Detached

While visiting my parents on my annual run, I spent 5 or 6 days with my Aunt Teresa.

My Aunt Teresa was my primary caretaker until I was age 9. We slept in the same bed. She was the one who would have to get up in the middle of the night when I'd wet my bed (which I think stopped by age 5...) She came to my grandma as an orphan in her teens. She might have been 13, 14. Nobody knows for sure now.

Long story short she married my mother's brother and stayed with the only family she'd known.

For all intents and purposes, she remained a maid to the family. We've remained close and that is an understatement. She will always have a special place in my heart. Irreplaceable.

Aunt Teresa used to be ebullient and loquacious. ALL the time. She probably didn't finish beyond 3rd grade and according to my grandma, was not deemed bright by the nuns running the orphanage. By the time I was in 3rd grade I realized that my aunt's intelligent or intellect did not surpass mine. It was something to grapple with.

But she loved me more than she loved anyone else. Or so it seemed. And I adored her. I loved engaging her in conversation because the adults didn't take her seriously as a peer - that was obvious from early on even to a child.

I gave Aunt Teresa positive feedback whenever I could, on her cooking, for instance. Because no one else seemed to be expressing gratitude toward her. My mother, for one, offered nothing but criticism. Constructive criticism in her view, no doubt.

Aunt Teresa lacked confidence and acted like a timid child most of the time. Over the years, she's learned acceptance and a sense of purpose not at home but within her Catholic community, with volunteer work and more.

After my grandma died, and a few years later, her husband's demise, her religion and work at church was all that she had.

When I say she kept busy, she was almost never home. Well if I was living alone and had no one to come home to, I probably would stay out as much as I could, too. (Unless you are like me; in my case I'd probably still enjoy my own company very much.)

But Aunt Teresa needed people.

When I first saw her again this year and said hi, Aunt Teresa couldn't have been farther from enthusiastic. It was barely a lukewarm hello back.

What?! This is me we are talking about. She's usually stoked to see me.

We spent the next couple of nights sharing a hotel room. She was kind of not there. Kind of in a fog. I had to coax her to come out of her shell. She was quiet.

Quiet. Aunt Teresa! Usually you couldn't shut her up. This is someone who could go on and on, non-stop, easily for an hour, whether or not you are listening.

Even my Dad commented that Aunt Teresa appeared to be... slow.

I wasn't sure if it was age or something else.

The good news was she did want to see me. I kept reaching out to her, making eye contact, asking questions about her. She started out distant, even jolted as I touched her hand. It was jarring to me. I'd ask a question and she'd basically respond with, "Why are you asking?" I didn't know this person before me.

By the 3rd or 4th day she warmed up. I'd complimented her on her new shirt. She liked that. She shared her taste on fashion. She smiled.

She no longer shied away from physical contact. We had a head leaning moment, à la Rainman.

I watched her from afar and she did come across as a bit lost.

The church community had grown demanding and perhaps not as personal (or personable). They asked what Aunt Teresa could do for it, not what it could do for the parish member. Never mind that the woman was now in her 70's, had severe osteoporosis, had fallen and broken bones, had chronic knee joint pain...

My father had asked why Aunt Teresa was not as responsive or receptive as before. I say it was the perfect manifestation of someone who'd been deprived of meaningful human contact, devoid of love. She was displaying classic symptoms of isolation and lack of social stimuli. It was heartbreaking.

On our last day together, Aunt Teresa looked back as we parted ways and, with a big grin, waved goodbye. "Safe travels!" She hollered. I vehemently smiled and waved back.

That was the Aunt Teresa I knew and loved. It'd taken us 6 days to get her back. I am not sure about next year.

Bijou

Recently took my parents on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a first.

I felt a lot of pressure having to plan the whole thing myself. It rained everyday. Things didn't always go as planned. We got lost a few times (well, I got lost - I was the only one with GPS). We were exhausted from the walking and the humidity (me probably more so than the 'rents). At one point, my soaked shoes didn't dry for over 48 hours.

