There are so many Chinese-Americans in Los Angeles that this weekend, there were COMPETING Moon Festivals on the east side of town, over there in communities like Monterrey Park and Arcadia, where a ton of Taiwanese folks live. I only know this because Eva has joined a Chinese Children’s Chorus and had to perform at two of these festivals, back to back.
While it’s about 14 degrees hotter on that side of LA, the boba teas and other Taiwanese street foods are also about 14 times better. So I left Eva with her choir teacher and went off exploring the street food vendors. I got the moon cakes, natch, plus dim sum standards of xiao long bao and char siu bao because, low hanging fruit.
But then I wandered into the world of vegan meat pies (which are cooked on a griddle and flattened, so, the Chinese equivalent of quesadillas), and the crazier milk tea creations, like “dirty milk tea” (not sure what makes it dirty), the Hokkaido Taro slush (Eva tried this and liked it) and the big mystery item that I was too full to consume was KOREAN-TAIWANESE FUSION NOODLES. I felt seen.
Chinese folk legend holds that in the seventh month of the Lunar Calendar, the gates of hell open up and the ghosts come out to torment the living. There are all kinds of rituals you can perform to try and keep the darkness at bay, or preventative measures like not letting your kids go out at night and being very careful. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing until my mom and dad, who were in town this summer, said, “Of course you’re having a run of bad luck, it’s ghost month!”
August actually started triumphantly, with an affirming trip to Atlanta where I saw old friends from AAJA and got to talk a little about my dad. Since then, my producers were laid off while we were in the middle of a field shoot, the minivan’s door was ripped off by a Santa Monica Big Blue bus and my spouse narrowly escaped injury and last week I learned a skunk has made a home in the crawlspace under my house! Dealing with him is very tricky since you don’t want him to spray under your house and leave a stink there … FOREVER.
The good news is, we’re almost at the end of the month, and things are supposed to improve once the ghosts go back to their lair. Here’s hoping.
Look, I don’t think any woman should feel pressured to give birth a certain way. You do you — a feminist birth is more important than an unmedicated, vaginal one. If you are interested, however, and want to prepare, I spoke with the New York Times’ Parenting section briefly for its guide to unmedicated birth.
“You were out of town and we almost lost our father. And then we’d be stuck forever with just you, mom.” [grimaces]
—Eva, 6, about Matty losing the minivan door to a Santa Monica city bus, and somehow not getting hurt by the chin of his chinny chin chin
I was on a shoot in Albuquerque at the time and since Stiles never calls me, really, ever, I picked up the phone and said, “Are you okay?” and immediately he goes, “NO! I just got hit by a bus!”
It’s been a crazy and difficult week. If I wasn’t so committed to an upcoming Future You episode on longevity which requires me to adopt healthy lifestyle habits, I’d be drinking myself to sleep tonight.
“There’s a story in your voice
both by damage and by choice.
It tells of promises and pleasure,
and a tale of wine and woe,
the uneasy time to come,
and the long way ’round we go to get there.”
—Elvis Costello and Lucinda Williams
Note: These are the remarks as originally written, for a speech to public media broadcasters at AAJA’s National Convention in Atlanta. I was drinking Corona from a glass (weird) and feeling like my jolly self when I started talking, but then I surprised myself when I started crying during this speech. Then people in the audience were crying with me, and it ended up being an emotionally cathartic and meaningful time. Thanks to those of you who could make it!
Tonight I’m going to talk about the importance of making sure your voice is heard. But I want to open with a story about my dad, since without him I wouldn’t have MY voice.
It begins in Shanghai with — as you might expect — a young boy.
My dad was five years-old when the Communists defeated China’s ruling democratic government, the Kuomingtang, in the bloody Chinese civil war. So the backdrop of his youth was formed by Mao Zedong’s deadly and costly reforms of China, a famine that killed 30 million people at least, and the absence of his father.
