Cuba

As an introduction, let me explain that Will and I returned August 25 from Cuba. We spent two weeks there with a Berkley based group, Tsukimi Kai, Japanese Americans doing a cultural exchange and oral history research project with Japanese Cubans. We first learned about Tsukimi Kai when director Steve Wake, also trip coordinator, showed his film "Under the Same Moon" at DisOrient Asian American Film Festival 3. Will and I had the privilege of hosting Steve in our home.

We became so excited learning that there were Nikkei in Cuba from Steve. Why that is a surprise anymore to me is a sad comment on how easily one becomes brainwashed. Of course, the USA is not the only country where Japanese immigrated during the chaotic time following the forced opening to the West in the 1850's. Japanese went to Latin America including Cuba, as well as Canada and the US and I'm sure many other places in the world. Anywhere they were recruited to do hard labor.

"Under the Same Moon" made Cuba accessible to Will and me. And when Steve emailed us about Tsukimi Kai 3, TK3 became the door to a longheld fantasy. We had planned for the summer a small kitchen remodel, maybe work on the "bathroom from hell" our name for the back bathroom, but it was no contest. Cuba won. (Side note. I don't call these rooms insulting or apologetic names anymore. I think of them as my Cuban kitchen and bathroom because they haven't been upgraded since the early 60's, the same time of the beginning of the blockade.)

It's expensive to go to Cuba, and two weeks is a long time at this time in our lives. It meant leaving my mother and putting a hold on Winnemem work. Beyond the two week trip, TK3 is a very serious kind of group. Every other week on a Saturday, we attended meetings on Skype, and in between times had homework. There was the readings, of course. Also there was the play -- in Spanish, the Soran Bushi dance (done the hard way) and sub committee meetings between the larger meetings. The subcommittees were working subcommittees. Will was on the social documentation committee. I was too but I realized in Cuba I was useless without language. And I was on the gifting committee (omiyage) for 250 Nikkei we would meet on the Isle of Youth, and other Nikkei families in Cienfuegos, Batabano, Havana as well as a museum, elder center, youth community center, a Committee in Defense of the Revolution (i.e., City government), and a community murals and art project, our bus drivers, guides, and other people helping us. The workload for every committee was quite heavy. Other committees included logistics (very inportant but daunting) and fundraising as well as the Home Team. Preparation was key.

So we went to Cuba and returned. Now it's a month later from our departure to Mexico City to Habana. We are having our first Skype meeting since our return on Thursday. The meetings are not over. And we are to address any one of three prompts: a) share a highlight of our trip; b) what was learned about Nikkei and Okinawans; or c) Cuba's significance -- effect on our life, how we see the world and how we see Cuba. We each have five minutes which means prepare. I am sharing with you my response to the TK3 team and will write about Cuba many times on my blog. How did I like Cuba? I will say that from the moment we returned, I felt something which could only be described as homesickness. Cuba is in my heart.

For the moment, my trip highlight story also addresses how the trip affected me, how I see Cuba and how I see the world.

At Murealeando, a group of us, Will and I, three of the mural artists and the school principal were talking. I remember joking, the work’s not easy living in the bowels of the Monster. “Aha!” said the principal pointing with one finger toward the ceiling. “I have lived in the Monster, and I have seen its belly! That’s what Jose Marti said!”

Will and I involuntarily shouted and applauded. That quote was such a revelation.

Over the two weeks, what we saw in Cuba no matter what neighborhood we may have visited, was an application of Jose Marti's quote. Just 100 miles from a huge empire who had plans of their own for Cuba since the 1800's and in the years since the revolution which purged their country of US thugs, the mafia, and which nationalized US sugar companies, Cuba has remained true to themselves despite acts of terror, a long US blockade affecting its economy. Despite the huge challenges, Cuba has realized in a very short time all their important revolutionary goals beyond anyone's expectation -- agrarian reform, health care and education. The rest of the world knows Cuba by the cadre of Cuban doctors who are often the first to arrive at every disaster site in the world. The rest of the world knows Cuba by its educational system which graduates doctors from all over the world, third world countries and even a few from the USA. The rest of the world's citizens travel there freely as tourists. What they see is that being Cuban is a hard life but treasured, that Cubans work together to stay Cubans. Cuba may have little materially, but what I witnessed is a wealth of pride living their revolutionary vision, something that so many countries aren’t able to do yet. I am inspired by the democratic values expressed in their Constitution, the power of grassroots organizing, their optimistic view, resourcefulness and hard work despite a lack of materials and their tenacious defense of their identity, lifestyle and revolution. I feel at home with the “tribal-like” hospitality I witnessed everywhere. I feel uplifted and cleansed by the land and the climate.