In other words, what you would expect on a trip somewhere you've never been.

During the 3.5 days, many visuals were seared in my brain. Of them, this stands out:

We were at the Flower Dome. It was pitch dark but for the electronic imagery of falling flowers. So... many... flowers, combo ever changing, patterns never quite repeating, never boring. Visitors were encouraged to lie down on the floor to fully take in the effect.

To my pleasant surprise, my mother eschewed her usual prissy self (I expected her to go, "Eew, floor! No! Dirty!") and actually proceeded to get down. Before she did, though, she started capturing the dome with her phone camera.

Her face lit up then, like a child's. All the wonderment that belongs on a child's face, so much amazement, joy and awe. Such a big grin you couldn't wipe off. Sparkle in her eyes. Never had I witnessed this side of my mother and may never again.

In the dim light I reveled in the outline that was her (now) tiny body as she raised her phone to keep recording what was above and around. She never grew tired. She was 80. In stark contrast, my neck was getting sore (among other things).

She was so... at peace. I wasn't used to that.

As we finally exited, my mother exclaimed, "I could stay forever!"

I believed her.

Bud

November 13, 2018

Had to switch to a new OB/Gyn. The last one hurt too much. Until one day I said, “This is not right. Not normal.”

The new gal today was upbeat.

There’s been a wild fire in the area. Half way into the procedure, my doctor was reacting to the smoke that was still enshrouding the air. She started apologizing when a cough would come on, and would turn her head to cough.

She kept apologizing. And I kept telling her it was okay.

“Awkward,” she said, suppressing a chuckle. “Like, ‘Great meeting you!’ and coughing into your vagina.”

Immediately mortified, she corrected herself, “Not coughing into your vagina.” 

I could have shrugged. “That probably wouldn’t hurt anything,” I said. After all, the vagina has a special pH balance to fight off bacteria.

She almost choked in laughter. Catching her breath, she said, “Few patients make me laugh. You did.” And she chuckled some more.

And that was the best OB/Gyn experience to date.

Quote 267

Among sectile bodies, I think of you

in succorless hollow.

- Justin Phillip Reed

Bulbous

Avoid toxic people to max your happiness.

Simple enough, right? But what do you do when one toxic person is your mother?

My mother is one of the most negative people I've ever met. But she doesn't know it. It runs in her veins. I remember, growing up, it seemed that her favorite word was "worried". In my 20's I really resented her liberal use of the word. It made me cringe. It made me angry because, surely, if I was living up to her expectations, she wouldn't be constantly worried about me, right?

I know what you're thinking: all mothers worry. Perhaps so. But I'll bet all of them do not manifest their negative thoughts to such an extent and in such a suffocating manner.

In time I understood that she practically worried about everyone and every scenario. All the time.

In time I thought I'd accepted and gotten over it.

Tonight, after three crazy busy weeks, I finally had all my recent photographs catalogued and sorted. Happily, I sent to my parents a bunch of highlights from my trip to TX where I visited my Aunt Lynn, my mother's baby sister. Having been to art school, I am marginally snobbish and take photography very seriously, starting long before the age of point-and-shoot, cell phones, and digital filters. Only the crème de la crème gets posted and shared.

I gleefully and thoughtfully supplied witty and informative caption that passes as delightful anecdote. Maybe Mom will be proud of me now. (I didn't know I was thinking this.)

Aunt Lynn and Uncle Vinton are childless. Aunt Lynn had surgery in her twenties, a known fact to me since I was quite young. They had considered adoption but ultimately decided against it. This was also a known fact to me.

In recent years I've readdressed the mystery procedure that my aunt underwent with my mother in the name of gaining knowledge of my family medical history, but by then my mother couldn't remember what exactly it was.

During my stay with Aunt Lynn, we shared many candid memories which were at times raw and refreshing - a kind of openness I seldom experienced with my own mother. Lynn told stories of people I have never met. The tales often ended with, or were prefaced with "s/he's dead now. Cancer. What kind of cancer?..." as she would reminisce. It was a hoot. I loved that the subject of death was not taboo with her.

