Give me a Denver Hamlet, Please!

It takes many villages and scores of villagers to make a hamlet and egg jokes aside, the boys have inherited two distinct villages.

The Village of Chicago is our place of birth, Maria included, we all share a certainty: aged documents, some very aged; attesting to our births, Chicago, our Hometown!

That creates a bond.

But home is where the heart is right? 

Whatever the hell that means.

Moving to a new existence, it was threatening to consider Chicago my home. I was invested in making this New Life Work! Dammit!

At some point I was challenged when I claimed both Taos and Chicago home.

I had to look at that.

After some thought, minimal at best, I decided that home for most of us is usually where you've been born, where you had some semblance of a childhood, and also, and for me most importantly, where your parents still live.

After more than 30 years of people's Stories, I realize that for some, for many, many reasons -  the Holiday's suck and Home is an elusive concept. 

Growing up and not having my parents leave, Chicago at least, makes it a no-brainer. Home is Chicago. 

Where I create my roots, starts the foundation for my kids concept of family and I've watched, as the omelette has become scrambled, and my children's concept of family is vastly different from my own, and that saddens me on many levels. 

Life in Taos has been permeated with a crusty layer of blood, dust, and consequences. There are choices in life that cry to be regretted, and I have obliged mercilessly. 

Coming to realize it's okay, it's an emotion, be there, as long as you don't chew on it, and chew on it until you gag. 

I'm also realizing vomiting it all up is good, gagging is bad. 

Listen when a cavalcade of clients share a common response to Will's ramblings. (I like to verbally process) 

 "Wow, you sure beat yourself up!".

I prefer to think I possess the habits of a sloth and the mind of a writer; I like to look at things from every angle but unfortunately I usually end up impaling myself on one of the skinny obtuse ones.

The flipside to Billy the Pleaser? William the Flagellator!

When we arrived in the Land of the Enchanted, Quinn was five and Wyatt was 7 and one thing the therapists were dead on about; children are resilient, thankfully.

They're like Silly Putty actually, but in their teens I was less concerned about their elasticity and more obsessed with the fact that every time you peeled them up slowly from the Funnies, it was always my cartoon face, elongated into a pastel-ed pix-elated grimace of anger and fear, not too Funny. 

That's the part my clients respond so warmly to.

We got to Taos and I started a business, got me a wife, bought me some property, left me a wife - while adding two strapping blonde stepsons mind you, and for over ten years now, I look over at the Mountain, and sure, I totally take it for granted - but it moves me- and from the git go I've had no doubt, the Mountain embraced me.

Chicago will always be my hometown, but Taos is my home.

 At 15 Wyatt did the math and deduced that he had officially spent more time in Taos than in Chicago. Which is usually the decider, Time that is, and at the time, what that meant, was in transition.

Quinn spent almost three years living with my family in Chicago. three long years away from Taos.

Last year, after both sons had been reunited, I listened privately and a little surreptitiously as they weighed the pro's and con's of city versus town.

Most of their references pertained to people, places and opportunities. in reference to Chicago. For Taos, it was about the night, the sky,the stars, the People, the Way of Life.

They both agreed, the City will take them away from here, as it should, but in their hearts, Taos is their home.

Little Billy

I didn't really realize I was Japanese until way later.

Sure, on the asphalt Pitri dish of LeMoyne elementary I was educated to the subtleties of being different by my fellow organisms,
"ChinaMin! ChinaMin! Slanty Eyed ChinaMin!"
Exemplary!
Sputtering and wheezing, mittens clenched as fat, wet confetti starts falling from the gray, the melting flakes front the hot wet tears of frustration creating a mini-front which completely obscures the safety lenses of my black horn rimmed glasses.
"ChinaMin! ChinaMin!'
The soundtrack to Little Billy's Fellini-esque montage; ecstatic faces, joyful even, bob and weave, their word bubbles Exclaming! and swirling all balloon-y in the snow.

So angry I could piss, in my head I'm screaming,

"Fine! Ya got the Slanty thing right. But I'm JAPANESE you Cretins!"

Okay, it probably wasn't Cretins, and I wasn't necessarily declaring my Japaneseness, I was defending myself, but the understanding in my bones was startling, I AM different, we are all different, and boy, you guys are mean! 

