Mom's Historic Vote

Mom and I sent in our ballots Friday for this historic election, historic nationally, and historic right here at home.

I admit that no election including this one was from my heart like the Jackson campaign. Jesse Jackson stood for everything I believed in. He represented our generation's mission. Since then I have become increasingly aware that the two party system is tweedle dum and dummer. Change will not come that way. The Obama campaign is really no different than the others, in my heart, except I was inspired enough to vote, to do the bumper sticker and lawn sign, to contribute because he is the first African American candidate to capture the nomination, first intelligent, dignified nominee for the party and that felt good. He is not an embarrassment. I am thrilled that the Obamas will be our First Family, that Michelle Obama will represent women with intelligence, strength and pride. I even tuned in each day to the DNC and enjoyed the speeches, especially Obama's. I was disappointed that he chose Biden, the Democrat's Democrat for his running mate, and horrified as the excited crowd of delegates was so carried away that the even cheered Biden's warlike stance toward Russia. I was moved by Stevie Wonder and the drums for justice. And somehow as the delegate votes during the roll call went to Barak Obama, African American raised in Africa the campaign finally settled in my heart too.

Do I feel theirs will be a voice for what I'm most passionate about? Not on some things, but if our issues can get through the doors, I think they will be listened to without the usual shut minds.

My interest in the Presidential race intensified as Jim Crowe raised its ugly head in the McCain Palin campaign. The turning point, however, came when the senator sneered, "That One." We sucked in air, and "oh, s###"; the Fight definitely woke up the heart. "That One" was the echo of every "fighting word" any of us had to endure from racist Amerika, this time, coming from the Republican Presidential Candidate, spoken like any coward, with his back turned to the Democratic Presidential Candiate of the United States, as if the audience -- the whole world -- were part of his clique. Damned by his own attitude of "white privilege," so cocky sure that his racism was a realistic campaign strategy, McCain will try to win an election with it. From that day I was reading everything I could get my hands, tuning in to anything that might be about the campaign, hanging on to every speech by Obama, every comedy act about Palin, reading all the blogs and you tubes. Check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNwlJA_OAHo
"That One." I was psyched to vote!! Like that carnival game, Whack-a-Mole, I couldn't wait for my turn with the mallet! "Give me that ballot and whack that mole down!" When the ballots arrived I did not toss them on the table for later. I determined to vote the very next good day for mom.

I mentioned this election is historic in our home. It is. The entire Nisei generation (uncles, aunts and mom) have voted Republican for as long as I remember. The last election when I suggested that Bush's first term indicated that farmers were not helped, Uncle George's pronouncement was "we shouldn't vote for what is good for us; we should vote for what is good for the country."

"Huh????"

The last election when mom and I sat down to fill out the ballots, mom's vote cancelled mine out. "Bush is a Republican and Kerry is a Democrat."

"Republican!" she announced.

This year, we sat down and I said "McCain is a Republican and Obama is a Democrat" and paused looking intently at her.

She stared back, lifting her palms upward and shrugging her shoulder, a wry look on her face.

"Well, Obama voted against the war and McClain supports the war." Mom is a hawk. But she just stared back.

"Obama and McClain both say they will cut taxes, but Obama will not cut the taxes of the richest people."

She's thinking about it. "Whatever."

Time to tell her what has never ever swayed her or Uncle George in the past. They've voted for one Republican after another on all levels of government who shared this trait without batting an eye.

"McCain," I pointed at his picture, "THAT one says I hate all gooks and I always will."

Mom's eyes narrowed. "Hmmmmmmphf. Well, you know what I think about THAT!"

Actually I didn't. I had left my finger under McCain's photo. Mom pointed to Barak Obama, tapping with her forefinger for emphasis --- and history in my family was made.

WHACK! WHACK!!

Senator McCain, you lost another diehard Republican. At 88 years old, my mom stood up on her two feet and voted what's good for her and decidedly, it is also good for the country!!

BTW, like a good Republican, Mom cancelled me out on several measures and other candidates.

Real America

Now, thanks to Sarah Palin, most of America knows how it feels to wear the "unAmerican" bullseye -- painted on us by the narrow few who call themselves "real Americans," you know, the ones who have grown up always with power and privilege and feel entitled, as well as those who have no power or privilege and easily blame all of us for their plight, sucking the toes of those who step on them. Palin/McCain has made anti-Arab hate and fear the heart of their campaign strategy ignoring there are hundreds of thousands of Arab Americans and hundreds thousands more who are assumed to be Arab American in her country.