I am forever changed by Cuba. We’ve all experienced becoming well and not realizing until then how sick we really were. Cuba lit Hope in me that apparently I had been living without for quite awhile. Even if I had some hope, Cuba certainly made the fire flare higher. Within a few days there, I felt my stress go. I hadn’t realized I carry it all the time. The faces of the youth without an edge, the unexplainable feeling one gets in a country where no one is being crushed, the tenor of the laughter, the breadth of the hospitality, the quickness of the embrace, the landscapes without ads and and airwaves without jingles, surrounded with that, I was more lighthearted than I have ever felt.

Will and my gleeful response in Murealeando to the Jose Marti quote erupted because it so resonated in our own lives, our most significant choice being that we accepted tribal membership when it was offered along with the heavy responsibilities which come with it from a small unrecognized historical tribe in California who will always be Winnemem no matter what. From the beginning of time, they have demonstrated their sovereignty. The tribe has taken a stand against every attack upon our way of life, a stand which we refer to as War Dance, or H’up Ch’onas as the Winnemem ancestors did before us. The tribe, like Cuba, does not have material wealth, and as a result, human life and the land become our treasure. Our position -- on the outside of the Monster's belly -- gives the tribe strength and direction. Our chief may joke about Winnemem Wage -- working hard for no pay -- but to belong to mountains and springs, and inherit the privilege and ancient responsibility to speak for sacred lands, the salmon and clean water is a rare privilege in this "Land of Opportunity." I was anxious to share Marti's quote and other things I witnessed in Cuba with my Winnemem family. And when I did the Headman encouraged me, if I could, to set up something which would help build a relationship between the Winnemem and the Cuban people.

My own perspective on world struggle, after returning home, has shifted. Even for those who are not tribal and do not have an historical pre-colonial relationship with the land, there’s a living example for survival just beyond this crumbling empire’s borders, a country running on people’s power, guided by human rights. No matter what happens, communities of people can rise to any challenge, even without material wealth and live happily if their eyes are fixed on valuing human life and the earth and if they work together to accomplish any task. Even in its imperfection, the Cuban people see themselves "in process" of meeting democratic ideals. That is how they view struggle. As the young violinist said whom we met at the community center, a center which was brought to life by disenchanted youth and the adults and elders of the community, “I have hope.” And that’s the gift I brought home with me.

Corrupting Mom

Was it because she put my hair in ringlets and dressed me in dresses? Was it because when I turned 13, she looked at me and said, “You are thirteen and you will need to wear lipstick and a bra. We’re going to town,” ignoring my wail,“But I don’t want to be a girl yet.”

When mom came to live with me, in a matter of time, out went the bra and the girdle. In came comfie undies of both kinds. Comfie became the style -- looser pants, pull over sweatshirts, bright colored with designs of animals, or flowers or sayings about being the greatest grandmother in the world. In the spring we went for colorful hoodies over floral tees. I couldn’t resist an occasional “peace” message on them. In came the bright and wacky socks, special for each holiday season like her second grade bulletin boards always were. Mom was a real holiday décor person. Glitter, pompoms, the glitzier the better. It worked because if mom had the same socks on for two days, I could tell with a glance.

She complained about the sun in her eyes, so I always threw on a billed hat -- black straw for fall, white canvas for spring. On the white canvas since it was much too plain, I pinned some of her elephant pins and a special locket pin of the statue of liberty. It was so nerdy it was cool.