I was raised to not lower myself to other people's anger, which of course messed me up to the whole Anger Thing. Turn the other cheek and don't be the nail that stands up, it gets pounded.

It was the Japanese/Christian thing. Make that the Christian/Japanese thing, less distracting for me. You see, until I was in the 4th grade or so I thought that just because my immediate world was filled with Japanese Christians, ALL Japanese were Christians. That was a rude awakening.
A Big like Chicago? You can stay insulated in the friendly confines of your chosen enclave. Millions have schlepped across heaven and hell as well as 2 oceans, to come to America, to grab that Golden Ring. Which is a wonderful welcoming thing, to see this great country as an opportunity to better your life, Priceless! 
Peoples come and achieve varying levels of assimilation, risk will always have it's reward, and it's price.
Grandma Kima received her Citizenship when she was 88 years old, like many she spent decades as an immigrant, enjoying the double life afforded to the first of any generation, in this case, the Issei's. 
Of course that honor was offset by the vilifying behavior gifted to every newcomer from the previous newcomer, Human Nature, how ironic, too funny!

But this assimilation creates a bifurcation for the ensuing generations that becomes problematic; two ways of understanding the spirit- for often religious and ethnic beliefs are firmly entwined. Two currents coming together, the growing influence of a new society with  values that often conflict with the old ways, the Traditions, all swirling in the bubbling mass of the Melting Pot, the Cauldron of Hope that now seems more the Crucible. 
We have come to the point where idealism meets reality, where the open doors and open arms have been battered by the constant battle between Help, and Help yourself, the Cosmic balance of Give and Take. 
I know it's not universal, but the balance has swung and we are exactly where we have chosen to be, where we need to be. 
Watching as the Circle closes, as the walls fall, as the temperature rises. Watching as the super-heated Ring starts to glow, spitting orange sparks into the Void. 
White hot, the pulsing halo shifts and vibrates, and like taffy pulls the molten squiggles into a a glowing, fire ringed Heart. 
That's my hope at least, that's also my New Years Resolution. 
For me, 2012 was the year of the Chicken, Chicken Cynical Little that is.

My Grandma Kima grunted the same halting English until the day she died. She spoke Japanese because she could, living a few blocks from J Town, at least until later. Kima lived to be 102, by than most of her Conversational Japanese colleagues were long gone.
I'm exaggerating, Grandma could speak English, and she could understand it even better. But her accent and vocabulary were so, foreign, I would seize up, unable to decipher the Kanjii from consonants.
In person was bad enough, over the "long-distance", fuggedaboutit.

The first time Maria met Kima, it was magic. 

We arrived in San Jose with young Wyatt, splitting the state into hers and mine. 6 1/2 days in San Jose, down 101, or 5 if hurried, (Most of the time we were both needing the  rejuvenating effects of the Pacific, so we hugged the water until James Dean's inland left to Hanford,) where we would spend, you guessed it,  6 1/2  days.  
Trying the house first with a soft knock, nothing, No Uncle Ni, no shuffling Grandma, we walked to the park at the end of the block. 
It was a gorgeous California morning, taking in the sights and sounds we sat on the swings. 
It was always the Swing; unless it was the Jungle Gym - ever higher- the Boys got that too, but with Maria, it was always the Swing.
Walking back with Wyatt strapped to my chest, I dawdle; watching the streetcar - now mass-transit mover - stopping and starting down First Street, the electric trains much quieter than the planes on final landing at Norman Y. Mineta International Airport, Silicon Valley's airport, a few miles away. Seems many folks have found the way to San Jose.

By now Maria has turned down Hawthorne to the off-white Conestoga/Mission, and please don't check, I made that up, but it's my cowboy movie influenced impression of the home that my Uncle Nisan- eldest brother- and Grandma; have rented for over 20 years. 

Yes, rented.

Pretty much totally against the only financial advice I had ever received from my parents besides, "Compound interest!" 
Probably because that's the only thing they ever knew, a Man's Kingdom is his Castle! 
But renting for over 20 years in THAT market?! 
Back when the streets were lined with gold and BMW was the official vehicle of the FUNLYMPICS? Live for today and die with the most toys! The Bottom Line as the Only Grail?