It must be somewhat of a relief to feel outrage, the wrongness of being labeled, to watch Jon Stewart of the Daily Show and get some relief. You know where I'm going with this. I can't wait to check in to pudgyindian2.blogspot.com, another blog I read, to see if he has a take on it, or afrospear afrospear.wordpress.com or racialicious www.racialicious.com or angry asian man. To be labeled without the nation at your back feels quite a bit different and much more isolated.

So this year, the one trick ponies of this nation are pointing at a Presidential candidate (terroist), northern Virginia (not real America), and the whole Democratic party (disloyal).
In 1942, even if you were a kid coming home from school thinking about the winter holidays, born and bred in California all your life (as Yoshiko Uchida author of Journey to Topaz), even if you were obachan and ojiichan scraping out a living in Washington, Oregon or CA, doing the work no one wanted to do, finally making a home for your family after years of labor, even if you were graduating from high school, played on the baseball team, and coming home to help out the family, even if you were living as American as you could be, in one day, you would be labeled and imprisoned -- "enemy alien" for momma and poppa and "non-alien" for the American born sons and daughters. What the pfuck (to borrow Jon Stewart's phrase) is a non-alien?! You had only a couple of weeks to get rid of everything it took a lifetime to build and were shipped, carrying only what you could in two hands, to holding places at race tracks and fairgrounds and finally to the middle of a desert or swampland crowded, three to four families to a barrack for the duration of the war -- behind barbed wire, guards with guns pointed at you. Your crime? Looking Nihon-jin. You know, like the Aleuts who were forced at the same time into deserted mines and died in great numbers during WWII because they, the indigenous people of their land, never an immigrant, looked Nihonjin.

Or the Nihonjin citizens of Cuba, Peru, all over Latin America, actually, betrayed by their governments to allow the US to come in and kidnap their Japanese citizens to be used as prisoner of war exchange, tearing apart families, shipping them to Crystal City TX, stripped of their passport and not allowed US citizenship indefinitely until Wayne Collins of the ACLU took on their case one by one. Sounds like Rendition.

For us Nihonjin in Idaho, immigrated to the US after the Alien Land Law of 1924, owning no land but working the land, we didn't go to camp (being outside the "zone") but no doubt, the bulls eye target was painted on us too. At least we had our families and obachan and ojiichan were heads of our family, and we had the luxury to say something Constitutionally WRONG was happening 45 minutes drive into the desert at Hunts Camp (aka Minidoka.)

During the war in Kosovo, my good friend and brother Pete Mandrapa, a Yugoslavian American who loved his job as a teacher in a multicultural school/racism free zone, passionate about justice became targeted by ugly forces in town. There were calls to the superintendent to get rid of that Serb. He was reviled by letters to the editor. I remember taking a call in the office made by a hysterically hateful sociology professor who made harassing calls to our school because Mandrapa worked there. And among our students, I remember the pressure the school district received to have us turn into mini-INS agents to turn in Latino students and families and how relieved we were when the District said that would not be our role -- whether or not that meant federal funds lost.

Back in 1962, as a senior at Caldwell High School, I had a government teacher who freed my mind, John Goettsch, who warned us about war hysteria. The Cuban missle crisis had just begun. We were all excited as we would be before the big football game -- bomb those Russians -- and he sat us down and talked very seriously about the truth about war. He talked to us about war hysteria at home, about what happened to his German grandparents' home during WWI. He still wore the bulls eye. He is still Goetssch, not some anglicized form of his name, after all, and here he is in Idaho, teaching government and the Bill of Rights in the early Sixties. My favorite teacher who freed my mind was controversial in Caldwell. I remember popular a bright popular senior boasting that her father, a local lawyer, was on the school board and that he'd get Mr. Goettsch fired for being "a card carrying communist." I think they hired a guy from Alabama to take his place who taught that the South had indeed won the Civil War . . . a REAL 'merican!

I mentioned John Goettsch freed my mind. We had a research paper to do. I didn't have a topic yet. I had joined his class after taking American History (to get it over with) in summer school, where we learned about the Russian subs in the Snake River and where our teacher took us on a field trip to hear Cleon Scowson, right wing reactionary lecturer and gave us extra credit for tuning in to Ronald Reagan on Dr. Ross' Dog and Cat food sponsored radio show "Let Freedom Ring." Listening in, I learned that "Spartacus" was a communist inspired movie and that President Dwight D. Eisenhower was a communist sympathizer. So here I was, senior year, in Mr. Goetssch's class trying to figure out my research paper topic. He took the time to talk to me and suggested I check out "civil liberties after WWI" and pointed me in the direction of the town library (as opposed to the school library) and encouraged me to check out the stacks. There I would find magazines going back to the Twenties, like "The Nation."