Ok. Comfie undies, tees and hoodies, a billed cap with pins all over it -- HEY! we are ready for a demonstration. Slap on some sunglasses with leopard designed frames and whip out her candy apple red wheelchair, and we’re ready to go! Mom would go with me to a few gatherings against the war or for immigrant justice. She enjoyed people watching during the speeches, read the signs aloud to me, and when we lined up to circle the federal building holding our signs and marching, the cars would honk, and mom would do her princess wave. She thought we were in a parade.

When she would ask, I would answer truthfully. “We think it’s fair if people who come from other countries are treated with respect, not like criminals. They’re like grandma and grandpa.” She would nod. That made sense. Like Grandma and Grandpa.

Before the wake for her, my sister and I were going through pictures. I stared at Momma’s photo as a very prim elementary school teacher. “Oh, my,” I thought, “ I hijacked mom’s style.” The comfie, hip, youthfully dressed Eugenean who
mom had become would have tickled the perfectly coifed, collared, pinned, girdled woman of her past and made her giggle. It reminded me of the time she visited us, a long, elegant dress in her suitcase because I was taking her to the Bach Festival. She was shocked to see so many people at the Hult Center in casual clothes, Bermudas and tees. “People just don’t know how to dress in this town,” she complained. I liked mom’s old style. She was always dressed colorfully, with jewelry, and very put together. But, I have to admit some satisfaction with the balance of things as we dressed one another -- she when I was a girl and I, these past precious years, ushering each other into the next phase. Momma, forgive me. At least the clothes were stylish. The proof lies in the fact that your style conscious granddaughter now wears her Obachan’s hoodies to keep herself comfie, warm and close to her Grandma.

Update to HealthCARE Blog

An update 9/25 on the healthcare blog I wrote: This morning I got a call from my mother's medical doctor's office. A person on her staff called and left a message on behalf of the doctor that they were sorry to hear about Mother's death, that they could understand why I neglected to cancel my scheduled appointment with the doctor and they wish the form letter had not been sent. Oh, my word. I guess since this is all second hand, the caller did not know that I had written the doctor last Friday, seven days ago, responding to her form letter scolding me for not keeping the appointment that I had indeed canceled the appointment and that I was writing because I thought she might like to know that she wasn't getting all her messages.

Coincidentally, my naturapath and I talked on the phone person to person; she wanted to check how the homeopathic meds were helping me. AND I received a sympathy card with a long heartfelt message from my Indian doctor's sister and her children. All in one day.

You know, I think this "professional distance" rule doesn't really makes for good care in health, necessarily. It certainly doesn't improve communication. FAX's, answering services, receptionists just don't improve doctor to patient, one on one communication. It seems there is a communication breakdown both inside and outside the medical organization of my mother's doctor's clinic. It sticks at me because my mother's declining health began when a urinary tract infection was not treated for ten days because the doctor's FAX machine did not deliver the UTI result and prescription to Southtowne, and when the same doctor saw my sister and mother in the clinic on the day she read the lab results she did not say, "by the way, your mother has a bladder infection" in her rush in and out of the room. My sister kicks herself that she did not know because if she had she would had followed up on Southtowne and the medication.

Our family knows for a fact that good communication (the best being doctor to patient and probably longer than 10 - 15 minutes), careful details, follow up is crucial to healthcare. Without it . . . . .well, it will always, always hurt.

And this is the last I will talk about this issue. I need to let it go.

SEPTEMBER 21, 2009

Almost exactly one year ago, I began blogging and wrote my first piece about my mother. Today I offer a collage of thoughts:

I look at the trees beginning to turn and think about our rides. Mama loved the glorious falls of the Willamette Valley. I try not to regret that we were anticipating another beautiful season of daily trips and be grateful for the past two autumns we shared together.

My auntie and cousin Becky are visiting today, and we will reminisce and plan. Auntie came twice a year to visit Momma and Uncle Bill came to see her too. Once with Auntie Tsuta. Those were special days. Her siblings and their spouses meant the world to mom. Ojichan and Obachan’s memory inspired her. And all her nieces and nephews made her so proud. She adored them all. Marti and I, our children and their children, of course, were her world. The family is of great comfort now.

