H. Hsu Word Salad

Here I am again, less than 5 days before an international journey, shopping for shoes. Yes, I know the folly of this. Breaking in new shoes while abroad is inadvisable and could be a sure path to blisters and pain.

Like most suburb dwellers/indoor office workers, my daily life does not afford me many opportunities to walk. Travel is another thing. Business conferences tend to take place in large metropolises which feature good metros, abominable parking, and lots of hoofing it. Vacations with me tend to feature day long on-your-feet tests of endurance to get in all the exercise and sights one can possibly cram into one day.

Inevitably, before a trip I will suddenly realize I don’t have the right shoes for such an endeavor. What I’ve learned is that if I stick with some tried and true, high quality “comfort” brands, I am home safe right outta the box. Merrell, Keen, Born, Sofft, Clarks, Teva…and already I know images of Grandma or nurse clunkers are coming to mind! Alas, there are times being quite non sexy in the footwear department is worth the ability to maintain speed and stamina…and the designers really are getting much better at creating less homely comfort shoes.
The Sofft black leather toe ring sandals which tromped successfully up and down the ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, draw compliments every time I wear them.

But this next journey is to China, where sandals simply won’t do as Fall sets in, and as my germ phobia kicks into high gear. ( I am packing face masks, hand cleaner, and have no intention to expose my half naked foot to ANYTHING.) My fantasy is brown boots, sorta like the 2 pairs I already own except:
new
supportive flat sole instead of stack heels
reliable maker
and
affordable.

Now, a previous years’ blog featured my getting literally stuck inside a tall brown boot, something rather common as I have massive runner’s calves. Much to the mortification of the Nordstrom salesperson and myself, we had quite a little bonding struggle. Having just run 13 miles last Sunday, I am really in the mood for something comfy, and capable of encasing a non-wimpy leg. On a whim after this morning’s run with B & hit of Peet’s, I headed to TJMaxx. Typical discounter-utter chaos, whining kids, lots of junk -but a patient forager sometimes hits the bargain value jackpot.

Row upon row of shoe which simply will not do. Too trendy. Too ugly. Absolutely ghastly. Too pointy. Too cheaply made. Then: Born boots!! Oh, can it be? They are almost ideal. Sturdy, flat, reasonably wide, not cheap but well priced…and…not available in my size. I only see it in black, which is close enough to my goal of brown, but the sizes…
Not even close, in fact. 2 sizes smaller or 3 sizes bigger. It figures. Damned discount stores!
I round the corner and meet a women trying on the same coveted boot. I tell her how much I love it, she shows me the Born shoes she is currently wearing and how she wants these for travel next Tuesday.
“Me, too!” I reply
“Where are you going?”
“China.”
“Oh wonderful. We’re going to Sicily…”
“Sicily!”
And on goes our blather about the places we go and the awful shoe experiences and how we’re now devotees of the stout families of footwear. I will always recall how the cobblestones of Paris clobbered me in my heeled boots.
I tell her that I wanted the Born boots but “as usual” they don’t have my size. She hands me one nearby that is “close”, a half size small, but doable. Maybe. Zipper is struggling to accommodate my leg but think I can stretch it…
The catch? There’s only one.

“Maybe I can ask the young lady to help me look for it…” I say, searching in vain for the teen who was stocking shoes a minute ago. Surely she detected a need for help and promptly, silently, vanished.
“I’ll help you look!” and off my traveling friend goes in pursuit of its mate.
In my head I think…how nice.
She returns after several minutes with 2 huge, long boot boxes and hands them to me. She actually manages to unearth 2 pairs of the same boot in Brown! My size! I tell her they are literally “perfect” and thank her profusely.
We wish one another very happy travels. Hurrah! Mission accomplished. Small kindness was a huge help to me, the boots are now sprayed with protectant and gonna be put to the acid test on the roads of Wuhan and Shanghai.

Met up with an old friend in Washington D.C., back in that crazy capitol city where J and I first met as bright eyed and bushy tailed college sophomores eons ago. This time out the trendsters were all gabbing about a new place named Art & Soul. It sits just a few blocks from that hotbed of power and farce known as Capitol Hill, and focuses on Southern Style food (but done up all fancy).
J pronounced his dining experiences at Art and Soul as “inconsistent”, and suggested Cafe Atlantico.

Cafe Atlantico features a mouth watering wine list - which I did not access since I don’t go drinking before noon. Entrees on the menu included such beguiling features as lamb empanadas and Dominican conch fritters, but I had to avoid such distractions.

We were there for “Nuevo Mundo Latino dim sum brunch.”
Uhm, aren’t small plates of Spanish food called “Tapas”??
Hmm. I am always a fan of small, tasting portions. I don’t have the gut to take on giant meals & I appreciate when flavors are delicate yet impactful in a dosage size that never overwhelms. Of course, small plate eating also allows for varied sampling of more dishes than one could normally enjoy in one sitting.
I decided I don’t really care what they want to call it, and we settled down to chow, me with iced coffee in hand.