There in the middle of my town which Sarah Palin would call "the real America" where kids were taught to be real Americans, learning that the South had won the war, that the enemy lurked in the neighborhood river, that we had everything to fear and nothing to contemplate, was the modest brick building called the public library where the librarian still had a collection of magazines buried and dusty, ignored, ready to blast some mind open. I spent my after school hours pouring over the articles, forgetting to take notes, so intrigued with what I read. Sacco and Vanzetti. The Red Scare. Eugene Debs. The hate mongers -- Charles Lindburgh, Henry Ford. I couldn't stop at 1930. I kept going into the Fifties. The Rosenbergs, young Richard Nixon, J. Edgar Hoover. I ate it all up, every Nihon-jin "group traumatized cell in my body" soaked up the truth, and my love for the Bill of Rights was born. You would never catch me taking a short cut around history again.

So those of you in Northern Virginia and the rest of Fake America, and not sitting around the metaphorical Palin kitchen table for a bit of morning toxic tea with Sarah who would be speaking for her god again, you are in good company. You've got a bullseye on your chest anyway, and at the moment, it seems you're safe because those who label you are looking like the Three Stooges right now. I encourage you to take advantage of being targeted and vote, vote, vote. Vote down all legislation which targets people and strips them of their humanity: English only measures, mandatory prison sentence measures, anti-gay measures, measures which would strip public schools, public services and retirement (to replace them private schools, privitized prisons, privitized retirement plans, privatized services if we read between the lines). And we've all found out in the last couple of weeks what would have happened to seniors if social security were in the hands of private investment companies.

The Sarah Palins and the Fox News contingent, John Stewart's Daily Show all have given us in larger numbers than ever, more clearly than before, a glimpse of the ugliness which would divide us, always there barely out of sight for many and all too nightmarish and true for many others

This is my wish. That the public, now that the majority wears bulls eyes, will vote for the Bill of Rights for everyone. Vote for tax measures for education and health. I hope the majority of the public will remember that taxes are simply what we all pay for what we want for all of us, schools, infrastructure, parks and libraries. I hope the majority will vote against measures which target people. I hope we have been able to connect the dots during this time enough to vote against this big move to drain what is public -- school levies drained by building more prisons, measures which would add more financial burden to schools such as English only legislation -- a dispicable move to force us to privitize every aspect of our lives, retirement, healthcare, education. I hope we can see through the "don't trust government" rhetoric. They're just saying "Give me, me, me." I hope that wearing the bullseye turns millions of Americans into community organizers because no matter how it's been derided during this campaign, America is built by those who love this land enough to stand up and work for its highest ideals and honor its commitments and take personal civic responsibility on behalf of universal healthcare, children, the earth and water, prison reform, honor treaties, for libraries, for higher education, for school funding, the list goes on.

Wear the bulls eye proudly. Instead of being Palin's real Americans we can make America real.
Oh, and thank you, Mr. Goettsche!!

"The Princess from Nebraska"

Thanks to Angry Asian Man, my husband and I downloaded and watched "Princess of Nebraska" co-directed by Wayne Wang and Richard Wong the other night. It completely resonated with us. We didn't even have to say one word -- the young Chinese woman from Beijing/Nebraska lost and texting in California (is it SF? LA?), her world caught within a cell phone screen -- and she, trapped by circumstances. One night of sex with an attractive friend happened to her; he didn't want to wear a condom happened to her; pregnancy happened to her; four weeks passing with indecision of what to do about the pregnancy happened to her and meanwhile, HER life is happening to her friends and acquaintances -- a network of friends and chance meetings happening to one another.

Then the perfect ending after she leaves the abortion clinic -- we don't know her decision, I guess -- which closes with this endless shot of her standing, back turned, face in a profile (looking back, perhaps?) against a grey wall. We watched without a word as the minutes ticked by and the music came to a close. As the credits rolled, I broke the silence, "And there she waits for someone to rescue her."

My husband barked a loud laugh. And then the two of us broke into hysterical laughter. You see, we parented a few children. Two intensely and too recent to forget. And one, who is now a young grandmother. When she complained about her first daughter's teen behavior to us, her family and I laughed, without a lot of compassion, and said, "OOOOOOOOO payback." Her grandson is just born to that first daughter, and he's a toughy. Grandma, of course, bought him a little tee saying "I'm payback."