My grandpa was on the other side of the world, in St. Louis, Missouri, where he’d gone to get his graduate degrees on a Chinese-government funded scholarship not long after my dad was born and during the years when China was open to the world. Grandpa never could return to China after he left, since his country’s government had been replaced with a totalitarian situation where no outsiders were allowed in, and no Chinese were allowed out.
My dad grew up with his mom and sister, eventually reaching an age when it was time to go to college. But he only attended for a semester or two before Mao closed all colleges and universities as part of the Cultural Revolution and an effort began to return intellectuals to the fields. This included children of artists and intellectuals and anyone considered bourgeoisie. My father was sent to labor and re-education on a pig farm in Guangdong province.
I don’t really know what he saw there — he doesn’t talk about it. All I know is it was a really horrifying time. And he would get up in the mornings and secretly practice swimming in the freezing streams behind the farm … training to escape.
This labor camp in Guangdong Province was close enough to the free, British Hong Kong that he could feasibly try and escape the camp and defect from the country. Y’all know mainland China and Hong Kong are connected by land, but it was considered too risky to try and cross the land border, with its fencing and guards and all. It was slightly less risky but still highly dangerous to try and get into Hong Kong by sea, by crossing the bay.
Twice he and a few other men made the attempt to defect by raft, in the middle of the night. Twice they were caught, brought back and subjected to beatings and more re-education.
On the third try, he and five others dived into the deep, dirty Shenzhen bay, and swam four kilometers — more than two miles — in the dead of night to Hong Kong, risking being shot or drowning along the way.
My dad recalls seeing the twinkling lights of Hong Kong from that dirty, freezing water as the most emotional moment of his life. It was the moment he saw freedom.
My grandpa, as you recall, was in St Louis this whole time, working his senator, Stuart Symington, to make sure my father could get passage into the United States should this treacherous escape plan actually work. Senator Symington reached out to a New York Senator, Bobby Kennedy, to help my dad if he was able to fly into a New York airport. A few years ago, I saw the letter from Kennedy’s office to my grandfather, saying that my dad would be permitted to enter the US as a refugee, since he was fleeing communist China.
By the time my 6’2” dad made it to the state, he weighed just 135 pounds.
To me, the story of my family’s relationship with America is a love story. Immigrants don’t hate America — they love what this country stands for. The very idea of it inspired so many of them to leave the only homes they’d ever known, often at great peril, to find a safe harbor and a new home.
And now, some of these people, or their children (like me), or their children’s children, have the great opportunity and responsibility to tell this country’s story through our work. But that does not mean suppressing our own truths. Our voices contain multiple stories.
It is important that, for the reporting we do, for the brands we represent, and for our own mental health — we don’t stop being children of immigrants or immigrants ourselves when we’re covering the news.
Because at its core, journalism tells us how other people live, and helps us to imagine living like them. Having immigrant stories so close to us strengthens our work, because we can cover these stories with a layered perspective, with humanity, and with ears that are open to the truth of how other people are living.
Lomi Kriel, the Houston Chronicle reporter who broke the family separation policy, long before it burst into the national news, says the number one thing that makes her good at covering immigration… is that she is an immigrant.
There is real deliberation and combat right now over what kind of country this is — who gets to live in it and who gets to speak up about how it’s being run. Who has power, who frames that power, whose voices matter. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but I just want to affirm that your voice matters.
Your voices especially matter in the face of newsroom power structures that are still so lacking in the diversity we talk about at conferences like these. Even as I got more career experience, I had trouble getting over the hump of thinking that my voice was somehow “less than,” because as a child in St. Louis and Dallas suburbs, I was almost always the only Asian person in my classes or in my activities. That kind of environment can make you internalize a notion that white is default and your otherness is something to be ashamed of.
Things are changing, in so many places! I look around at my daughters’ preschool and elementary schools in LA. They are, first of all, Spanish and Mandarin immersion schools, which tells you a lot, and second, the classes look like the UN of little humans. White and brown and black and all the other shades in between. It’s America! My generation’s old baggage about being “the only one” is increasingly irrelevant in Gen Z’s multicultural, pluralistic world.
