norfolk, nashville, and now

Remember traveling? [Hold tight, I share in mixed feelings]. I hopped on many a plane last year; nearly all, domestic flights. Let's start with Virginia, a double-dip destination thanks to two important occasions. First, a most beautiful wedding; second, a critical election. Although "my candidate" didn't win, it was amazing to have helped flip Virginia blue as as a Sister District volunteer.

Moving on to in between, when I flew to Nashville, Tennessee. My mom had proposed the idea. My sister expressed enthused interest. We saw live jazz at Rudy's Jazz Room (times two); wandered through the farmer's market; dined at Monell's and Husk (where they personalized our menu with birthday wishes), ventured to the Grand Ole Opry and, obviously, down Broadway; tasted good beer at Bearded Iris Brewing and fine wines at Arrington Vineyards. All together, it made for a happy, draining, sometimes stressful 31st.

These trips were riddled with sunshine and privilege, good fortune and social proximity. While in Nashville, he texted to see how the holiday weekend was going and ask if I'd like to go out again. We've spent countless weekends (and more) together since then. I'm so grateful for him in this life, during this pandemic, and my gosh what I wouldn't do to be with more family and friends right now.

These times are unprecedented. This virus is affecting all of us, in a multitude of ways. And yet, also, inequities have never been more prevalent. Those who can be home, should be. Those who can be generous, should be. There are so many freaking unknowns...
I hope with all my being that we heal and hold onto–learn from–what has come to light. Please take care. Please love well.

the other side of the border

"You should write this down," he said, "your thoughts, your observations, this seems like the kind of thing you'll want to be able to remember."

Last week, I came back to San Francisco from... San Francisco. I'd spent six days in my dad's Mexican hometown. It was not, as so many assumed, "fun". But it wasn't not fun. Instead, as another friend told me after listening to my recap, "it sounded so beautiful, and so special that you can connect with that side of you, and it's so close generationally, still." Yes, exactly. It felt like that.

My brother and sister hadn't been there in ~22 years. They hadn't known what to expect. They haven't pursued post-grad studies and application of Spanish in my same way. I might assume then that the experience we shared might be more poignant to them. For all intensive purposes, they saw and heard, for the "first time", the world my dad was born into. They had more questions. While he re-embraced his original norms, they observed (more often than not) with reverent curiosity. I imagine there was distinct magic to it.

Even still, I'd consider myself distinctly privileged to have some familiarity, recalling my last visit and remnants of the nearly annual childhood trips. El rancho always feels far "from home", but it's not quite as foreign to my heart. I was able to recognize their experiences and that of my father, and dare I presume, appreciate both.

What was new, this time around, was my full-circle understanding of the following truths:

• My dad grew up rich; if we consider rich surrounded by extended family, nourishing locally-sourced food, clean and clear skies, respect for hard work matched with active leisure (read: soccer) and convivial rest.
• My dad accepted the fact that he loved his home but wouldn't find the opportunities for financial success that he desired.
• So my dad left; he haphazardly entered the cruel American grind with a weak grasp of English and the kindness of a few friends/family who'd arrived before him, and he figured that sh** out. I imagine some days, and weeks, and months were harder than others--they had to have been--but he did it. He worked multiple jobs and went to school at night and fell in love with mother and started a family and then his own business. He achieved the American dream. He said so out loud last week, while visiting his parents (who live on the same property where he and his eight siblings were born, by the way, but now with two new houses and a multitude of modern amenities) with his three college-educated children, two of whom also have master's degrees. What's even more amazing, if such a concept is at all possible, is how he built this life with as much generosity of spirit and faith in humanity as he continues to possess. My mom sometimes call it naïveté. My father is certainly a flawed man, as any one of us are, but my gosh how I aspire to embody and pass on such wholeness.

close to home

I grew up around kids. My mom watched all ages: 3 months, 10 years. My brother, sister, and I learned how to change a diaper, make a bottle, keep an eye on and entertain. We helped, though not always happily. We often didn't have access to our bedrooms until so-and-so got up from his or her nap. So, we'd keep an ear out for crying. We came to understand what it stood for--whining, frustration, discomfort.

The cries I heard on this recording were different.