Tell me, where in the whole of creation is it mirrored that a force, or ledger, can only grow larger, guaranteeing profits ever higher; every quarter, every year? 
Common sense should dictate the answer is, NOT FREAKING POSSIBLE! 
But that is our expectation, as an economy, as a nation. 

Nature is an ebb and flow, a give and take, an orchestra of crescendo's, decrescendo's, fortissimo's 'pianissimos, and yes, the final al fine. Nature doesn't need to distinguish avarice, She takes what She needs. 
Mr. Smith was right, we are the virus, we are the one's who are a threat, for only we can create with such dizzying speed, both mind blowing possibilities for growth and creativity, while simultaneously constructing a log rhythmically expanding matrix of greed and consumption. 
In my opinion no other force of nature has the ability for such unconscionable destruction.
Only us, and oh yeah, cancer.


My sister told me of how pissed off she was at Ma Bell because of Mom's Harvest Gold kitchen telephone. You know the one, had about a 15 cord, which after 10 years was at least double that from all the shoulder talking; stretching into the furthest corner of the kitchen and beyond - yeah Mom, you loved that - to finally almost reach the start button on the television in the living room? Which at some point must have seemed extremely important, but not as important as the fact that she'd been RENTING this prehistoric device for over 20 years?! 
Yeah, I don't know the math and I don't want to, it would make my head explode. But one generation's Princess phone is anothers' soup can. 
We are all so human, aren't we? 

Anyway, I walked up the drive and saw Maria and Grandma Kima in the shade of the overhanging porch, the sunlight and shade bisecting the two, the difference in height accentuating the contrast of old and young, supple and vibrant, yellow and white.
The two chit chattered away, the stuttered words more expressions than language; Maria's big hazel eyes, mouth pursed into a chuckling "Oh", leaning into Kima's upturned gaze. 
Kima, her almost mummified upper lip pursed reflexively, eyebrows raised over silver rims, concentrating, and than laughing in that clucking, guttural, chuckle.

They were speaking with their mouths, and smiling, but it wasn't any spoken language, it wasn't English or Japanese. It was a meeting of the minds by way of the heart.I t was the shimmering connection of curiosity and kindness, the golden filament of love, of a shared empathy that transcends Slanty Eyes or differences in pigmentation. It's the vibrations of the Universe, all around us. Measured not in decibels but in gestures, some almost infinitesimal, some bombarding our sense with a brain 'sploding, heart bursting, surge of awareness. 
Oh, there you are! I see you, can you see me?


Through the years I have wrestled with this stuff ad nausea and as far as the Japanese thing, my Mom took the brunt of it, and being MOM, she was burdened with everything else too. 
My dad came off Scott Free, he was Hawaiian, which is a whole 'nother chapter, and besides, by than he was gone. 
No, she was the sacrificial lamb.
I was convinced at 25 my mom was the reason for my condition, my predicament. It had to be,she raised me and I WAS JUST LIKE HER!
It was only the advent of pregnancy and the pressed and pleated hair shirt uniform of the  Provider that activated my previously shrunken frontal lobe. 
Consequently, Ritz's wisdom and intelligence immediately grew by leaps and bounds. 
How amazing is that!

I was just like my mom. but until now, that wasn't a good thing.

Most of this has settled over me like the ever present Taos dust, I breath it in and it is a pain in the ass, but it is good. 

Here's what I've learned as life continues to unfold.

Mix thousands of years of strict social behavior, transfer immediately to the Great Melting Pot, add a more than generous  portion of Christianity and simmer over the War to end all Wars, Voila!
We serve the same dish over and over, the triumphs as well as the Sins of the Father serving as a base, with each generation adding a little to the concoction.
But the Stew is the same, an ever changing yet inescapably fundamental recipe of the human condition.
It is what it is, and it is delicious.

The lesson?
Smile.
Mind your P's and Q's.
Love Thy neighbor as Thyself.
Try your best.
Dammit, don't take things so personal, turn the other cheek.
And what ever you choose to do, embrace your passions and make yourself happy, but not at another's expense.
All in all, it's the Golden Rule.
It's not about being Japanese or German, African American or Hispanic, it's not about being popular or successful, or good or bad, right or wrong. It's about a simple notion.
If every religion could rally around a flag that is emblazoned with just One sentiment, One, credo, One Truth, this world would be transformed.