As for our other two young ones, our daughter and a close niece whom we raised from 10 - 13 years old and again when she moved in when she was 24, our experience is that if Princess has the baby, the baby will probably rescue her from ennui and life happening to her. Carrying a baby through pregnancy and having no control over her body as baby grows and grows and kicks, and tumbles inside her body, the surge of motherly hormones, not being able to escape the swelling body, not being able to run away from feeding and caring for this little being because baby's going to take all it needs to grow, -- well, princesses finally have to face front and take steps.

So if the Princess of Nebraska's mother doesn't kill her (she won't), or if the middle aged white guy with the crush on the talented lost beautiful Chinese man they would both like to bed (a Peking opera hopeful turned prostitute who is never going to answer her texts) gives her a roof over her head and fantasizes some more of the three of them raising the child only to be disappointed, princess will be rescued for the time being.

Do you sense a generation gap? Whatever, it was great directing. The princess may be lost but likeable. Real rescue material. Too much of life shot within little squares from the point of view of cell phone screens, and mirrors to not be deliberate. And that end shot. Did Wayne Wang and Richard Wong nail it? Or was it meant to be less reality more art. It doesn't matter because it works for us all -- dreamers, counselor types and parents who have been through the rollercoaster ride.

No sarcasm is meant by my critique because I wish the Princess of Nebraska well in spite of my being part of a generation who might have said "Off with their heads" toward royalty. And now, there's a princess in every home including ours. I love our Princess of southern Oregon and our Princess from Pusan City as well as our grown up Princess of Navaho Nation. I love each of their beautiful babies and say to myself, each baby rescued mommy when no one else could. And I'm very proud of each of our princesses for the courage to make their own solitary life transforming decision and see it through.

That's how our stories played out even if happy endings are not guaranteed. As for Princesses of Nebraska for whom reality is just too much to deal with, eventually, she may become real (ala Pinnochio). And that is not such a sad ending to a story.

A Fluffy Tree of an Afternoon

Oh, look! That red one . . . so gorgeous!" Mom's hands form the tree's shape, hands that once molded clay into pots and vases. "That yellow one," her arms widen to embrace the view from the car's front seat. We are taking our daily joyride around town. Maple, birch, sweet gum trees, oak are full of fall foliage and on these sunny October days, the view is stunning. "Oh, my goodness!" Mom exclaims, "It's so picturesque!!"

Our mother has had advanced vascular dementia for two years now. From what I see of the other elders at Southtowne, by now our mom should be walking with a fixed stare, robot like, or belted into a wheelchair with an alarm set on her so that when she stands up, a caregiver is alerted. These elders are called "Falling Stars" because they cannot stand and walk long without falling.

Why has my mother escaped that fate? I believe the answer is because Mom is completely off of pharmaceuticals prescribed her for symptoms of dementia. The particular med she was on to calm her fears and anxiety and self-endangering behavior caused her to grind her teeth, shattering them. The grinding distracted the caregivers. One admitted that her husband told her that in the middle of the night she would yell in her sleep, "Mary!! Stop grinding!" The social director who had treated mom as a favorite earlier began to walk by her without noticing her. Defintely mom's fun was being affected. The nurse practitioner who advised Southtowne agreed with us that the drug was not working. I felt I had a clear road now to seek other ways to help mom with the fear, confusion and anxiety that plagues people with dementia.

We had a sacro-cranial masseuse working with mom with some success in reducing her anxiety, and asked if he had any ideas. We talked to my naturopath. My naturopath had given mom a successful remedy to calm her sundown syndrome so her mind would slow from its anxious high speed at night and she could sleep. Homeopathic remedies do not have any side effects so we often turn to them for mom since our mother is already on eight prescription medications for her heart.

For example, this year mother had a bladder infection, which for elders is a very dangerous thing. The usual symptoms do not occur. She may or may not have a fever. I had asked for a urinalysis when I first noticed her confusion and tiredness. I had to keep asking about it and was finally told that the test result came back negative. Five weeks later, my mother stopped eating. The medical doctor said this is all part of the process in dementia but just in case they would give her a urinalysis; in some cases a bladder infection affects eating. Alarms went off in my head. When we returned to Southtowne, I confronted the med aide about the possible bladder infection and asked if the urinalysis was really done. I learned that the nurse had been let go when it was discovered that she had let many things go including my request for a urinalysis.

It is a very scary thing when a person stops eating. I plied Mom with food Japanese give to sick people, rice gruel. I chopped up fresh shiso leaves, chicken with garlic to sneak in protein and add flavor. Mom would eat a bit of it while dramatically suffering and whining. I gave her a protein drink which she drank with an anguished look on her face. "I caaaaaan't" she would wail! Her weight plummeted. Again, I went to the naturopath for advice and she suggested we try Chinese bitters. Administered 15 minutes before a meal helped the salivary glands to do its work and it can jumpstart appetite.