At this point, I expect you're well aware of the crisis taking place at the U.S.-Mexico border. You know that last month: 2,000+ children were taken from their parents, that every person to cross the border without legal documentation was prosecuted as a criminal, that AG Jeff Sessions tried to use the Bible to defend the zero-tolerance policy, and that President Trump signed an executive order to discontinue family separation, an act that was put in place with his blessing. Hopefully they'll make their deadline? And still, one can only imagine the pain and suffering that continues through trauma.

Decades after my grandfather ventured to Central California with the Bracero Program, my dad crossed that same border for that same economic opportunity. He stayed longer though. He sent money home, supported siblings as they, too, came over. Years later, once my dad had met my mom, after my siblings and I came to be, my dad became an American citizen.

It's no wonder this feels personal, and yet... nobody risks their own life, let alone that of their child, unless they have to; unless doing so feels like the only viable option for safety. If they make it, their family might come to know the opportunity that comes after. Maybe.

Who do we think we are to dehumanize fellow human beings by labeling them illegal? A descriptor of an action, by the way, not an existence. Do we not share the same value, the same entitlement to human rights? Dignity, let alone decency? This administration appears not to think so. How quickly we forget our origins.

I am the child of an immigrant. My father achieved "the American Dream." This has afforded me the privilege to move across borders and oceans without any apprehension a.k.a. the entire premise of this silly blog. The magnitude of these truths are enough to paralyze me with guilt sometimes. I'm trying my best to do more. I hope you are, too.

P.S. For some levity whilst giving a damn.

brussels with my brother

For the first time since 2011, I'll be home for Thanksgiving. Dare I say I'm nervous? I'd considered a staycation in L.A., serving turkey to the homeless... but then my grandmother was diagnosed. And so I decided to be in New York with her (though, uncomfortably, I keep forgetting my grandpa won't be there, too). We'll drive down to my aunt's apartment on the Upper West Side and enjoy that grand home-cooked meal I've missed. We'll be all together again, maybe. I'm really hoping my brother will be able to make it as well.

You may recall that he and I spent the holiday together last year. He was finishing up his master's at University of Amsterdam and wouldn't be able to make it home; I had far too many vacation days to use before I lost them. It was quite the adventure. I flew into Paris (where I crossed paths with my sister), then Amsterdam, and then, Brussels. I wanted to go somewhere he hadn't yet been.

We explored some, he caught up on sleep, and I indulged in more contemporary art. Brussels is delightfully walkable and was dressed up in all its spirited glory. As for Thanksgiving, we were lucky to have found a traditional feast hosted by The American Club of Brussels. I can't express how stimulating it was to be surrounded by such diversity of people, experiences, and ideas, again.

My heart was so full of gratitude as my favorite American fête came to a close then. And really, despite my stress and anxiety, that feeling is not far out of reach now: in early December, I'll move to San Francisco (!) and join the team at the International Institute of the Bay Area, backed by the support of more L.A.-based friends I ever imagined possible and that of my quirky family; what's more: I'm financially-able to spend time with both before and after the transition (Christmas). Wishing the same good fortune to you and yours ♥

dear mr. mcalpin

What's the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?

-the last joke my grandfather told my mom

One less drunk.

It's hard to say that I was *close* to my grandfather. When I was little I spent a lot of time at his and my grandmother's house, the one my mother had grown up in, but he was usually in his room watching television, eating Fig Newtons. He wasn't one to play with the kids in the same way my grandma would. But he was there, always, whether it be at home or a school play or on a family vacation.

One time we'd gone to Fire Island with my aunt Linda and uncle Jean-Jacques. I'd been basking in the glory of having introduced myself to a group of older kids on a peddle boat. They were nice, cool, fun. But then I got bit by a crab. I stumbled out of the water, fighting back tears, and was relieved when I saw Grandpa in the distance. I waved to him for help. He waved hello and then laid back to sunbathe. My grandmother wasn't thrilled with that response when she found me crying. He hadn't realized, of course.

He was the one that took me and grandmother to church all those times. I could often convince him to take us to the diner after, or if I'd spent the rest of the morning and afternoon with them, out for ice cream. On that note, summer Fridays were a surefire way to get a trip to Carvel because they had the vintage car show in the parking lot, which my grandfather loved.