One evening, while Lynn was doing the dishes in the kitchen, I approached her mid-conversation, put my arm around her shoulders and asked, "So what exactly was it you had that [rendered you unable to bear children]?"

It is not as callous as it sounds. Only the day before she herself brought up the fact that she'd had a hysterectomy at the behest of her doctor.

Turned out it was only fibroids. "But I was bleeding heavily all the time," Aunt Lynn explained. "It's totally treatable nowadays. But at the time, my doctor ran the scare tactic route." She asked, 'Would you rather bleed to death?'"

We agreed that doctors can be so surgery happy. Then and now.

When I was little, I thought it was weird and sad that someone who was married didn't have children. Look at me now, decidedly childless and having a ton to say about it.

So on this night as I painted an idyllic picture of Lynn's home for my mother, I made a point to mention that she had a good support system - she's surrounded by friends and kind neighbors. During Hurricane Harvey, she opened her home for neighbors to stay the night while their houses risked getting flooded, until danger neared her very spot too and they all had to flee. She rode in a roofless vehicle for hours to safety. Talk about bonding with otherwise relative strangers!

The neighbors have rebuilt and moved back. And my aunt and uncle thankfully suffered only minor damage.

And what did my mother say? "Too hot! Fire ants. And too far from family. I fear for her in her old age. I am extremely worried."

As soon as I read the word "worried", I blew up. A storm that I didn't know had been brewing in me welled up in a fury.

In my culture, you don't challenge your parents. You don't lecture them.

But I had had it with the negativity. I couldn't not say something. Enough is enough!

I wasn't mean about it. That would be throwing stones in a glass house.

I did mention that her comments were negative. What I wanted to say was 99.9% of the time the things coming out of her mouth are negative. But I didn't.

I stressed that life is never perfect, no such thing as a safe haven, and that we could just try our best in living a happy life, cherishing what we have and living in the moment. You know, things that I've probably said to her 80 times.

And I was angry. I was angry and I didn't know why. And I hate when I don't understand my disproportionate emotional reaction since I am always psychoanalyzing myself.

Perhaps in identifying triggers of certain behavior I thought I could have control over my emotions.

Oh, the need for control. My mother has had this savior complex such that she feels responsible for everyone's well-being. Don't you see that none of us has control over life? Life is absurd and random.

She worries about her grandsons who have special needs. I have told her so many times worry doesn't do a thing. It doesn't help. I want to tell her: You'll be dead! Whatever happens, you won't know! I'll be dead. I won't know. It is okay to let go. You don't have to be charge.

My mother recently went to her father's grave as a semiannual/annual ritual to pay respects, pull weeds and clean up. It is very labor intensive in her culture (I won't say "our" culture because I think it's fucking ridiculous, this "tradition".) To bury a dead loved one in an elaborate grave with delicate marble that requires waxing and polishing that is more than the size of a king size bed - sorry, that is excessive and pointless. Cremation and an urn - much more practical. Why would you want to burden generations to come?

My parents were both exhausted after this trip, both physically and emotionally, my mother more so with the latter.

"Who is going to take care of my father's grave when we are no longer able?" She laments.

While I appreciate that she has every right as a filially pious daughter to be concerned, what a loaded question. Well, probably nobody is going to. I am not going to lie. What do you want me to say?

RJ and I have been planning a trip to see his grandkids. Some people have kids in their 20's. Go figure. We are 3,000 miles apart, 4 states amongst us. So logistically it can feel impossible.

I feel very adamant that RJ should be involved in his grandchildren's lives from early on. He's already missed out on so much. It pains me that he is not more proactive about making it happen.

"I didn't have either grandpa growing up," I have explained. "You have a choice."

With weeks turning into months (if you don't count the past two years or so of inertia) I grow more restless. His sons don't seem to be making much of an effort.

Normally I am plenty laid back. I don't want to stick my nose. It's his kids, his grandkids. Why am I so upset?