Now a month later of constantly checking and the help of Katrina, a very vigilant and diligent caretaker who took it on as her crusade to address this eating problem, and the caretakers who worked with her idea, mom eats 100 percent of all her meals. I name Katrina because she is remarkable. Another person might remember or might not remember about the tonic. Some excuse their inattention so easily. But Katrina stands out. I do credit Katrina and the Chinese bitters with giving mom her present peace of mind and happy days. Food and the enjoyment of eating are important to quality of life.

Returning to the story of our search for a non-pharmaceutical treatment for our mother's dementia, I turned to the sacro cranial doctor. Benjamin suggested alpha-stim treatments, a simple device being successfully used by many who have depression and now being used by some for Alzheimer’s and dementia. The electrical impulses stimulate the part of the brain, which controls anxiety, apparently. The medical doctors have used alpha-stim to help athletes with muscle problems. Locally, a psychologist dispenses the alpha stim, which anyone can learn more about by going to mindbodyelectric.com.

Now, through the successful alpha stim treatments and my naturopath's correct analysis and prescription of a homeopathic remedy, my mother has reduced her grinding and has not only maintained her own personality but is calmer than she has ever been in her life. She goes with me on rides with the alpha stim ear clips on her ears looking like a youthful version of herself listening to tunes on an ipod. Her high water pants show off her flashy socks (which I choose so I can clearly see if her socks are being changed daily) and we have kept up her bright and flashy style revved up a bit more. That day she wore her black straw hat with the big bill which protected her eyes from the sun, sunglasses with leopard designed frames, a slick slim jacket bright reds and pinks with flashes of blue floral set off by glass rivets forming designs around the cuffs and collar. We were ready for our ride!

We round the corner onto campus. Lots of trees line the street. "Oh, marvelous! Did you set those up like that? It looks like those are the ones you did."

"No, our neighbors did that, mom,” I have given up with true answers like "those are trees." or "Creator did that." "They grow that way."

Mom nods, accepting my answer, "It does look like your style, though." I accept the compliment.

"grit grit grit grit"

"Mom, please stop biting," I remind her using the words the sacro cranial doctor suggested.

"I'm not biting. I'm crunching."

"Please stop crunching then, mom, it hurts your teeth." I work to keep my voice sing song as I grit my own teeth.

Mom always boasted that Grandpa used to call her "Mary, Mary, quite contrary" for a good reason. Now at this stage of her life, that contrariness definitely keeps her youthful.

She's always surprised when I drive up to Southtowne bringing her home again. Each time she exclaims over the tall shrubs, which are trimmed into a spiral design. "I've never seen anything like it! It's so artistic!" she says each time. As I push the open button for the gate, she wanders away, hands on her hips surveying all the trees lining the parking lot. Then her attention is drawn upwards. "Look at those!" She points at the blue sky with cumulous clouds building up. 'Those white ones! Those trees are so fluffy! I've never seen that before!"

What would you say? "Those are clouds, Mom" or allow yourself to step into her incredible fall afternoon? It's anyone's guess because any answer will do. In fact, the truth is I have answered in either way so many times, I can't remember which I used the afternoon of the fluffy trees. It seems an appropriate way to end this story, our family version of Alice in Wonderland as we tumble into the magical rabbit hole with Mom.

Thank you!

I humbly thank you for logging on to TBAsian. This morning I learned that there have been 100 viewings of TBAsian. I've always wanted to write. I taught my students what Ursula LeGuin said about writing. How to become a writer is simply to write. Write every day. Just write. And that writing was a very solitary activity. I confess I used LeGuin, partially, to prevent writing to become social hour. Life is social for middle schoolers. They would all go to their own separate little corner and write. Sometimes I would write with them. But most of the time, I became 'editor' and first reader of their pieces.

I had thought I might want to write a book when I retired -- maybe for young readers, maybe a mystery with a real life mix of people -- but it was daunting to think of publishers and editors and especially that pile of 100 books gathering dust in a closet.

Now I am writing in my own little corner of blogspot. It is indeed a solitary activity -- except for a bit of blogger technology which allows me to peek every once in awhile to see if anyone has logged in. Maybe everyone doesn't log in to read. Maybe everyone doesn't read a lot of it. Or maybe it's a couple of people related to me logging on 50 times apiece. Whatever the case, I thank you all for making TBAsian a little less solitary. If I were techno-miraculous I would have a blog party!!! Thank you again.