That’s the world we have to reflect in our news coverage or else we’re failing to tell the truth.
The truth is what fighting for representation is about. Creating more diverse journalism isn’t about slotting people of color into the newsrooms we have, it’s about transforming the newsrooms we have — our institutions, our culture, and our storytelling — because it gets at the heart of what journalism is: telling the full truth of a story.
We aren’t serving our communities as well as we could be when we aren’t represented or representing by making our voices heard.
Whatever it took for you or your ancestors to get here, we have literal skin in the game now. And it enhances our coverage because you know what it is to be of America but also questioned about your Americanness. You know what it’s like to have a foot in a different culture.
Shrug off this notion that somehow your skin in the game makes you less objective — it makes your coverage more FULL. We can’t be truly helpful to our communities until you know what it’s like to need help. That makes those of you who have real, lived-in experience of immigration so valuable in covering the negotiation of America’s identity right now.
So stake your claim in your newsrooms, speak your voice in your communities, tell stories of people’s lived experiences and do it with compassion. Until we can have discussions about how crucial your voices are, in all our newsrooms, and move it toward meaningful action, we aren’t doing enough.
We are more alike than we are unalike, as Maya Angelou famously said, and our charge as journalists is to not let one another forget it.
And since he figured so much into my remarks here, and has played such a role in making me who I am, I’ll close with an update on my dad’s story. I’m happy to say that it isn’t finished.
My dad is alive and well and thriving. He has four grandchildren. He has a titanium hip but continues to love gardening, something he’s been into since I was old enough to form memories. He gets so excited when hummingbirds come to feed at the bird feeder in his garden. He loves watching his vegetables sprout — everything he plants somehow survives. Seriously, he threw an avocado pit into my compost one time and a full on avocado tree the length of my arm sprouted out of my compost bin.
I mean, when this is one of the handout rounds, how could we have lost? Terp was in town and joined the crew, and thankfully he knew Jeff Gillooly on sight. Watching every single Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan retrospective pays off, eventually.
To be honest, though, this was a close one because the wheels really came off in the last round (when every question is worth a point and the last one is worth 5.5 points).
The last question was, how many days will have passed between the release of the original Top Gun and the new one (which comes out next year)? I thought it came out in 1987, but the rest of the team calculated it with summer 1988. Then we learned it actually came out in 1986, so we lost so much of our advantage that we ended up only winning by half a point. A win is a win!
Had Nurse Kelly (on our team) not recalled that Bob Carlisle was the singer of “Butterfly Kisses” (for the “father-daughter song” round) and Friend Sunil not known that 97 was the highest prime number under 100, we would have have been paying full price for our tab that night.
Thank you for sending in your Trader Joe’s love on Twitter! Overwhelming deliciousness lives in this reply thread. As promised, I put everything you recommended on one master list.
I also classified your recs so it’s easier if you go/when I go shopping. Overall, there’s a lot of love for the frozen Mac and Cheese, the gnocchi, the dried fruit, the cheeses, the nuts and those peanut butter-filled pretzels with crack in them. (Not really but maybe really.)
Dairy and Gluten free home style pancakes
Sweet potato gnocchi
Quinoa Cowboy Veggie Burger
Mandarin Orange chicken
Parmesan Pastry Puffs (aka the puff pastry-wrapped hot dogs)
Vegetable Penang curry with jasmine rice
Sage gnocchi meal
Trader Giotto frozen pizza
Organic Woodfired Sicilian Style Pizza
Burritos of all sorts
Raw chicken tenders
Indian frozen meals and samosas
Coffee Bean Blast Ice Cream
Cold brew latte dessert bars
Cookie butter ice cream
Mac and cheese
Mini sheet cakes
Key lime pie
Mini ice cream cones
Lime Fruit Floes
White truffle potato chips
Jerk style plantain chips
Multi seed Tamari soy sauce crackers
Thai lime and chili almonds
Honey butter potato chips
White cheddar corn puffs (TJ’s Pirates Booty)
Beef jerky, original flavor
Chili lime cashews (Are these the same as the Thai-spiced ones? Y’all mentioned both.)