When I am upset and I don't know why I am upset, it bothers me.

Just when I thought Memorial Day weekend was going to be it - and it would be harrowing for me somewhat as I cannot take too much time off work, it was starting to sound like it wasn't all coming together.

"That's it," I said to RJ. "I give up."

RJ makes a sad face. "Don't give up," he said.

My voice catching, I said, "I already have."

I spent a long time in the shower wondering why I felt like my feelings had been hurt, why I felt like a fool.

Can't tell ya but I bet it has to do with wanting to be in control and failing. Maybe I thought if I could "fix" this RJ situation with the offsprings (his youngest would not feel he's missed anything if he never saw RJ again, IMHO), my own life would be less broken.

Maybe when I was "yelling" at my mother this evening I was really yelling at myself and my stupid futile effort to be... what? Free? Complete? Free of what? Pain? And guilt?

Is it still about trying to make my mother happy? Good God. Of course I am never going to make her happy. She's never happy. Not in the true sense of having peace and self-awareness and the objectivity and logic and spirituality that it takes. Never.

She's replied since. The LED is blinking on my phone. I don't want to read it. Toxic. Avoid toxic.

Earlier, RJ noted that I was not in a happy place. He peeked in the study a couple of times to check on me. I assured him that I'd be better. Blogging always helps.

When the braciole he made was ready, he presented it in a way that he always does as he'd invite me to partake.

And so I did. And it was wonderful. RJ's cooking is magic. It is so much more than food. It can be transformative. (RJ has a calming effect on me anyhow. The opposite of my family.)

The demons are still there. Nothing has gotten resolved. Yet I am okay. In that moment, I was happy. Happy to be sharing a bite with my man, happy to just be. Simple as that. And pure. And I didn't care about the rest of the world, or tomorrow, or earlier.

Live in the moment. Not much more we can do beyond.

All My Exes...

I was in Houston this past weekend, my first time in Texas. I don't usually use real names on my blog in the name of anonymity, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due.

The people of Houston really struck me as friendly. Friendly is an understatement. It's more than that. There's a genuine quality to when someone greets you, or smiles at you, that is not found just anywhere. There is a warm, human energy that one cannot fake-give or fake-reciprocate.

My uncle Vinton* and I were at his bank in the waiting area. Most of the comfy chairs were taken. He was the odd man out.

In a little while, my aunt Lynn** spotted an available seat and urged Vinton to take it. They were both a little hesitant and timid (immigrant mentality - always unsure if we're entitled in the country we call home), uncertain if the man who had left was going to return.

"What man?" I asked.

"The man with the long legs," said Lynn. I hadn't noticed.

Vinton took the chair. More people eventually left the waiting area. Now we were all by ourselves, just the three of us, with plenty of chairs.

Just then, the man with long legs returned. Might I add: the white man with long legs.

Uncle Vinton jumped to his feet then, almost as if he'd been shocked by an unexpectedly violent current. Mr. Long Legs gestured Uncle Vinton to sit back down, assuring him it was fine, gesturing that he himself would take the adjacent seat.

"You and I," Mr. Long Legs said with an easy smile, gesturing between his chest and Vinton's. "We're the same."

I don't think I could've been more touched in that moment. In this political climate, there was nothing a white man could have said to an Asian immigrant who obviously looked very different and acted quite out of place that would have meant more to the entire immigrant community. The true spirit of inclusivity. Who could ask for more in their wildest dream?!?

This man, tall and tanned and dressed in a way sort of reminiscent of Guy Fieri, complete with colorful sunglasses, might have been mistaken by someone like me to fit that white nationalist profile. I felt ashamed then, to have formed judgment based on zero facts.

In the afternoon that same day, we came upon an event known as the blessing of the fleet. Apparently it is an annual waterfront affair where a priest blesses the yachts and boats to kick off warm weather season, and they sail around the harbor blasting music and throwing beads ashore to celebrate.