The memorial is next weekend. two days before my 64th birthday, 1945, October 5, when a young mother gave birth to her first daughter, me. I came out the hard way -- umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, blue. Two years later, when she was pregnant with my sister, the baby was so heavy, it broke her size 3 feet. In our case, adolescence must have been a piece of cake next to pregnancy.

I had sad days, and now each day I have sad moments. I can do it.

Will and I are going to the coast for our anniversary this weekend and I keep having to shoo away this knee jerk impulse to call my sister to see if it’s ok and if she could come down . . . then I remember, she doesn’t need to come down anymore, and we don’t have to ask anymore. Today, that is the loneliest thought.

I called the minister, the cemetery and the stonecutters today to prepare for the memorial. It will be another family affair. The Kawai clan are always there for us. They will be part of the program, gather the koden, take care of the flowers, staff the guest book, write the thank yous, make the sushi, organize the reception table and help us bury our mother at her mother and father’s feet. How does a person even begin to thank family. Without our even saying a word, they have gathered around us.

Yesterday, I watched Will drive up and as he got out of the van, I stood outside and waited for him to come up the walk and hesitantly asked if we could go home to Idaho every year to “ohaka mairi.” He said yes and gave me a hug, and I burst into tears.

Of Dreams, Drums and Mothers

Our oldest daughter, Josina Manu, had a dream the other night and shared it with me:

i had a very long involved dream last night. in one part i was in a living room with a number of women, and you were there across from me. i was telling a story about something i had read in a book. your mother interrupted me and started telling a story, i can't remember how it started but she started to dance, she was moving her feet in a step and then leaned forward, still dancing, and began describing how the drums used to be made. she was motioning over a handbag as if it were the drum, and explaining how the barrels were made of metal but they would stretch the skin over it and sew it on before they were done smithing the metal. once the skin was on then they would finish working the metal. all the while she spoke, her hands were in the motion of stretching, then sewing the skin, and her feet were still moving in dance.
there were many mothers in my dream, and ancestors. when i woke and was describing the dream, i kept saying "misa's mother" but not mary. i honestly don't know if it was mary or grandma florence, because she had a younger face that i didn't recognize.
but i wanted to tell you about it.

It almost seemed as if she dreamed a dream for me during this hard time because it carries such meaning for me, and at this point, is very comforting. There is a reason why Josina could not tell whether it was my Mama or Grandma Florence.

I have two mothers. One is my Mama who gave birth to me and raised me the best she could. The other came into my life when I became a mother and had no clue what I could do to mother this little one, our second daughter, who had already made up her mind about life in an orphanage in Korea. We clearly were in over our heads and needed help, and went for help to Winnemem spiritual leader and doctor, Florence Jones, whom we call Granny.

My mother, Mary, gave me the framework of my life to carry me along. For me, the metal circular frame is from my mom. And, then, Granny made a drum of me.

That needs to be explained. Al Smith, a wise Klamath elder, was sitting in a counseling circle of former addicts, watching his friend expertly lead a conversation. Afterwords, his friend asked him what he thought. Al said, "remember that you aren't the drummer, but you are the drum." That really resounded in me. I think many of us offer ourselves to be drummed. I know I did. And it led me to Granny. And daughters.

Both Granny and my mother carried handbags. They carried EVERYTHING in the handbag. It wasn't a place for money only. There were things to soothe, to cure, to comfort, to stave off hunger AND things to mend, to patch, to cut, to fix, to prettify, to write notes, to open things up, to entertain. Like I said, everything. They were prepared for anything. Both these women certainly meant to prepare me for everything I might face. Therefore, the handbag, and circling mother hands fashioning a metal piece and that metal form completed by another mother fitted with a drum head. They worked together and molded me.

Both were so strong and full of vigor and life, in different ways, of course, my two mothers.

This is a beautiful dream where my mother(s) revealed themselves to our eldest daughter, Josina.