A Chef selection of 14 small dishes runs for $35.00 per person, $25.00 for vegetarians.
An beautifully presented array of dishes emerged, in small duos and trios such as:
Malanga chips
Mango Anchovy ravioli
Cebiche con coco
Pork Belly confit with passion fruit oil
Pineapple unagi with advocado
teeny, perfect oysters with mango lime oil
fried egg with black beans & pork
huitlachoche and wild mushroom quesadilla
shots of vanilla foam with caviar
and for dessert:
Pan dulce with cinnamon (a cross between french toast and a churro)

Honestly, I lost track of all the dishes as we descended into a glut of yum…and they don’t tell you this in advance, but if you are truly in love with one or two of these little culinary gems-they offer to bring another small portion out.

Absolutely my new D.C. #1 favorite! Someone please schedule another meeting or conference in D.C so I can return to Cafe Atlantico! (I’m also a fan of Zaytinya, an airy, contemporary Mediterranean mezze place which is also a Jose Andres restaurant.)

Jose Andres not brought some muy fabulousa restaurantes to the East Coast, he hosts a “Made in Spain” PBS cooking show, a culinary tour of Espana (Spain). Heavens, what could be better? Two of my great passions: food, meets travel.

Heard through the grapevine that my beloved Oakland was having a food festival. At first I thought, how quaint. But as I browsed the website,
Oakland Eat Real
it became clear that this was da BOMB!
Most attractive feature? Street Eats - a party town of taco trucks and street food stands, none priced more than $5. Brewery sampling, live music, farmer’s market, foraging/canning guide, crafty vendors, desserts galore. So perfect.
Our snobby sister by the Bay San Fran often features glittering food festivals at the ferry building or various swanky locales, but at prices which top $125 to attend (not counting parking & toll)-even die hard foodies like us have never attended.

I knew I’d hit the jackpot within minutes. P and I waded into the crowd with YM and tried to decide if we should get in line for luscious smelling BBQ or keep browsing. Suddenly, the crowd parted as a Pedi Cab decked in red signs wheeled up: Ritual Coffee. MMMMmm. That is some good non-wimpy coffee we had up in Napa. The young woman astride the bike hollered out: “iced coffee?” Good Lord, did someone just read my mind? Are the psychic gods of food granting wishes today?! It was 90 degrees, I was faded from morning run, and ice coffee was precisely what I craved. A man sitting in the cart fixed up my coffee as directed and for $3 I was a revived woman.

Next up- Goat ice cream. My bambino was a teeny ice cream sandwich, P had coffee flavored and YM’s was a Cajeta: Mexican Dulce with Texas Toffee. Has anything so luscious ever come out of a goat before? I wonder.

We spied Kika’s of SF, gourmet S’mores. As the woman at the counter explained how even the marshmallows were home made- we snapped photos and stared at the S’mores being browned individually with a creme brulee mini-burner and YM stops her mid-spiel: “We’re sold. You don’t have to explain!” $3

Gourmet S

We stood in the eternal line for Seoul on Wheels Korean Taco truck & loaded up on Spicy Pork and Chicken tacos ($3 each) with Honey Citrus iced tea/lemonade ($2)and it was DANG good- they sold the heck OUT hours before the festival was set to close.

Seoul on Wheels

Managed to save one for my office spouse & familia who arrived on a night pronounced “too hot for cooking anyways”. We bribed young D with Pop Chip samples so we could wait in line at Jim N Nick’s for Hot Pork Link served on Saltine with Pimiento ($5), and BBQ sliders ($5)-they’d run out of pork and Tri tip but were subbing Turkey, and it went great with the fresh roasted corn.

We swam upstream past the Sexy Soup being sold via bicycle, the SOLD out Good Humor and Joe’s Street Food stands & I eyed the Strauss family ice cream booth. We chomped on BBQ while the kids flung themselves down a grassy slope repeatedly and the men ventured out for Mason jars of beer ($25 for 4 beers).

Last bit we could cram into our guts after the raw milk and jam tasting (got some locally made Apple Butter & Ollallieberry jam for $10) was Poleng kitchen/Street Ramen with pork belly and “17 hour” pork broth ($4 plus more for meats. $2 for an odd but refreshing barley tea shot with aloe cubes) MmmHmmm.

We stuffed ourselves in time to music, until the stage was overtaken by the butchering contest-where teams of professional butchers dispatched carcasses for style and speed in front of a large crowd, next to the Bay and speedboats.
So much more to see & learn, this fest will surely be an annual destination for us! If we lived in O town I’d want to attend all 3 days of the festival.