Clueless outsiders that we were, we piled up to try to take a peek. I was behind a couple of white ladies who had gotten there first, and I dared not encroach on their territory.

One of the ladies noticed me with the eye on the back of her head, and invited me to get closer to the edge of the lookout. I politely declined first, feeling undeserving, even though there was clearly enough room for three spectators. It struck me as silly then, and I inched forward.

We got to chatting about the event. The lady mentioned that they "made their way down" and were glad that they did.

"Oh, where were you coming down from?" I asked, expecting something like Tennessee or Georgia or some exotic state (geography is not my forte).

"Oh, just Houston." The lady replied. And laughed quietly.

I laughed along, somehow feeling stupid and like I had invaded her privacy. I didn't stay much longer after that.

A few minutes later, when we were getting ready to leave the restaurant, I heard a voice asking me a question I couldn't quite process because it seemed out of nowhere because I didn't see a face associated with the voice.

Then I heard it. "Where are you from?" But not in a way like "So... what are you?" or "Where are you really from?"

It was the lady I was chatting with earlier. I understood immediately that she was simply inquiring from where I had traveled to this spot on this day, since I had asked her. She made a point to continue the interchange. She made a choice because it was a moment of honest human interaction and connection, albeit brief and, in the large scheme of things, arguably insignificant.

"California," I responded.

She nodded and smiled, satisfied. I was, in turn, satisfied by her satisfaction.

It was beautiful.


*Not his real name
**Not her real name

Prettiest Friend

On the drive home today, Have It All by Jason Mraz came on the radio. It's got that signature Mraz style to it lyrically and melodically. I recognized that it was his work right away.

As I listened to the words, I got choked up. That sentiment of wishing someone well long after they've been gone, because you loved them once. Oh, I'm a sucker.

I got to thinking how Taylor must've wished me well. And engulfed by that emotion and magnanimity, I wished him well, too.

And poof, that black cloud that'd been hanging over my head was gone. Finally. Gone. And it felt so good. To let go. My spirit was lighter, free of dead weight.

Jason Mraz's Life Is Beautiful was one of the gateway drugs to both Mraz and to falling in love with Taylor 11 years ago. To this day I can't listen to it without getting chills, the sweet agony of sadness, and its surrender. Such is the mesmerizing power of Mraz.

Lalalalalala
Life goes full circle

Indeed.

Quote 266

If we are to remain friends, you’ll have to allow me my personal vanities and double standards.

- Gino Fish

“Innocents Lost”, Jessie Stone

Snippet 220

V:
Stunted Growth and Arrested Development.

RJ:
TV shows?

V:
No, both you and me.

Flaps

Earlier this evening, after much ado, I realized that I hadn't posted any Snippet since 2012. So long that I had forgotten what I called these series.

I used to have my titles all mapped out. They are slipping now, along with pseudonyms. Someday publishing a memoir based on this blog is gonna be that much more challenging! (Ha, ha.)

See, I made the grave mistake of starting to semi-migrate to social media (in this case, Facebook). There is more response there, quicker feedback, more instant gratification. But that's just it. After that instance, good luck searching your page for a fond memory.

I should have known better. Blogging is the path to immortalizing! "You fool!" I scream, as I kick myself. I can do that, you know. I'm plenty flexible.

I love stumbling upon fond memories, too, by the way. Moments long forgotten, if not having been put in words on virtual paper. (RJ and I are so clever! Dyanmics don't get better than this.)

My diaries are gone. My early drawings and writing (good writing, I might add,) gone. My stamp collection. My beloved books. Tremendous sadness descends upon me when I recall these losses.

But there is this blog. It's all I've got. It is not a complete portrait of me. But it's the closest semblance of a hopefully evolving mind. And isn't that much, much more gratifying for a narcissist than some stinking site that, as my (also lost) friend [insert pseudonym - I don't know what I used to call her - if she's been featured here] describes, is "neither social, nor a medium"?

Snippet 219

[RJ is putting dinner away in the fridge, all 5 thighs in the dish they came out of the oven on.]

