valuable, as necessary. — J. Krishnamurti

Suzanna flipped her perfectly shiny hair while she chewed on the hot pink bubble gum. Her blue jean Gap purse full of trinkets jingled as she ran after me down the hall, “Missss!” She was one of fourth grade’s characters, trend setter and mini skirt dress-code-pusher. She batted her big brown eyes full of mascara, took a deep breath, sighed and dropped her shoulders. Big news. “Yes, mam’.”

A small hesitation but her outspoken nature took over, “Am…, (smack) I want to know if there’s life after death.” I chuckled, “I don’t know but what if throw you out that window and you come back and let me know?” It’s hard to protest while laughing and she gave me the familiar teenage, “M-issss!”

“Don’t know girl, you’re gonna have to ask your mom that question,” still smiling while she hurried to class. What could I have answered? “Well, the Bible says yes but not if you’re not Christian. Other religions follow suit. Many think that’s it; no mas, no menos. Science believes the brain sees what it wants to see when it’s under duress. (BUT, scientists also say love is the same as going totally nuts, so take it with a lima bean of skepticism.) I think the question is a dead end (joke, get it?!). A better question would be is my death worthy of my life?” …Yeah

What human being hasn’t asked themselves that question and how long did it take them to discover their answer? How many people think the same way I do about this subject and how did they come upon their answer?
Does asking a teacher, preacher, monk, or spiritual adviser make any difference or is it something you really need to get on your own?
What would people answer this kid and why would a question like that leave me so dumbfounded for words and so deep in thought?
Is this a bad question because I can’t “teach” it and there’s no empirical evidence therefore no coherent argument but just emotion? Since when did emotion become bad?
Is it dreaming when pursuing something without evidence? Aren’t great actions made of dreams?
How long did it take me to formulate that two sentence answer?
How many questions did I have to ask before I said bad question, you’re loosing your time as of this point forward, return to your question and make a better one?

The spicy radish brings me back to reality, listen. How quiet and sweet does the taste of freedom feel? How small can happiness be given? It’s not the answers but the questions. It’s not a book but the person who makes meaning. Meaning fine tuned makes technique. The whole is art.

Estimated transit time was about 22 hours and 12 minutes. Actual time from the moment I woke up to the moment I placed my bags on the stand was 43 hours…but aren’t we really in this massive transit of life all the time? Trying to be this, get somewhere, do something, get that to place so we can do this and that with greater ease. My father and I almost cried when we departed so I sped off…something about meeting destiny and not looking back went through my mind. I don’t want to be the object of anyone’s pain but I forgot to say I love you. I board the plane and I am still amazed at all the little things that mean so much in my life that I have taken for granted like the people who care about me, picking up on a whim in the middle of the night for coffee, a great slam on a tatami floor… The sunset is gorgeous and I saw the Rockies mold the land like bare dorsal bones on a skeleton or xylophone keys vibrating music. Life has a different beat for me now and I take advantage of all the in between spaces that don’t seem to have volume where this “nothingness” occurs: the suspension of time when a drummer’s calloused hands raise before hitting a freshly stretched head, or the medium blast of cruising engines, or even that huge empty universe that stood like raw clay waiting for expert hands to make the beginning of time. San Francisco is gorgeous and I saw the waters of the west coast for the first time in my life. Did I ever tell you how important those in between spaces are? Hey, did I tell you I love you?

I found him today. I took him out and examined him, caressed him and held him. Wondering the whole time why it wasn’t brittle and sore, so perfectly pampered in my pink pajama shorts. It was no one else but his, like a soldier’s insignia and a Picasso’s fingerprint. I wondered if it was happy to see me and how soft my fingers’ skin felt on it. I pressed the gray stolen fabric softened shirt to my face, wanting so very badly to see him. Why had it kamikaze into my world and how did it feel having survived 14 days of solitary only to be discovered by my emotional weighted eye? I don’t think it got the memo that it’s no longer a spy in this volatile land of mine. I wished it were an omen. Doesn’t the game feel so lame; everyone and everything is easy to blame. It’s always the same stranger just a different name. Ain’t you tired of traveling? Flying solo, sing songing, it will come around tomorrow? One more notch on your wall for your birthday one more on mine for spring solstice and what will it all mean? One more female on the verge of a nervous breakdown; the cartoon said they are all that way. I blew the hair off and vacuumed it, tossed the shirt, all the while singing happy birthday to him, keep on recovery to me. Love is as wishy washy as me, funny though, never thought faith would be stronger than sin.

He arrived 20 minutes late slowly cutting his way through the crowd of people leaned against walls, seated two to a chair, and kneeled on aisle floors, claiming whatever crevice available outside the auditorium. His footsteps respected the singing high school choir falling softly despite a bad hip. There was no way to miss his oversized pink blazer as he stopped half way up the middle to scan the room. He smacked as he looked and I swear I could feel the film of heavy spit build up a wall in the front palate then sucked to the back of his throat sliding down for miles. He smacked, licked the front teeth, and smacked again, holding mine and every viewer’s gaze a couple of milliseconds longer than the rest.

Once finished, he passed his hand through the gelled mane of silver white hair contrasting his brown almost black skin. Baldness was not a hereditary issue ever looming in the back of his mind, or for that matter, in front of his nose. The mop of brittle frizzy nose hair rooted out past his lips in faux pa proportions. I knew I was staring too hard when he caressed them down and looked around. He was still in the middle of the room when the next choir group marched in, just in time to see his granddaughter. He pulls from underneath the pink blazer a Sony 3.0 mega pixels, cassette format, handheld and walks right behind the conductor. It was the only place to film his granddaughter properly and then turns the camera on the audience. What the…?

By all intent and purpose, this character made himself grotesque in the eyes of everyone in the room. The second adjective, however, was totally up to the viewer. Grotesquely ugly, to the people behind him who couldn’t see their children and did arrive on time. Grotesquely obnoxious, to the pianist and director who didn’t appreciate his near presence. Grotesquely present, to the child who beamed and didn’t need to say, “That’s my grandfather!” Grotesquely vain, to the woman ignoring the evil looks all the while thinking, “Where the heck was I when he bought that pink blazer?” But to me, he was grotesquely real. When I stared, he stared back; when I smiled, he filmed back; and when he was the topic of conversation, he acknowledged and moved on. I leaned over to whisper in my boyfriend’s ear, “That’s you when you get older. I don’t give a, I’ve done my time, and I get the front seat regardless of what you think. Just make sure to trim your nose hair.” He laughed.

For my grandfather, who loves me and gave me the same defiant love and affection