I’ve commented before that my most brilliant friends all seem to be in their 50’s. At any rate, My beloved office spouse is 40 today…and not exactly happy about the concept. I wrote her a letter on this occasion, and I decided to post it as I thought, “wouldn’t it be beautiful if we all wrote the occasional letter of appreciation to the dearest friends in our lives?”
As you can read- it doesn’t have to be poetic or skillful!
Yet all too rarely do we express appreciation and admiration for those close to heart, who help light the days of our lives.

Ode to my Friend at Forty

“Please, no gifts” said Dave.
Which left me in a bind.
I’m culturally incapable of coming empty-handed…

So, figured I’d write.
(“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put into words….how wonderful life is, with you in the world!”)

I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out.
2001
My boss suggested I study for the license exams with some stranger named Susan.
Reluctant. Who is this woman from FSS unit?
We met in the carpeted halls of ACMHS.
Onward to entire days in Starbucks, workbooks piled about.
Into her hipster home, across from Kotomi.
To long walks with big, sweet Willie.
Belgian fries and exam workshops
She calmly led the way to our licenses.
Practice tests,
Passed the Tests!
We both become Licensed Psychologists, supervisors,
And fumbled, bumbled our way through a funding expansion-
Clueless-but victorious!

Run to the Far Side, my very first 5K
She made me.
Promised we could walk.
Forced me to run. “Come on!!”
I didn’t know I could.
I think about her, every race now. Triathlons and Half marathons…all Susan’s fault!

In Yosemite, my last pre-married hurrah
Hale & Hearty womyn, clambering and hiking
Yosemite bug bunks, peals of laughter, yoga in a cabin
among mountains
A heart stopping, snow-fed river,
impromptu skinny dip.

Then her whispered smile at work: “I’m pregnant!”
I lent her my Mom when Dylan was born.
So small, I feared to touch him.
She plopped D into my arms, the first new baby I ever cradled dear,
nestled into me like he always belonged.
Now we talk Star Wars, and Bakugan, and
he doesn’t remember how he’d toddler dance,
rock out as Sue sang ‘Cutie Pie’,
all the pie slices and Beard Papas puffs dismembered at their kitchen table.

My spouse has totally accepted that
I have an office spouse in Susan.
Shop talk, and more.
How many times have I had to borrow her belief in me?
Practical tips, How to’s, Pep talks, Understanding.
Challenging clients, work nightmares, intern peeves, time to leap-save ourselves!

When P & I were weak, off course, out of sync-
she propped me up.
Again. And again. And again.

Now she and P send Dave and I off to see loud music, Guns ‘N Roses, Metallica
On good days we brunch with her little ones after Sunday yoga.
We host clothing exchanges,
unjealously sharing our most brilliant friends.
Shared adventure stories, Oaxaca, Phuket, Peru, Argentina, Spain, Nicaragua, Japan, Cambodia…shared food obsessions.
Exchanges of yoga pants and dri fit run gear, books, and recipes.

40! Forty! Cuarenta Anos!
What a milestone.
It seems to me, that she does not see
The blooms, and buds, and seeds from her labours of love.
The charms and quirks unique to Sue.
That giggle, that laugh, that sometimes cackle brightens a room like no other.

This year she did battle with the very spectre of death,
And emerged victorious with Dave, to sun another day in Hawaii.
Sweet Kate turned 1
Dylan of my heart will be 6
How tough is this cookie, running races and advancing at yoga
As if that C-section never occurred?

All that a woman should be, more than I previously knew was possible-
She’s lent me strength and confidence ‘til I lost count.
Honest in her imperfections, deeper for them.

You’re not a “late bloomer” Sue, and I know the future with you, for you, will bear new fruits & adventures as you so deserve.

We’re so glad to be your Bay Area family & we love you & your Cuties (starting with Willie!) It’s a blessing to sit in this circle of friendship.
Feliz Cumpleanos, Amiga!

One of life’s great thrills is being in the present of an awesome creative talent.

To be thus so, while sitting with one’s beloved, eating garlic fries in the grass on a sun-shiney day?
A moment of bliss.

Perhaps the great talent said it best himself.
As Allen Toussaint, my entire reason for hauling P to the San Jose Jazz festival, came upon the stage, he said: “What a beautiful city, a beautiful place you have here!”
The requisite cheers.
“I almost kind of feel sorry for y’all. After you die, there’s nowhere for you to go! You’ve got heaven right here already…”
Laughs all around.

What can I say about Allen Touissant? My announcement to P about Jazz festival was simple: “Toussiant is a living legend. I MUST see him.” I think the only reason he’s not a household name is that he is one of those behind the scenes talents who often write the material that others make famous.
He is in the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame mostly for these songwriting talents. Yet the man’s voice and piano playing carry a passion and a rhythm which is subtle yet intoxicating. Full or the sweets and sours of life itself, all marinated and muddled up in that New Orleans funk.