While he still had his boat in the Long Island Sound, he'd pick me up early morning (I'd better have been ready!), grab deli sandwiches and sodas, and take me out fishing. My grandmother only occasionally joined. It was the kind of quiet activity you might picture a grandfather doing with his grandson, but I was the eldest and my brother was too young. It only made me feel more special.

I brought him straws whenever I could. He collected and chewed them, a habit he'd picked up after he insisted they stop smoking before my birth. Occasionally, I'd go see what he was tinkering with in the garage. That garage filled with tools and duct tape and a single poster of Lunch Atop a Skyscraper. If my grandfather was in a good mood, he'd entertain my questions about why they were up there and if he knew them and what it was like to grow up in New York City. He'd been born there in 1928.

During the wintertime, he and my grandmother would escape to Florida. I remember how exciting a day it was when they came back; especially when my sister was a baby and we weren't sure if she'd remember them. She always did.

Years later, when my aunt MaryAnn was in labor with my first cousin, he took me down to the cafeteria for a snack. We'd been at the hospital for hours. I was 13 years old. I asked him what could be taking so long. Without flinching, he replied that my petite aunt's hips needed to widen so she could push the baby out. It was a lite-medical explanation, for sure, but looking back I admire him for being so candid. I had friends at the time who'd be embarrassed to ask their moms such things, let alone their grandfathers.

My grandfather loved old music. He'd listen at home and in the car and even sing out loud sometimes. His lyrical memory was entertaining (even if his voice wasn't). He had an impressively dry sense of humor, and no matter how much he would repeat a joke, the seriousness of delivery managed to keep it funny. He wore suspenders. He carried a camera, and a hankerchief, everywhere.

He softened with age. I recall calling him to wish him a happy 84th birthday—my uncle Walter had reminded me. He'd had a very good day and, when I mentioned I was strolling through Chelsea to meet a friend, he started talking about how different his childhood neighborhood had become. I remember being so touched by our collective family memory. He closed by telling me how proud he was of me and thanking me for calling. I'd made my grandfather's day.

He moved in with my parents while I was abroad in grad school. Though a lot to handle, it was a cherished opportunity for my mom to get to know her father in a different capacity than she ever had before. I, too, learned unexpected snippets on visits. And my gosh was he was funny! One time, I was critiquing my mom's new haircut: "It makes your head look like Frankenstein's", I said (neither tactful nor kind). "What can I say, I have a square head. Look where I came from," she retorted, pointing at my grandfather. He'd been sitting on the couch, assumedly not paying attention to our superfluous conversation... and yet at that moment he slowly stood up, put his arms straight out in front of him, and groaned, just like Frankenstein. My mom and I broke out into laughter.

Last fall, I visited him at a veteran rehab facility in Upstate New York. Though his memory was foggy, he was still sharp—telling jokes and stories, taking photos, commenting on the black and white film they were screening. I'm eternally grateful for all that time.

My grandpa was hardly perfect, but he adored my grandmother, helped my parents purchase their first house, and, if the number of men and women from AA who attended his wake is any indication, touched more lives than we'll ever know. He passed away at home at the age of 89 on May 30th after an especially tough few weeks in Hospice. May he rest in peace.

a lady of leisure in amsterdam

There's a particular relief in (and pride to) the ease I feel in a city like Amsterdam. "Oh, how cosmopolitan you are," I tease myself.

Yet the pride is sincere. I spent so much of my early twenties searching for a sense of belonging to a place after having lost that in a person. I struggled to define myself while blending in, to simultaneously indulge my intellectual as well as my immature cravings.

And in doing so, I learned how to be comfortable be in unfamiliar settings. What made Paris special had little to do with the fact that Paris is Paris but that I chose it and made it home (as opposed to having accepted convenient opportunities). I imagine Amsterdam holds a similar significance for my brother—who's now taking a Spanish course in Spain and will have to repatriate soon enough.

Los Angeles and I, on the other hand, have a slightly different relationship. I came back to the U.S. because I could as much I felt I should—how irresponsible it'd be not to accept a serendipitous job offer. I chose a career, perhaps, but I did not choose this city.