"Just be nice to each other!" Please.

The Outer Reaches We Don't Think About

A few weekends ago we all motivated and went over to storage, and by motivated I mean I plucked the cascading bill out of mid juggle, and paid it. I was finally committing to retrieving the Maria Boxes from storage.

Adri, Wyatt's lovely girlfriend was visiting for the weekend, I think highly of her; a cute couple, they are very attached and she was a subtle force in retrieving those cardboard enshrouded memories, as only an adoring girlfriend with both feet planted firmly in the future can be. We had tons of stuff integrated into our everyday when we arrived in Taos, mostly pictures and videos, blankets, and bedding, which in retrospect was a huge mistake, but the meat of the earliest and latest stuff, these treasures, were lingering in the dry, dark, mouse infested confines of the outer- reaches- we -don't -think- about; Storage.

Here's a little remembrance that may qualify as ironic. From 1990 to 1998, Maria had her stuff in a storage unit in Taos. Now  I had no bearing on the storage thing, Growing up in Chicago we had a basement, a garage, an attic/crawlspace or, D, all of the above. She had a $50 5x10 storage unit filled to the brim, waiting for her to finish dillying in Chicago and return home to liberate and re-populate. 

Never  happened. Three huge events negated that possibility and after we set up house to raise the first Event, her storage became my storage.

Month after month, year after year, writing checks to  Hinds & Hinds Storage, oh and Daihatsu Charade car payments for 5 years to Espanola Bank, where I now have my mortgage. References that started sight unseen in Chicago but are now part of my everyday awareness.

Maria made one last trip to deal with her left behind life in Taos, a life she had always intended to return to, but instead, she returned to Taos to clear out her storage unit ,finally surrendering, she said her good-byes and brought the whole kit and kiboodle back to Chicago.

For months she carefully revisited the weathered books and precious knick- knacks, the lacy blue miss-matched, almost complete set of china, unfinished journals and poetry, the letters and postcards and trinkets and gypsy-like collection of clothes carefully amassed during 20 years of Thrifting, all reviewed, revealed; and carefullysifted through like fossils ,informing her of her past lives and her present condition.

In the aftermath, I was gathering the house,reeling in the enormity of it all; her best girlfriends helping  to cull through all  her stuff, to decide what to keep, what to share and what to give away. Maria's life was boxed tagged and sent west on a North American Van Lines semi-trailer truck. to be unloaded and shuttled into storage, waiting to be unveiled in the future at a more appropriate time, "when things have settled." 

These Boxes are the remnants of a life. They have been safely accounted for and protected, gestating in a darkened cinder/metal mausoleum for more than 12 years, in a building less than 2 blocks from my Salon, walking distance, and almost every month,the same check is still being written, a hastily scrawled signature representing many lifetimes, to the business down the street, Hinds & Hinds Storage.

I am Japanese American.

I am Japanese -American.

I am a Japanese -American.

Funny how it doesn't have the same charge anymore. It's a fact, the farther away the fuzzier things become, Eyes and emotional responses dim with The Years.

My mother Ritz came of age wearing bobby socks and crisp white blouses, crimson giggles flashed at serious young men who smiled shyly beneath lowered gaze.

All the while held, under the indifferent gaze of corn-fed hakujin soldiers, looking down from perches spiked into the Arizona desert; turrets, spacing ghost walls of wood and twisted barb, 

These Sentinels of the human condition, replete in the sacraments of war: self-righteousness, fear, fatigues and live ammunition.

Comparatively, Niles East was cake.

Maria

She was beautiful, but severely damaged. 

Didn't realize of course until after I had impregnated her. At the time,

those parts were working just fine thank you very much!

My Boys

They were gifts, wrapped in irresponsibility and bright bits of idealism, lacy ribbons of pride and insecurity knotted firmly and bowed into a festive sprig of Fear.

With 2 such clueless donors, and the Flexible Flier from Hell  that life was soon to unleash, it's a wonder they turned out at all.