Campaign 2008, Will It Be Our Big Bachi or Not?

It has crossed my mind observing the 2008 Presidential Campaign between Democrat Barak Obama and Republican John McCain, and McCain and Palin's racialized attacks in the last month that we could be in for a big bachi.

When I was a young and would trip or stub a toe causing me to yelp with pain, my Obachan would not spoil me, but would say "bachi ga atatta." It wasn't mean. She didn't gloat. It was just part of life. She explained to me once that bachi kind of meant that negative begets negative -- although "bachi" was something which was more accidental and universal than a direct consequence or punishment.

Sometimes, evesdropping, I'd hear her say "Ii-bachi" about something -- and that was like "Good one!"; probably she wouldn't approve of my sharing with anyone this most normal of human responses she would allow herself to enjoy from time to time. So I apologize to Obachan.

This country was built on two evil policies. One was the colonization of 1000 sovereign nations of this continent, the land stolen through wars, treachery and violence, all illegal according to any international human rights code, and the second was slavery specifically of African people. The American form of slavery is quite unique in the history of the world. It was based on color -- not on enmity. Slavery was a life sentence and beyond; in other words, babies were born into slavery. Who enslaves babies? Slavery, generally, was through war or enmity and enslaved people could even marry into the enemy's family or would eventually become free. But American slavery was quite different. In this country, enslavement was purely for economic reasons. It was not about enmity; it was all about cold cash.

American slavery was distinct in that it treated people like chattel, work animals. The human beings were auctioned, brutally beaten, branded, "bred," separated from their families, forbidden to anything that human beings do -- learn, pray, speak their own tongue, marry, have families. The babies were kept naked, fed from a trough. In spite of being born in all this evil from generation to generation, African people had the incredible strength to keep their humanity, create tradition and keep family structure of some kind. In spite of generations and generations born into slavery, African people and their descendents have always been the first ones to stand up for freedom. That is awe inspiring to me. That's why I told my students, I would never refer to people with such a strong commitment to the ideal of freedom as "slaves." I don't know what I would have done, as a "sansei" enslaved for three generations. Would I have believed the slaver that I was just chattel? Would I be broken? Would I have even understood what freedom meant without tasting its sweetness?

This deeply evil form of slavery cannot be ended simply with the stroke of a President's pen. Its legacy twists all hunan beings. It twists up the slaver too, the quivering fearful so called "masters" in the big house who have to surround themselves with thugs armed with chains, dogs, whips, guns to keep people down. It twists up the bankers the slave ship builders, the captain and crew, the banker and lender, the slave auction, the lawyers and legislatures, judges , the ministers and teachers, every person who kept this evil system in place. The whole US economic systen was built on the cash brought in by slavery and aggression against sovereign indigenous nations. I asked my students -- so who is the slave? The person in chains whose hearts are set on freedom? or those who fetter themselves to a rotten system despite what huge compromises it requires of the country's ideals.

I remember we had a simulation in my class once, my attempt to make studying the Constitution less deadly for eighth graders. I still remember Sari Gomez, delegate from Rhode Island, and her passionate speech against slavery. The other delegates gave her a standing ovation and rewarded her by voting slavery down unanimously. They agreed slavery had absolutely no place in the new union based on democratic rule by the people. I was the only one surprised by the vote. My instructions had been to use the text as a guide to their speeches and their participation. Their resounding no to slavery moved my heart so much that I had to stand up and walk to the front of the room as their teacher, interrupting their simulation. I told them that because of their historical vote, the US will avoid the bloodiest of wars, the Civil War, there would be no segregation, and there would be no racist divide in the nation. I told them I was very proud of them. I cannot describe how these young eighth graders glowed. They felt their strength. They had inspired their teacher, made her tear up and they had changed history that day, in their classroom. They felt proud for what they had done for the country.

I know it was a simulation, but that is the power of the tool. As a teacher, who would I have been to say, "No! You can't! History says that the delegates must compromise on slavery. Your vote is incorrect! " Big red check mark by the teacher. What kind of future would that have prepared them for? It was more important they FELT what they could do if the power to choose were in their hands. As for historical factoids, they can read about the sorry history of bad compromises, official mistakes and policies based on greed in the textbook because, after all, that's all history is -- a chronicle of actions, not an instruction book. This day, it was important to let them know, as Maya Angelou says in her poem for Clinton's inaugaral, "Good Morning!"

Lift up your eyes upon this day breaking for you
Give birth again to the dream.
Women, Children, Men
Take it into the palms of your hand.
Mold it into the shape of your most private need.
Sculpt it into the image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances for new beginnings.