V:
You're just gonna stick it in there?!?

RJ:
Yeah. I put a wrap on it.

V (thinks):
That's so sexy.

Quasi Major du Jour

Racism comes in ultra subtle forms.

Subtle racism is arguably harder to deal with than blatant racism. You don't quite know how to react. "Wait a minute," you ask yourself. "Were they being racist just now?" You're not sure you're entitled to be angry.

The worst kind of racist, arguably, is the racist who is not aware they are being racist. To them, they are just stating facts.

I am a racist. I am not the worst. I catch myself having moments, a thought, a reaction here and there. And I say to myself, "Whoa! You're racist." I agree, acknowledge that I am biased, question where that came from, realize the sentiment is not logical, and encourage myself to be less racist going forward.

You also find racism in the least expected places.

Last week I was at a semi-exciting business lunch with associates that we feel very fond of, people we think of as our friends even if we haven't exactly spent a lot of time with.

In our entertaining party, a supervisory figure of Hispanic decent named Jory* had just seen the movie Black Panther. The only time I'd come across the term was studying American history in high school. Yes, a bit out of touch with pop culture and the latest and hottest.

I asked Jory how he'd liked the movie, not even having a clue what genre it was, much less the synopsis.

He praised the action aspect. Then he lowered his voice. "If you don't mind me saying so," Jory said. "Black people are just a little... [self-important]"..." And he went on to explain that they "complained too much, a lot more than [other minority groups]."

I was incredulous. What just happened there? Inside I was screaming, "Perhaps they are vocal because they get killed a lot? More than the other minority groups?"

But I just sat there with a half smile frozen on my face.

Man, internalized racism much? Awkward at a lunch meeting, to say the least. Inappropriate? Very much so. Could I have handled it better? I totally would have liked to, but I am not the kind to make a scene. Besides, not sure of the best route about the scenario.

I was later reminded of an art school episode in my 20's. Because your version of world history is as good as the textbooks that were selected for you and the world view they projected, I was just learning about the Holocaust for the first time. The notion of genocide - singling out a group based on race/ethnicity and hating anyone and everyone in it so much as to scheme to eliminate it for all eternity, to make that your mission and to find glory in it... To this day I cannot process. Sorry but the Jews look as white as the other folks. The depth of horror and sadness I felt was awakening.

One day at break, seemingly fed up with all the Holocaust curriculum, an indignant Taiwanese friend spoke up.

"How about how the Japanese slaughtered thousands of Chinese civilians during WWII?" She cried. "How about the Rape of Nanking?"

I was incredulous. I was no stranger to the graphic details and the tension between the two countries that spanned over a generation or two. As a child I heard plenty of recounts of what the war was like, that the Japanese military made a point to torture and cause suffering, and acted like they enjoyed it.

And yet I never thought ALL Japanese were evil. Heck, I never even thought ALL Japanese military members were evil. Over time I learned that given a certain political climate and regime, one could be coaxed into unspeakable acts in the name of patriotism and self-preservation. Never say never. We are all capable of being pushed beyond that line. Which is why we should make a point to understand EVERY point of view instead of pointing fingers and wallowing in self-pity and spewing vitriol.

"Nobody talks about that!" My Taiwanese friend protested then, referring to the injustice that the Chinese had experienced during WWII.

Well certainly that subject has been amply covered. "And YOU can talk about it if you choose," I thought. "No one is stopping you."

But of course I didn't say anything. I don't like confrontation. And also don't think for a second you can enlighten someone in a casual afternoon chat in the courtyard of a rented building complex that shadows as a reputable institution.

It is not a competition! I would have said. Through history, the human race has hurt and killed its own breed in the name of greed and power. When it comes to war and genocide, it's an old tale over and over. If only we can look beyond race already. I don't know about you but I am tired.

Sometimes I do think humans are destined to self-destruct. Because you would think centuries later we'd be doing better by now in a global sense, treating each other better, uniting more, dividing less. But no. We haven't changed much.