He introduced and performed songs I was not familiar with, making jokes about how he wrote this or that for the Pointer Sisters, for the Neville brothers etc. “I think I wrote this before the people here in the first four rows were even born! Hm. Make that the first five or six rows of you!”

Here’s one written for the Pointer Sisters that apparently pre-dates my existance. Toussaint re-recorded it himself for a post-Hurricane Katrina benefit album-and his version has become an anthem I use to pump myself up and remind myself of ideals:

Now is the time for all good men
To get together with one another
Iron out our problems
And iron out our quarrels
And try to live as brothers
And try to find a piece within
Without stepping on one another
And do respect the women of the world
Just remember you all have mothers
Make this land a better land
Than the world in which we live
And help each man be a better man
With the kindness that you give
I know we can make it
I know darn well we can work it out
Oh yes we can, I know we can can
Yes we can can, why can’t we
If we wanna get yes we can can
I know we can make it a world
I know we can make it if we try
Oh yes we can, I know we can can
Yes we can can, great, got your money
Yes we can, I know we can can

Take care of the children
The children of the world
They’re our strongest hope for the future
The little bitty boys and girls

Make this land a better land
Than the world in which we live
And help each man be a better man
With the kindness that you give
I know we can make it (I know that we can)
I know darn well we can work it out
Oh yes we can, I know we can can
Yes we can can, why can’t we
If we wanna get yes we can can
I know we can make it a world
I know we can make it if we try
Oh yes we can, I know we can can
Yes we can can, great, got your money
Yes we can, I know we can can

Ode to the skin, an organ system we all take for granted. We pick at it, insult it with sunbathing vacations, and generally don’t think about the cells shedding and growing incessantly all our livelong days.

Never mind we’d die without our skin sac to keep our messy, blobby selves from spilling about- skin is such a visceral pleasure. The soft, estrogen plumped skin of a woman, delicate and fragrant infant skin, even the miraculous calloused hands some of us work into existence. I found myself oddly proud of our 6 yr old neice as she showed me her very first callouses from playing on monkey bars. I have found memories of all sorts of playground injuries and proud battle scars…perhaps our little princess was finally toughening up!

I was lucky enough to spend most of my life gleefully bare skinned in sunshine. My parents were not so thrilled about how I browned “like a Phillipino” but I loved it, and heck I fit right in with my Phillipino best friends back in Daly City. I’ve been mistaken for Native American, Cambodian, and Costa Rican to boot. (cue song “I’m every woman…”) All just fine with me!

But I am edging toward the other side of 30’s now…and realize my skin can no longer handle the thinning ozone and devil may care attitudes. At least not if I still want to get asked for ID a few times a year when drinking.
And I married a man whose natural porcelain tone is the envy of all East Asians, though not to popular in tan-crazy America. P roasted on our very 1st day snorkeling in Belize. With my penchant for travel to warm places, we’ve learned to be excellent skin protecting packers.

These days, I spend an exorbitant amount of $$ on lotions and sunblocks. We both have utterly dorky, yet functional REI hats that have protected us from Thailand and Nicaragua. We have ventilated and light but long sleeved shirts to keep our shoulders from broiling in places like Phnomh Phenh. And man, our annual sunblock ‘n sunglasses bill builds every year!
A perk of being married as well is we can do the full body mole-monitoring scans.

Although I gotta say I still can’t do the Korean style white gloves and welding mask visor when I take my lake walks. Maybe as I approach the other side of 40’s we’ll go there…

I still love the sun, love the bikini lines I develop and the feel of el sol on my skin. But as with all loves, it’s best in moderation. We’re determined to be kind to our hard working skins and keep them supple and healthy as long as can be…so that one day we’ll be the old, not-TOO wrinkly couple, with the big dorky hats walking on the beach.

Recently I started my “work” blog, which seems to reserve this “personal” blog for my other favorite subject: FOOD.

For mental health and social issues musings:
www.drhelenhsu.typepad.com

Just this year we began visiting the Union City Farmer’s Market. For years we missed it, since my usual Saturday routine was a 6 mile run. Yet recently it became ridiculously difficult to purchase tomatoes in any traditional store which were not from Mexico. I love many things Mexican but produce ain’t among them. I distrust the hygiene and production standards from afar, as well as the inevitable reduction of flavor from importing a delicate fruit hundreds of miles. While griping about no local tomatoes, a friend said “I just have to go to Farmer’s Market.” And so we went. (Running partner meet ups are now set to a different weekday)

The U.C. market runs from 9am to 1pm on Saturday mornings (until November gloom sets in), has a sandy playground on site for kids, Paddy’s coffeehouse (good sandwiches) and for a few weeks each summer, features live music in a gazebo. The local residents and church often hold yard sales to entice the shoppers who park on their curbs on the way to market. Fresh popped kettle corn is a hit that oft sells out, and now there are fried up churros-skinny, crisp, and hot unlike the doughy, limp gringo churros now sold at Costco and such.