This brings us to the Presidential election of 2008, after eight years of the disasterous Bush administration which leaves his country embroiled in an illegal war, his people's Constitutional rights diminished, on the brink of a recession even a global depression, high unemployment, huge budget deficit of trillions which our heirs are going to have to pay. The Presidential candidates for 2008 are like characters in a parable. One, intelligent, coolheaded, one could say dignified, speaking about a change from eight years of disaster, the other, a part of the failed Bush team, waging a campaign on personality, openly and clumsily racist, and somewhat confused. One African from Mother Africa, the other white, rich and a soldier of the Vietnam war who hates Gooks and always will (his words).

Whom will America elect to be their President after the devastation of the Bush years -- a devastation so broad it is apparent even to the party faithfuls? Will they choose Barak Obama, African American, intelligent, cool headed, whose presidential run is clearly a response to America's yearning or will they choose John McCain, who supported the Bush administration’s failed policies 95 % of the time, who has waged a campaign of personality rather than answer questions which weigh heavy on each American’s mind. Whom will America choose?

My two cents is this. If John McCain and Sarah Palin win the presidency, we are in for a hard time. Four more years of the Bush Cheney program can mean the demise of this empire we call home. A McCain victory during a time of such pessimism toward his party and its president means only one thing for me. A "more of the same McCain" victory over the Obama phenomena points to racialized thinking, a legacy of 300 years of slavery and segregation. Four more years with McCain and its disasterous results will be our big bachi for slavery. Or maybe the youth will make a difference. I have witnessed it. And their influence was so strong it remains with me today.

We will reap what has been sown unless we think as my eighth grade students did -- unfettered by a history text book -- and taking action in response to the dire needs (moral needs) of the present for sake of our future. I pray we have the will to lift our heads up and mold and sculpt our own piece of history. As Maya Angelou, elder and poet says, Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances for new beginnings.

Back to the Longhouse, 2008

This weekend was Homecoming at the University of Oregon. My friend Marcy was asked to organize a Homecoming weekend for the NASU alumni. The club had a long history, beginning in Fenton Hall. BSU and the Chicano students also began clubs during that time in the early 60's. NASU's proud history also includes organizing the first Longhouse on a college campus. James Florendo traveled to an early NAIA conference bringing home hundreds of signatures of Native students all over the country supporting NASU's endeavor. I joined with others to show that NASU had alliances, but this was before there was an Asian American organization on campus. All of this was part of my education -- one how to make a vision a reality, but also, how visions such as these grew beyond what one could ever imagine.

When I came to campus, I was Japanese American sansei, part of my generation's anti war movement, and alone. Far from my Idaho family and the Japanese American community and the familiarity of a small town in Idaho, I felt very isolated in this college town. Every time I saw black hair, I would do a double take looking for familiarity.

On campus, the concept of differing world view was introduced to me. It was a giant shift for me. My self concept of treasured weirdness was replaced by something which felt to be much truer I learned that being the only Japanese American family in small town Caldwell, Idaho, did not make me weird; I learned that I gew up with a cultural set and more importantly that my white classmates also grew up with their own cultural set. One was no weirder than the other and both were acquired at such a subconscious level, we never questioned it or looked at culture critically. We lacked the perspective to analyze it and get beyond my feeling weird or their feeling normal. You can imagine the powerful tool knowing about world view was for me.

During this time, a friend I met in class invited me to a pow wow sponsored by a Title program and for the first time in Eugene, I truly exhaled. Listening to the drums, watching a circle of traditional people of all ages, elders and children, dancing to old songs touched that part of my heart which hurt and I felt better. I would go even by myself the following years, sitting alone but not feeling alone. It felt good to watch the little ones grow up; I especially remember girl twins I later learned were Les and Bonnie Houck's girls. What I had missed so much in Eugene were the elders, the children, and the feeling of watching children grow up.

In the university daily I read about a class "Asian American Experience" by John Beckwith. I couldn't wait to meet the Asian people of Eugene! We all signed up. Half of us were young students. Half of us were older, community members. I was in between -- a teacher returning to earn a graduate degree. Two groups were organized in that class -- the AASU, a student organization now called APASU and still remains on campus, and the Asian American Community Group which included older students, and community people. I belonged to both. We were very busy. The two groups worked together. We supported the events organized by the student group. And we fed them and sponsored outings and other events which brought them a little bit of home. The community group remains morphing into other groups along the way -- Asians Together, and now PanAsian Community Alliance, a community group focused on justice.