Nacho cheese tortilla chips
Crispy, Crunchy Chocolate Chip Cookies
Triple Ginger Snaps
Peanut butter-filled Pretzels (I prefer the kind with salt but reasonable people can disagree)
Maple Leaf Cookies
Sesame honey almonds
Jumbo raisin medley
Dark chocolate covered pretzels
Dark chocolate peanut butter cups
Dark chocolate covered cherries
Chocolatey Coated Chocolate Chip Dunkers
Dark chocolate covered peppermint joe Joe’s
Aussie style licorice
Chocolate-covered espresso beans
Sea salt dark chocolate almonds
Chantilly Cream Vanilla Bean Mini Sheet Cake
Alphabet cinnamon crackers
Dried baby bananas
Dried baby pineapple
Tart dried cherries
Just mango slices
Jumbo raisin medley
Seasonings, sauces and spreads
Everything but the Bagel Sesame Seasoning
Sriracha Roasted Garlic Barbecue Sauce
Chili lime spice
Peach Bellini Jam
Grade B Maple Syrup
Red pepper spicy hummus
Two buck chuck wine
Cupcake vanilla vodka
Coconut cold brew
Organic Sumatra coffee medium dark roast
Joe’s medium roast
Hendricks Gin, for the TJ value
Unsweetened Vanilla Almond Beverage
Breads and Buns
Overnight Pain Au Chocolat
Brioche buns (these double as awesome hot dog buns)
Garlic and herb pizza dough
8 Mini Croissants (also overnight rise)
I don’t live in Hollywood, I live in the much cooler (at least temperature-wise) beachy area of Marina del Rey/Venice. But every once in awhile, since this is LA, I like to drop into the “Hollywoody” denizens of this town, like red carpet premieres. Friend Tim (my dorm mate from freshman year at Mizzou) is the executive editor of Entertainment Weekly, so, he gets the good invites.
But we are journalists, not show business people. So we get confined to sitting in the backs of the theaters or up on the mezzanine levels of these exclusive events. You know, up with the riff raff, where we belong. The thing about the world premiere of director Jon Favreau’s live-action Lion King last night is that the stars were SO A-list (Beyonce, Steph Curry, Chance the Rapper, Seth Rogen, etc) that the “riff raff” consisted of almost all celebrities. It was super weird.
The setting is the Dolby Theater, which you’ve seen if you’ve watched any Oscars ceremonies on television. Security locks up everyone’s phones in individually-sized pouches with electronic locks that only the security team can unlock after you’ve left the theater. So no snaps from the theater from me.
Anyway, we were up there in our mezzanine seats, and the following people were in the three rows in front of me: Ali Wong, Leann Rhimes and Eddie Cibrian, Megan Traynor and her husband, who was the kid in Spy Kids (no longer a kid), Chrissy Metz from This is Us, some actor from Game of Thrones I did not recognize because that’s not a show I ever watched (Update: Tim says it was Pedro Pascal), and right behind us was Raven Simone.
“That’s so Raven!” I said. “And she’s sitting behind us,” quipped the girl next to me. “That is so NOT Raven.” (Y’all may know I have used “That’s so Raven” as a recurring bit to react to things for maybe, ten years? Being able to make a Raven joke about Raven herself was a surreal high.)
Before the show got started, aka, before Beyonce had entered the building, I went up four rows to chat with Friend Eric at the WSJ. We were talking about Pittsburgh or something when I’m tapped on the shoulder by someone asking me which seat I’m supposed to be in and it’s … Tracy Morgan. “Ohhhh, I was just squatting here talking with a friend, sorry,” I had to say, to Tracy Morgan, because they put there were so few “normals” at this premiere that they had to put legit television stars with the journos.