My can’t miss vendors are: the Asian farmers who sell swoonily fragrant Thai sweet basil, fresh lemongrass, daikon, refreshing Asian cucumbers, squash blossoms, yam leaves, bok choy, tiny speckled Thai eggplants, chilies, the egg vendor ladies (brown, quail, balut, goose eggs all available) and the smiling Hummus Guy who gives samples, supplies whole wheat or half wheat pitas and makes an artichoke hummus that tastes like the fatty TGIF dip-but WAY healthier. His spicy olives are dang good beside a cucumber salad as well.
Samplings of sliced nectarines, plums, or oranges abound, and I counted my blessings while filling the basket with beautiful produce and humming along with memories of South America as the band brayed “Guantanamera.” Today there was even a local oyster vendor, which I would have heartily patronized if not for the dozen plus or so oysters we ate at Pt. Reyes just last weekend.

At home, P arrives sweaty as all get out from basketball, and goes upstairs for yoga home practice. I ponder the goods and what to make for lunch, deciding to improvise.
The results? Cubes of eggplant wok-sauteed in olive oil with diced tomato,Thai basil, garlic, and ground veggie “meat” all graced with just a smidge of soy sauce and siracha. It thickened nicely into a chunky consistency perfect for smothering rice or, as our lunch, scooping up on toasted pita quarters. Even reminds me of my favorite eggplant/ground pork dish at Phnomh Phenh (favorite Cambodia restaurant on 8th in Oakland.) Yes! It’s taken me 8 years, but I’ve hit upon a reasonale facsimile of that fabulous Phomnh Phenh staple (minus the excessive cooking oil and pork) Dessert is organic strawberries, nectarines, and grapes. Simple Joys!

Since I was almost messily killed by a Plouf mussel during SF Dine about town some years ago, shellfish and I have not been friends. Not on speaking terms, to say the least of ingestive ones.
Yet the famous Tomales Bay oysters were temptation enough to lure my traumatized taste buds and guts back into the fray. ‘twas a rarity that P gets a long weekend off. Apparently in the tech world, back in the grinder called Oracle, legal holidays were a fantasy. Now that he works in health, we joined some friends for a caravan Northward in search of fresh seafood to BBQ.

Directions for the drive led us over the Richmond bridge, onto 101 N, through a bunch of scenic and windy roads that got us chatting about sea bands (but much less nausea inducing than the drive to Stinson beach). We crossed a graffiti bridge that had me singing Prince in my head, onto Highway 1 and pass many grazing Holstein cows.
Here the directions read: “When you start seeing the bay to your left, look for a white picket fence and a bunch of Asians.” Hmm.

Sure enough, there stood a white picket fence which looked like it was being remodeled, and a huge sign being hoisted by chains. “Tomales Bay Oyster Company- since 1909”

Course #1
We are starving. Groggy and whiny from hitting the road around 8 am on a holiday. Upon arrival, the task at hand is to secure a first come first serve space and drag our heavy ass coolers over. Once two picnic tables were claimed, it was time to graze on something BBQ’s get prepped. At this point all that is available in the ready-to eat consists of organic strawberries from my Planet Organic box, potato chips, Milton’s crackers, laughing cow cheese, and beers. Breakfast of champions! Clearly several of the picnic tables are new as one can tell by the new unworn wood. I am so glad we don’t have to combat for turf. We huddle in our sweatshirts as the cool bay breeze lingers.

Course #2
Required some brave souls to shuck a bag of medium raw oysters for the benefit of the salivating bystanders. Hot sauce and limes were quickly produced as these morning appetizers were shucked, then sucked down. We all gleefully appreciate that the same oysters, less fresh, if served in a restaurant on a bed of ice would have cost us like 4x the price.

Course #3
Jumbo BBQ Oysters! Oh yeah, this is what drew the crowds. When Eric lugs 2 large $50 bags of this up the hill I think “we can’t possibly eat that many!” One version was heated and then sprinkled with butter and herbs. Others stuck with the classic limes and hot sauce. The clear crowd favorite: Tommy’s Asian black bean sauce, garlic studded BBQ oysters. We had a party of 15 and yes, we DID indeed eat all of those oysters, raw, cooked, to the last one. We left behind a pile of empty shells like Neanderthal cave carnage.

Course # 4
The sun has emerged full bore from the clouds and everyone starts stripping layers and spraying one another in sunscreen mist. Flavorful BBQ chicken drumsticks marinated for 2 days paired with Haruna’s lovely sangrias, one white, one red-chunky and delish. Life is good and it is truly feeling like a holiday. All the chicken is snapped up in a flash and the sangria is history.