It's a blessing for mothers to be taught that they are not the drummer but the drum offering themselves to be drummed. There is something about daughters and mothers which ultimately teach that lesson to one another, "we are not the drummer; we are the drums who offer ourselves to be drummed."

Dedicated to: Mary, Florence and their mothers and to Josina, Maki, and Margaret, and our little blessing Celeste. And since our family is very complicated, to our daughters' other mothers and grandmothers and other daughters. It seems we are a clan of two-mothered daughters.

HealthCARE

I sit in an interesting intersection right now. I received three messages in a very short time from three doctors who treated my mother. One is a medical doctor. Another is a naturopathic doctor. And one is my Indian doctor. All are women. All well respected for their doctoring. I am simply printing their messages to us as we are grieving the death of our dear mother, and I print them here in the order I received them:

September 10 (the day of the Wake) an email from my Indian Doctor:

I am thinking of you today and the strength you will need to get through it. The prayer house fire is burning so I put some tobacco down for you to feel our love. I wish I could be there for you now, but Mark is in Sacramento so I am watching out for Dan. I know that if you close your eyes for a moment, you will feel the fire and gain the balance you need today. It is once in a great while that we actually have a mom's love more than once, and how lucky we have been. It's a crazy world we live in and your mom made the best that a little person could at the time. But now it's time to send her home where her heart is. Now, settle your heart, burn your root and breathe deep. I love you both. See you soon.


September 15 (posted after returning from her vacation on September 11) from our Naturopath a sympathy card and handwritten note:

Thank you for your kind message letting me know your Mom had passed away. I'm glad she was at home, and you and Marti were both there. Your mom was very lucky to have you as a daughter. You took wonderful loving care of her in these last few years.


September 16 (a form letter dated 9/8/09, the first workday, first appt. slot on the fourth day after my mom's death) from my mother's medical doctor whom I was considering having as my medical doctor for hospital privileges:

Dear (my name inserted)
According to our records, you failed to keep or cancel your appointment with our office on (tues. 9/8@8 am inserted).

Since you are a new patient to my practice, I had reserved additional time on my schedule to meet you and to work with you on your health issues. If you cannot keep your scheduled appointment, please call my office at least 24 hours in advance to cancel. Advanced notice of cancellaation allows us to give appointments to patients who otherwise could not be seen. if you do miss your next scheduled appointment, you will not be able to establish care with me and will be asked to find a new provider.

I appreciate your cooperation and look forward to seeing you at your next visit.

Sincerely, (signature)
New patient letter #1


I understand that sometimes form letters are sent by clinic staff other than the doctor, that these are probably even pre-signed. I understand that perhaps the doctor did not get my appointment cancellation message called into the after hours answering service explaining that my mother had died and that I would be busy making arrangements all through September so both our appointments must be cancelled. I understand that perhaps the police officer didn't inform the doctor as he said he would or that she doesn't read obituaries, or that her answering service did not give her critical information of why I was cancelling all these appointments. She may not have known. After all, the lab called days after my mother's death to ask me to call regarding her lab results, something the doctor had already told us at the appointment hours before my mama died. The doctor said on the basis of the results, we needed to hook up with hospice and she would be happy to help us. This is not a blog to blame a doctor or damn an institution even if seems to have some glitches with inter-departmental communication.

Like I said, I sit at an interesting intersection looking at systems of healthCARE in our country.

Mama

One of the Tsukimi Kai 3 friends with whom Will and I traveled to Cuba wrote a comforting email to me of a lesson she learned after her father had passed, “You will still grow to know your mother and understand her as the years go by.”

Those words struck me because it is so true. In the days, mere days, following my mama’s death, I began to have flashes of her as a woman, what her choices revealed about her as a woman without the mystique of Mother.

My mom was raised to be and do right in this world by her family. Every example she saw, every story shared with her, and those were the stories shared with my sister and me as children, the examples and role models she pointed us toward, were of rightness, of goodness.

However, in her life, she encountered and sometimes even became immersed in things she had never imagined -- hate, violence, wartime hysteria -- all that was not right or good, a side of life she had never been prepared for; no insights to help her de-construct clearly.