Really grateful we are not immortal because can you imagine the desperation and depression?

On the day of my death I'll be like

Adios amigos! I'm outta here. You deal with this shit.


*Not his real name

Wings

A typical immigrant, I desperately wanted to blend in from day one. One thing that I have not been able to get over is my "accent". In fact, as soon as someone brings up the word, I cringe.

The second time we met, RJ said, "Your speech... I cannot place it."

Smart move not to have said "accent". While my "accent" has been called exotic, unidentifiable, intriguing... (guesses have run the gamut of Scandinavian to vaguely European) instead of feeling unique and flattered, I feel self-conscious and inadequate.

All I ever wanted to was to sound American.

Over the years RJ has assured me that I sound "fine". "You speak clearly," he says. "And well." And I write well. I speak and write well for an immigrant - no, I speak and write better than some native speakers.

But somehow it is not enough. Sometimes, some woman would come on a late night talk show, and I'd point to her and poke RJ, excited and inspired, "That! I wanna sound like her!"

Since I was little it was observed that I had a talent in languages. I picked up foreign words and accents at ease. Mastering grammar in a foreign language was very intuitive for me. Rules could be applied universally. My brother has joked that foreign languages were hard to grasp because they were "meaningless sounds". But it was easy for me to assign meaning both visually and tonally.

Languages fascinate me. Why have this sound mean this particular thing? A group of people had to agree and apply the sounds in daily life. The process is utterly curious. I should've studied linguistics. Then there's Sign Language too which is on another level of fascinating.

But if I am so talented in languages, why can't I master my fucking accent?

I remember watching MTV in Germany that one summer in my early twenties: these German kids being filmed in Germany, and their perfect American accent. I was so jealous.

For years I prided myself in "blending in", or so I thought, among fellow Americans. Then there are betraying moments when I hear a recording of my own voice and I am defeated: that's how I sound?

Riley, one of my closest guy friends at a time - we've confided in each other many personal things, he's cried in front of me over his grandma's death, we've gotten over painful breakups together - at the end of our friendship, before he was moving back to Canada, casually joshed (I forget the context now), "You know, your accent, whatever you call that..."

Boy, if that wasn't one of the most wounded moments of my life. I thought I had "passed". I thought he was my friend.

My accent. Thirty years, this cross I bear.

Yesterday, I read an article in the New York Times Magazine dated July 23, 2017, on a voice coach who helps clients master accents to get (or secure) parts in Hollywood.

The idea is not novel. I've joked that I want a voice coach to "correct" my accent. BTW this it totally the difference between learning a language in a classroom than through immersion, through interaction with native speakers, the way a child learns how to speak. This is why my English will always be hodgepodge and mishmash, whereas this other language which I shall not name (other than my native tongue) I (used to, for over 10 years) speak fluently and without accent, as I was told by native speakers.

One of my best friends, IA, who was an English major and has been an English teacher all her adult life, has attempted to enlighten me with this school of belief that we mustn't label and judge "accents". There is no right or wrong accent in pronouncing the English language insofar as the cultural and historic circumstances make for an organic evolution. She even went so far as to say that grammar falls under the same umbrella of leniency.

No, no, no! I couldn't accept that. Surely there was right and wrong in pronouncing something! There are rules! One of the reasons I love grammar is that there are rules!

In the aforementioned article, the author Ryan Bradley writes about Gillian Anderson, "a rare case of an actor who is naturally bi-accented" due to her upbringing. In the U.K. she sound British; in America, she sounds American.

"It might seem like an act, but it's her personal history, which is exactly what an accent is: an ever-changing assemblage of sounds based on where we've lived, who we've known and our perception of how we should sound based on our surroundings."

I was blown away. It was a revelation. I have also expressed my speech and identity this way: I am everywhere I've lived and all those I've spent time with, and so is my speech. Now I see: it was never "perfectly American", whatever that ideal is, and it never will be.

Perhaps it is time to come to terms with my personal history. And in time, perhaps I can do better - celebrate it.