Course #5
Sausages, and I mean real sausages wrapped in butcher paper, none of that cheap plastic shrink wrapped half pre cooked stuff. The desserts start to go down the hatch too, chocolate chip cookies, Krispy kremes, pudding cakes, home made strawberry bread.

Course #6
Right about this point we are sinking into a massive food coma, the alcohol and blazing sun (so weirdly hot for the bayshore) don’t exactly help with the consciousness factor. I keep lamenting that if only they had an espresso cart all would be perfection…but I guess if they can’t even manage actual toilets instead of portalets an Italian espresso machine is too much to ask. P keeps asking me to go on short walks around the tiny property to get the blood going and we swear we are done eating.
BUT a bag of small, fresh, clams is grilled in an aluminum lasagna pan, where Haruna graces it with butter and herbs. I stuff down a couple of these and a shot of Soju (Korean liquor, which I generally recommend one avoids until at least sundown!).

After 3 pm we start to clean up our picnic tables and pack up, swearing we don’t need to eat dinner. Some of the younger and clearly livelier amigos discuss plans to go party in SF or SJ that night. We become lost in Pt. Reyes downtown, which turns out to be a charming detour. A Chinese Chuckwagon (think bright red taco truck) parked across from ye olde Western Saloon, kitty corner from Troy’s farmer market and grocery – a place one can pick up bales of hay as well as an heirloom tomato or as we found: DAMN good coffee. Imagine, a coffee kiosk that offers organic brew, Dagoba chocolate, Straus family milk! Oh Troy, how I wish you were open next door to my house…

So what was up with all the Asian people anyways? There truly was a small sea of us. Koreans roasting Kal Bi beside their oysters, HK folks chattering over asparagus and clams, and every single kind of Asian American. All I can say is that I guess it is in our culture to center an entire daylong outing on food, and we’re quite partial to shellfish in particular. Oh, and we’re also known for being fairly bargain conscious. All this feasting ran only $10 per person for all those bags of shellfish!! The rest was done potluck style & I gotta say Tomales Bay has gotta be the culinary bargain of the year. So long as you don’t fear a drive out and some labor shucking, it’s a must-try.

That evening, many in our party fall into a long sunshine/food/alcohol induced naptime. I end a lovely day with a 4 mile run at Lake Elizabeth, and a dinner of organic carrots and nectarines with peppermint tea. Happy Independence Day to ALL!

Good Evening Everyone. Thank you for the opportunity to speak here on your occasion of celebration, your Sash Bash. And thank you to Dr. Yokoyama for her generous introduction. In my humble opinion, JFK is blessed to have such a phenomenal woman amongst its faculty.
Intitally, when invited to speak, I thought, surely JFK could find someone more impressive!
But, as I mulled it over, I thought, ‘who better to speak to you about the path ahead, than a relatively new psychologist like me?” I have only renewed my license three times thus far. I work closely with graduate students almost every day. So I remember, and am constantly learning about the psychology trainee experience.
Which is a unique worldview.
I mean, really-
What kind of masochistic people willingly take on such an ordeal?
• A challenge that lasts for years and includes
• Spending a year in an ethnographic placement in the most unfamiliar community you can find?
• Donating thousands of practica and internship hours?
• Incurring enormous financial obligations?
• Incurring the ire of your neglected loved ones?
• Reading thousands of pages of journals and texts?
• Completing a dissertation or doctoral project?
• thousands of hours of introspection and self assessment, which, let’s all admit, when done correctly, can be uncomfortable-even painful.
• And all for no guarantees of any kind for fame and riches!

Let me say this: I KNOW what kind of people would do such a thing.
People with the soul and the mettle to be leaders.

JFK is a favorite institution for non-traditional students. The kind of students I feel a kindred experience with, many of whom may have been told such messages as I was told:
“It’s not realistic for you”
“Who do you think you are?”
“Why do you have to expect so much? Can’t you just be a team player?”
Or my favorite:
“You work in what kind of places? Huh, you don’t look that tough”

As Dr Yokoyama mentioned, I want people to know I was a non-traditional student. I was admitted to graduate school branded as probationary status-because I had worked to support myself while juggling a double major, and had the lack of sleep and erratic grades to prove it.
But I believed in what I was doing.
I felt a fire when advocating for misunderstood, stereotyped, and underserved communities that had never before manifested in my education. I want people to know I haven’t been a straight A student probably since 4th grade - because I want to completely shatter the myth that only a certain “elite” can ever dream of wearing that cap, gown, and hood. As a clinical supervisor, it is now my privilege to play a role in guiding the next generation of psychologist advocate-leaders. I see the strengths and bright ideas you all are fomenting, and it is inspiring! I also have to bear painful witness to the homophobia, sexism, racism, ageism, classism and disability biases which both clients and students must combat regularly.