Each time "life threw her a big one," she held fast to what she knew to be right and good and without becoming immobilized, walked through the best she could and took her babies with her.

For her, doing right meant to be a single mother in a multi-generational home. Every woman knows what sacrifice of personal worth and independence that choice must have required. At the same time, every human being knows what a gift it is for children to be raised by a mother, and grandmother and a grandfather. Her choice was clearly made for us. Once single and living with parents, always single -- with all the baggage of a single person living with her parents carries in the eyes of the Nikkei as well as the rest society, seen as the perennial dependent and the effects of those dynamics on the rest of her life.

Our upbringing was shared by my mother and grandparents. Definitely we learned Grandma and Grandpa knew best. However, I have a clear memory who taught me how to navigate a school system in which a teacher put me in a closet if I spoke Japanese, god rest Mrs. Finney’s soul. I remember who read Mine Okubo’s book to me as a child and clarified that the Nikkei were not guilty of anything when they were herded into concentration camps and it was wrong. In this way, my mother planted the seed which sprouted fully in me so that when I saw injustice, I knew it by name and could stand firmly on the side of justice and stand with any child victimized by it in the classrooms without fear or hesitation.

Definitely, it was my mother who taught me a very healthy attitude toward protecting myself as a little girl and later, as a woman so I would not be easily victimized. My antenna for 'red flags' are quite sensitive.

Definitely, it was my mother who taught me that becoming involved in public service, civic responsibility was a good thing. I remember the whispered arguments in Grandma’s bedroom between them over me -- whether I should join choir, whether I should run for office, whether I should be involved in so many school activities. It may have been Grandma’s house but those were the battles my mom decided to take on while letting the others go. And when there was a performance or event, both Mama and Grandma would be there supporting us.

I remember peeking in her bedroom -- a.k.a. the sewing room -- her back bent over the Singer, late late at night, sewing something for my sister or me. I remember my spoiled attitude that I had a personal designer of my own. We would go to buy a pattern, and beautiful fabric, but I always wanted something changed -- not a mere hemline -- but the scoop of the neck, the dip in the back, a hemline which draped. And mom would do it.

I read and write for fun because of so many “fun times” with her, my sister and a book and how much praise I received for writing, encouraged to enter into contests. My mom is not so much a reader, so that is something she deliberately did for her daughters. I went to college because it was a given, an expectation from the time we were little girls. We were encouraged to put our pennies in a big piggy bank for college. Now I know that she did this in spite of the “out of reach” costs of higher education so that when the time came I would be motivated to find a way -- national grants, work study -- to actualize what was essentially a dream.

She taught me from the time I was barely walking all through adulthood that all people were equal, including me, even if she may not have been able to believe that fully herself. It was just one of those things she wished for me -- just as she wished for me to go to college when she could not, choose my profession even if she could not, choose my life partner wisely even if that choice was not something she was able to have, to participate in community, run for office even if those options were closed by war and law from her.

She did not wantfor her daughters a life where bad things were thrown at them -- unexpected, unfathomable surprises as her substantial challenges must have been for her -- and she prepared us for life the best she could. She wanted us to have some say about our destiny. I am grateful for the blessings of my life because she thought about what I might need on whatever road I might choose and gave me everything she could to prepare for any difficulty.

Along the way, my mother did follow her daughters into college, became a teacher, and dedicated herself with great passion to a chosen profession. When given bad news about a third procedure for her heart in her 70’s,she moved into assisted active living near my sister and did not allow the prognosis to limit her. In fact, for the first time away from Home, she lived as an independent individual, had her first best friend, went on tours around the world, and lived the life of a popular coed. When she received bad news about dementia, and it became serious, that did not overwhelm her. She moved with me and even with her dementia, lived with personality and grace intact, greeting each person, each new day, and all of nature with love. Finally, as I witnessed it, when faced with dying, she simply left in an instant, her face reflecting surprise and wonder at something I could not see or hear before she shook herself free and took her last breaths.

The blessing from now on, as my friend passed on to me from her own loss of a parent, will be to grow to know more and more, to begin to understand my mother. For this I am most thankful.