It was only a matter of time, as it always is in Eugene, that the Asian American student group became closely allied with the other student union groups, a natural evolution in Eugene for people of color. My friend Debbie Osato dubbed our city with a new name -- Hakujin, Oregon. Hakujin is the term for white people. To get anything done, you worked together. And in working together, so much experience and wisdom came our way. As the experience came our way -- it is called diversity nowadays -- my world transformed to what it is now. It is such good work to work together.

Back then, we worked together to bring our stories, ancestors, poets, philosphers into the university classes. We designed our own classes. We wrote the books if there was none. We found monies set aside for students of color buried in remediation programs and designed a new program which had our college success as the goal. The Council for Minority Education was built on a Native American model, because the mentors of the movement were most Native, and the way things were done was by concensus, in a circle, with respect for every person. We supported one another's events. The Asian American Student Union and Native American Student Union did a lot together. For the pow wows, we volunteered to fix the sandwiches and lemonade for the visiting drums. Oftentimes, we would help with the housing. When we did our spring conference, the NASU students helped us get things ready, and came to all the parties to make it a good time, as did MEChA and the BSU students. These Asian American presenters and musicians from Seattle to LA and NY were always impressed by the Eugene welcome and do not remember this as a Hakujin town at all but as a town of a beautiful mix of hosts and friends. A lot of the planning work was done at the Longhouse.

So, this weekend was homecoming. And I'm still in Eugene. It must puzzle some people why this Asian person is at the Longhouse for homecoming. But it would be even more puzzling and awkward if I didn't go because my friends are like family coming back for homecoming . We shared the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties and even if much that we built has systematically been torn down by this President, we've also shaped a family and became our childrens' uncles and aunties, been through thick and thin, kids grown up and having kids. We have also gone all over this country and through our work and involvement in community wherever we landed, we continued the vision we picked up at the University of Oregon, together, transforming our own world.

The Longhouse, without exaggeration, was our college experience. It was the part of the university which welcomed us, which supported us, which included us, which nurtured us. A tiny WWII building, a hall and a small kitchen was our memorable campus experience. We could be sure to have a place to meet even if we were the Asian American union if we needed a place a bigger than the small sliver that the university provided us, right up against the bowling alley. Why do Asians so often get stuck right by a bowling alley? On Wednesdays, college students of all backgrounds knew there was a place they could go for homecooked meals at the Longhouse potluck. If we needed to study with a group, we could go to the Longhouse. All of us began to model our world after the Longhouse experience.

The boundaries of the Longhouse had nothing to do with the roads encircling this campus. They Longhhouse was connected to all the reservations, Indian people everywhere. One of my closest friends and someone I refer to as my younger brother, Roger Amerman, Choctow, although he was 12 years younger than I was like a teacher to me. Through him I learned how important it was for the student to go to the reservations and ask personally for support, and the support would be there such a deep and powerful way. I learned what happens to a small space (campus) when these elders and spiritual leaders, and tribal leaders came on campus to support the students and talked to them reminding them of the richness of responsibility they are inheriting as tribal college graduates. Indian Country, I learned, will never be for me again the small dots of land across this country, but will always be the heritage, promise and possibility of this whole continent. As immigrants we could have accepted our part in this heritage. Those who came as colonizers stamping their mark on this land missed it. The legacy of colonization, slavery, and point of view of overdevelopment and excess have become a destructive force. At the Longhouse, we all from many backgrounds were able to learn enough of the responsibilities we carry as descendents of immigrants. So to Roger Amerman, the Longhouse -- a new structure which is called The Many Nations Longhouse -- and NASU alums, thank you. To Rudy, first Native American recruited to play UO football who traveled so far and shared his heartfelt words, thank you. To all who shared the stories -- Bob Tom, Stuart Whitehead, Roger, Tom Ball, Wilma Crowe, thank you. To the hosts, NASU students, vice provost Tom Ball and Marcy who spearheaded this, to the new Alumni Association steering committee which includes Frank, Twila, Rudy, Roger, Colette and Marcy, with Alicia and me, thank you. I guess it's not a surprise that this is the first homecoming I've attended since graduating from the UO and that, in fact, it is the first I was invited to. The Longhouse, small though the old building may have been, was the whole campus for a multicultural community of students. That's not a small thing either. We look back, all of us, to the UO days -- or Longhouse days -- as a giant experience. We remember it as happy times where much good work came from our being together. That certainly is a lesson to me that it isn't magnificent buildings, the attention of powerful administration, being part of the right clubs that make the experience worthy. The humble sweeps away the grands everytime.

I will post the address to access the pictures Marcy's husband Dean took during the reunion on the blog. Thank you, Dean! BTW, the Ducks won!