Has it grown on me? Most definitely, though I continue to say I won't stay. I'll admit (as I roll my eyes at myself) that this fact pioneers my insistence of returning to Europe at least once a year. I need the reminder of that aforementioned feeling; to hold onto it.

My days in Amsterdam last fall were spent as a "a lady of leisure".  I walked miles through its narrow streets and ruffled through more shops than I had in all 10 months prior and stopped into museums deemed as having the most intriguing exhibitions. It was so wildly unlike my reality. And each evening, I met up with a beloved "local" at a traditional beer bar or modern food hall. Too good, almost.

The fall before then, I'd chosen to make as many active life choices as possible—I moved across L.A. to a walkable neighborhood feel; I took the time to enjoy the friendships I'd found; I stringently applied for new jobs, a.k.a. only those that 100% excited me. Although I was barely getting by financially, I became happier, firmly self-assured, and eventually, I joined a company that fit the bill.

It was hard to wrap my head around how fortunate I'd gotten—and yet it shouldn't have been. I've worked hard to earn my life here. I have all I need inside me to move forward. And however prideful, I will never once worry I won't be able to relocate when needed.

the unresolved parisienne

There's so much to be said about this country, and this world right now... I fear words fall short. My hodge-podge of sentiments—anxiety, concern, exhilaration—is too intimidating to capture. Instagram feels more appropriate in its visual short form. As such, please excuse the self-declared banality of my reflection below. It errs on the personal side of Heather Havrilesky's words (via Ask Polly): "If you can’t own the life you have right now, ask yourself what needs to change to make you feel like more of a conquistador."

On November 17th, 2016, I landed in Paris. It was dark and chilly as I commuted from CDG to an Airbnb a mere three blocks from where I'd once lived. The route itself was jarring in its familiarity. I affectionately recognized the corner brasserie, and neo-bistro, and all the other shops and bars (save for a few that were obviously new). I WhatsApp-ed Lorelei, "I don't know how you do this regularly. I want to relive every moment of life here, on repeat times a million, plus more memories." And then, after settling into my Airbnb, I texted Ben, "the apartment has high ceilings and antique furniture and my host is an older impatient woman who offered me fruit upon arrival, so I basically feel like France welcomed me back with open arms." I wasn't kidding. It felt painfully good to be back, again.

The following morning, I woke up relatively early. I Facebooked Deanna to make plans: petit-déj at a café across from a metro stop on his line so she wouldn't get lost, we'd figure out the next steps from there, Rémi would meet up with us after class. Some context: my sister is (quite ironically!) dating a French guy she met over the summer in New York; she has visited him (and Paris) twice since.

We wandered through the Latin Quarter across the Seine and into the Marais, stopping into clothing stores we couldn't afford, a free exhibition at the Swedish Institute, and a worth-every-penny visit to the recently-renovated Musée Picaso. Then we lunched with Rémi at our beloved Nanashi before dragging him into Merci—at which he was the only consumer. They (being too cute) caught the bus home at Bastille while I returned to the 17th to freshen up. Later, I ventured outside the city to join Mia at a Salif Keita concert.

Those first 36 hours were too easy, too normal... it was hard to believe I'd ever voluntarily left! And then, before traveling to Amsterdam, I brunched with Lou at Rose Café. In her thoughtful way, she reminded me of my critiques: the cultural superiority, the unyielding otherness, the callous social capital bred from famous haute-couture fashion houses and the like. Paris, too, has an ego.

A week later, I saw Lou once more whilst staying in Melun with ma famille française. I also arranged plans with Melissa, and Rithy, and Julia, and my AUP professors on campus. We spoke about politics and ideals, life and love, ambition and responsibility. I was so perfectly inspired. I found myself overcome by immense gratitude as opposed to tragic-nostalgia. Every moment was to be savored, so I did exactly that. And I was actually ready to fly back to Los Angeles when the time came—even with its infuriating civic passivity, empty "nice days", select inhabitants trying so goddamn hard to be seen as cool, laid back, and creative in unacknowledged privilege. As my sister reminded me today (from Paris, I might add!): But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?