As someone who’s seen the animated Lion King a gazillion times (I also saw the 1994 version in the theater), screening the live-action reboot gave me all the feels. Watching it at the world premiere took things to another level — the director came out and brought each cast member on stage BEFORE the film, which led to a standing ovation before the movie ever started. Given all the buzz and Beyonce in the air, the audience broke into cheers and applause after every song, which made screening a film feel more like seeing the Broadway show. I peered down at Ali Wong if she laughed at the jokes in the film, and she didn’t, which surprised me because Billy Eichner, Seth Rogen and John Oliver were hilarious in their roles.
Huge regret I didn’t selfie with Levar Burton since he seemed really open to it at the after party. Said party took place in white tent that stretched a couple of blocks of Hollywood Boulevard, in front of the Dolby Theatre. I love these industry parties for all the unlimited booze and buffet, of course. But this one being a Disney premiere also had amazing kid stuff! DOLE WHIPS (usually only available at DisneyLand), makeup artists doing safari animal face painting, projection machines so you could make your own souvenir video of walking in silhouette with Simba, Pumbaa and Timon, warthog slime-making and Pride Rock-painting crafts, the McDonald’s food truck parked to serve Chicken McNugget Happy Meals with the Lion King merch toys inside … and yet very, very few kids. Then again, it was 11 o’clock on a Tuesday night. How many children should be out at that hour?
The whole arm popping out of socket situation could have been so much worse that I’m counting my lucky stars that I’m merely stuck in bed in a sling. I just got cleared to return to work, too, so tomorrow I plan on going in, to get off my ass.
A fairly complete list of what I “accomplished” while convalescing this week:
Caught up on the Taylor Swift/Scooter Braun rift
Listened to a recording of Curtis Sittenfeld reading her short story, Creative Differences
Sent articles to friends, according go their individual interests
Reviewed my doctor’s notes from Ireland
Saw an American doctor, got new x-rays
Canceled a bunch of previously scheduled trips and engagements
Started watching Black Mirror based on a handy ranking of all its episodes
Watched the full season of State of the Union
Watched 13 episodes of Jane the Virgin
Saved a list of movies to watch on Netflix based on this “100 Best” list
Read the following books: Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino, Lifespan by David Sinclair
Approximately ten squats and nine lunges
Made a dessert involving lots of puff pastry
Read some poetry curated by Friend Patrick
Played with Luna with my good arm
Talked on the phone with Friend Janet
Ordered Amazon Fresh
Ordered Amazon Pantry, after learning they were two different offerings
Checked my credit card points
Asked realtor to drive me around to see some houses, since I can’t drive
Updated my DC tenants’ lease
Walked to order a cake, found bakery closed
Walked to another bakery
Intermittently g-chatted with Kat, Reeve, Danny, Fiscus and Mike (individually, not as a group)
Called mom four times
We were somewhere near the town of Dingle, taking in these breathtaking sites and letting the girls slide down steep grass-covered boulders at a prehistoric fort on the edge of the land jutting into the Atlantic when I slipped, my right arm overextending back behind my head. I heard two cracks in my shoulder before ending my slide and losing my vision briefly because of the excruciating pain.
There was not a prettier place I could have dramatically dislocated my shoulder, requiring an ambulance ride and copious amounts of morphine. Eventually an x-ray revealed a full dislocation but not fracture, sparing me surgery and allowing the doctor, Tricia, to pop my shoulder back in while I was breathing in huge gulps of some sort of gas to “take the edge off.”
My right arm spent hours out of socket so I’m going to be recovering for several weeks. The health care I received was nothing but caring and thorough and considerate. The doctor even got me tea and toast after popping my arm back. Thank you, Ireland.
To Dingle town we herded the crew
To take in spectacular views
I slipped down a grass boulder
Dislocating my shoulder
Now it’s opiates for the black and blues