It was in 2008 that one of my trainees was told during an internship interview “you know we don’t really have many clients of color and we have no gay clients. I don’t think you’d fit n here.” It is in 2009 that my students still are given poor evaluations for speaking up about social justice and cultural issues in class. (not at JFk!)

Most institutions in psychology do not practice a commitment to multicultural values and community service as JFK does. Our field currently remains permeated with a vstigial vocabulary that betrays privilege, hierarchy, and bias in its very definitions. Identified patients, dysfunctions, irrational, abnormal, hysterical, enmeshed, not “psychologically minded”…I feel these are false relics from a time of fear and stigma. When we were too afraid to admit that at times we or the ones we love are patients, clients, consumers too.
What better way to spend one’s career than to care for the humanity of others? In my experience, working as a psychologist has allowed me grow deeper, become more patient, appreciative, and mindful. Working for the health and well being of others has sustained my own development and allowed me a job that is full of meaning, purpose, and growth.

I want a similar satisfaction to be yours. Fine tune that inner compass.
You have been trained in clinical and ethical issues. You have demonstrated the heart of a healer. As you now move away from your classrooms, supervisors, and faculty, you must be a reliable and steady guide for yourself and your peers. I met a dear friend and colleague, Dr. Susan Ono, at Asian Community Mental Health Services. We assisted one another in navigating early career challenges, confronting old power structures, and studying together for Board licensure. Dr. Ono was the one who introduced me to Dr. Yokoyama, and in turn each of us have introduced the others to like minded thinkers and healers and perhaps most importantly- doers.

I learned far more at Asian Community Mental Health Services from my clients and colleagues than I ever did in my formal education. I had co workers, mere para-professionals which some doctoral students or licensed staff looked down upon as “not doing therapy”. Even though some of these para professionals, mental health specialists, were the living breathing embodiment of resiliency. To work shoulder to shoulder with those who emerged from catastrophic trauma, and rebuilt lives and families and now served the community-this was what I needed to learn.
No more theory.
Real, authentic practice. It would have been much more comfortable to stay in my lofty “I’m a trained license track therapist” office. But I know my clinical efficacy, to say the least of my humanity, increased by stretching my boundaries to encompass different ways of knowing and healing.

Who could imagine that I, an Asian American Californian, liberal tree hugging granola bibliophile would find herself deployed to police stations in post-Katrina New Orleans? What on earth was someone like me gonna do within a para-military organization in the South?!
Up in a FEMA helicopter, all us SAHMSA volunteers went silent with ache and dread at the destruction which went on literally as far as they eye could see. The few civilians remaining in town guarded their homes with shotguns at the ready.

I had certainly never been trained for this.

But I knew how to create collaborations. I knew how to sit with trauma and remind people of the humanity extreme conditions can strip. I had a bit of street credibility hailing from Oakland…most importantly, I knew how to sit down and start a conversation over a bowl of Corn Pops, Bread Pudding, or 9th ward gumbo.
I knew how to help facilitate a poetry slam, a Motown review night, and do outreach at all hours. The Katrina Assistance Project was an acid test so to speak, of the meshing of formal education, with life experience. It was an opportunity to lend a hand to a community healing itself, and we all grew from the lessons of co-creation.

There simply is no current body of empirically validated practices for some of our most underserved communities.
You shall be the ones who help create it.
There is no place in our current healthcare behemoth to reimburse and fund community based interventions because they do not conform to that outdated medical, in office, isolated, individual model.
Once you get out there, if you can not find a space for yourself with a traditional employer-think big. Maybe it’s time for you to create that space for yourself. Perhaps you should follow your visions into fruition.

In graduate school, there was an African American couple, my dear friends Alexis and Shawn, who began to draw up plans for their own agency upon realization that there simply was not established agency doing what they felt was important and of interest.
A few years later, they founded their own: Fruge Psychological Associates. FPA is one of the only for profit training sites, and the first minority founded and owned site to have won a major contract with Alameda county in decades. Our founders and supervisors are all people of color who have spent the majority of our careers with underserved populations. We primarily serve youth of color through private contracts. And we operate a clinical training program because we see the value of training psychologist who are immersed in the community, who can learn to utilize their creativity and humanity in ways that exceed traditional classroom training.
What sort of agency or educational facility might you bring to fruition? I am eager to hear of it.

Keep your visions long and wide ranging. When I talk about community, I mean community-from your city block all the way to the international community. I have presented at conferences in other countries about the kind of multi-culturally informed, innovative work that we all do here, and the excitement in the room has been palpable. We have so much to learn from one another, and your voice is long overdue in this global conversation.

I had never dreamed psychology would bring me to New Orleans, to juvenile hall, hospice, the heart of Richmond and Oakland, La Familia Consejera, Buenos Aires, Havana and this Fall, Wuhan, China. Simply by remaining open to possibility and alert for new opportunities- incredible experiences and horizons opened up for me.
As they shall for you. Get on the list servs, nominate yourselves or one another for committees and boards, publish your papers and books, present at conferences and symposiums-our field needs to hear what you have to say! If your friends are too modest to nominate themselves, YOU can nominate them.

I’d like to wrap with a note of wisdom from one the more influential white males in my personal development.
Am I talking about Freud? No.
Not Jung, nor Beck, not even Carl Rogers or Michael White…
I am referring to, Mr. Fred Rogers.

Let us think of those who have liked you, accepted you, “just the way you are”. Ironically, that kind of acceptance leads us all to exceed our limitations.
Being SEEN and being validated in the now, allows the future to expand.

Why don’t we take a moment now to meditate together upon all the people who have supported us, cheered us, tolerated and prodded us, and simply loved us into being- who have guided you- culminating into this night’s milestone achievement.

In our hearts, or with our voices, let us say, Thank You.

Esteemed graduates, you have toiled for many years to attain this remarkable educational achievement. You have collectively given thousands of hours of yourselves to healing others, and being a bridge and a guide who pays it forward. Please don’t forget to practice your self care as you go forward.

I trust your lives have been transformed through this process, and indeed, you shall make important changes to our world. As is the motto of JFK University.

I am so honored to share in this evening with you, and so pleased to stand here and say:
CONGRATULATIONS you have earned it!
And:
WELCOME. What a happy moment to meet new colleagues who are fightin’ the good fight!

A decade ago, highlights included the junk in his trunk, and the fact that he lit candles and kept a box of Powerbars at hand.He paid for a phenomenal amount of Kamakura sushi, and held my hand stoically during brisk outdoor walks.When I fell ill, he brought over Cinema Paradiso & Mulan, accompanied by Chinese porridge for my tummy.

P was the one who re-formatted and printed out the book-length final draft of my doctoral dissertation, after I had collapsed in our office and simply refused to look at it anymore.

Six years ago, assets were displayed at the Mountain Winery wedding he co-planned and paid for and by the black “engagement RAV4” I drove.

We were the picture of happiness on our postcard perfect Belize lunamiel.We both had such great abs back then!He let me lead him to a country he literally couldn’t find on the map, and into the jungles and ruins where mosquitoes favored his fair skin.He plunged with me into shark-ray alley, and we took murky underwater photos in turquoise seas.

Ten years in, love, and making a life with someone, looks quite different.

It’s still important to me that he’s maintained his backside, and he continues to supply a massive quantities of sushi.

Yet these days, I am reminded how lucky I am when I get home from work at 9pm, and there is a hot pizza waiting and the garbage is already on the curb.These days, the stability of my love come from all sorts of experiences which I never even imagined back in 1999.

My travel dreams have come true with P as we hit 10 countries in 10 years.Fantastical places like Iguazu Falls, Tikal, Isla Ometepe, Buenos Aires, Angkor Wat, and Phuket.

Much more importantly, P is the only person who has walked with me, down numerous hospital corridors.He met Grandma Yang, boozed and laughed with her before she sunk into the depths of dementia and became lost to us.He stood awkwardly yet bravely by the Alzheimers bed of Grandma Hsu, and burned incense and paper money with us for her last year. It is P who has held my hand at multiple funerals, and cried as I delivered a wrenchingly painful eulogy for a friend I deeply loved.P is the only person who totally won my family over, to the point that I sometimes suspect they are in cahoots against me…

Married life as I understand it thus far is like this: one autumn night I may find myself on a cupcake and wine high, dancing with my love as we holler/sing 80’s songs across the dance floor.It’s someone who holds my hand in his lap throughout dinner and takes photos of me despite the 10 thousand we already have.The very next day may find us in a seething huff, his genetic inability to be timely, by genetic incapacity to be tidy-both people in a sulk.But it’s OK. Because inevitably now we understand, that for every F.O.O. fight (family of origin) or eyeball rolling moment, there will be a new adventure, a sweet gesture.

I understand now that it doesn’t matter if he makes fun of my “white music” and will not accompany me in triathalons.If he is not enraptured with fruits and books as I am… We have beloved friends and family to fill other needs.I notice when he passes me the nicer things (like eating the old leftovers while I get the new one, and taking the old ratty yoga strap for yourself while I again, get the new one).

Happy Anniversary to us! So what if the weather was crap and our Napa balloon flight was canceled?We didn’t pitch a fit, just went back to bed and later had an extraordinary day eating ourselves into a coma amongst friends at Oxbow Public Market.Here’s to many more glasses of wine raised in toast as the years roll on…