Saturday Smörgåsbord

I have been watching SpongeBob with Mr. Monk this whole day except when I am being the Chauffeur. (And I know I am not the only Weekend Chauffeur around here…) You know what I admire SpongeBob the most? He does not seem to understand the concept of Envy and Jealousy, and therefore he is always genuinely over-the-top happy for other’s good fortune, accomplishment and success.

He is, in fact, always happy.

For this rare virtue, he comes off as insane. Unaware. Unhinged.

(Ok, fine. For you anti-random-theorizing folks out there, SpongeBob comes off as insane mostly because he understands spoken words literally…)

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It is cold. As in…

I half expected to see a polar bear floating by on one of these pieces of ice

Breaking the ice. Literally.

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My husband complained about me not responding to his email or just in general, plainly ignoring him while he travels abroad on business. What can I say? I am the Champion in Compartmentalizing. Guilty as charged. So I sent him this picture above and wrote, “Wish you were here!”

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Completely unrelated. Really. I swear. Girl Scout Honor. I just saw this on our fridge and I am proud of our family motto, so I took a picture of it. That’s it. Really. Not trying to say anything. Not a comment at all.

The Cure

Seeing how many of you are under the weather or are boarded up in your camp of resistance against some full-on attack by Black Death, I thought I’d introduce you to Tiger Balm.

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It cures everything.

In the same fashion that Chris Rock introduced us to the omnipotent healing power of Robitussin. “‘Mo’ Tussin’! MO’ TUSSION’!”

Got a headache? Rub some Tiger Balm on your temples and behind the ears.

Got sinus pain? Rub it on the sides of your nose.

Got nasal congestion? Rub it under your nose.

Chest congestion? Rub some on your chest.

Aching muscles? Rub it all over the problem areas.

Joint pain? Rub it on the troublesome joint.

You got a tummy ache? Rub some on your tummy.

Itchy from some pesky insect bites. Rub it on!

Rub it on wherever it hurts or itches.

Warning: DO NOT GET IT ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR EYE. I learned that from actual experiences the hard away.

Another warning: Oh for goodness sake, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR JUNK AFTER YOU HAVE APPLIED TIGER BALM ON OTHER AREAS OF YOUR BODY. Washing your hands before you touch your junk is not going to help because the ointment is so powerful, it will still sting. Eh, I learned that from ahem some guy.

Disclaimer: As magical as it may be, Tiger Balm will not, however, cure Man Cold. “For God’s sake, woman, he’s a man, he’s got a man cold!”


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Tiger Balm will not stop a runny nose either, unfortunately. For that, I hereby introduce you to:

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A Japanese “Chindōgu” (meaning Unusual, Precious Tool)

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And with this awesome hat, I hereby introduce you to “How to Rock Sexy in Your Pajamas and Bunny Slippers with a Kleenex in Your Pocket (that May or May Not Be Used)”:

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Yeah! You like that? Mmm. It’s got pockets. Are you into that? Uh. What’s this? A used Kleenex!

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And thank goodness for this song by The Cure (Get it? “The Cure”?) that I can tie this gaping post neatly into a bundle and put an end to it.

TGIF! You know why? Because Friday I’m in Love!

(Get it? “Friday I’m in Love”? Oh, never mind…)

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httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wa2nLEhUcZ0

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p.s. You know who has taken this “tie a blog post nicely and cleverly with a song” to an art form? Every single post? A Little Bit Rock n Roll, that’s who.

My Chinese babysitter is going to FIRE me soon

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children: because how I am caught between two worlds, they too are caught between two worlds.

Many of you have commented on my responses to the Tiger Mom Controversy with great insight, grace and kindness. One comment that made me pause and reflect upon the factual state of what I am doing to my children came from MacDougal Street Baby:

Nobody knows what happens behind closed doors. We can pontificate all we want about how others are raising their kids but, really, there’s no way to know what’s going on. Believe in your own way. Trust yourself. And then deal with the fallout.

It is this unwavering conviction that has been eluding me ever since I became a parent. I am torn between the “Chinese way of parenting” and the, for the lack of a better term, “Modern American” way.

So I wobble.

One day I am a Chinese mother. The next day I am an American mother. I feel so schizophrenic and now am worried what this kind of wishy-washy parenting is doing to my children: they have no way of knowing which mother will be greeting them every morning. It is like living with Eve White.

Either way, I am constantly feeling guilty because of the pressure coming from both sides.

I am either too strict and overprotective or too lenient and permissive.

The worst would be when I am “confronted” by other Chinese parents either in this country or back home.

I am not kidding when I mentioned my brother asking me whether he could discipline my children on my behalf. “Just a slap on the face will solve all your problems!” In fact, he did not even need my approval since he is my elder brother and as their uncle, he has all the “right” to discipline my children the way he sees fit. Even my nephew, who was a so-called “problem child” in his youth  (with petty misdemeanors, unfinished high school and truancy which constituted as “family scandals” that shall not be spoken of, and who, one would thought, should hate this kind of heavy-handed, literally, parenting style), asked quite a few times with exasperation, “What do you mean you cannot beat your child? Oh I am telling you, it pangs me to watch them misbehave so much that my hands are itching. Could I please just hit them upside the head?”

(If you are wondering WHAT crime did my children commit to deserve such wrath? My kids were simply, according to the American standard, “being independent, rambunctious boys”.)

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We have a babysitter that comes every morning to accompany Mr. Monk to his bus stop: I have to leave before that in order to catch my train downtown and my husband travels a lot. We are now on our second babysitter who started last month. Our babysitter does not need this job: she lives in a house bigger than ours and drives a Mercedes. As a fellow Chinese, she is doing this as a favor for me and for that, I am very grateful. But I am afraid that she is going to quit very soon.

Mr. Monk was reading at the kitchen table and ignoring both of us when we asked him what he would like for lunch. I could see his finger moving across the page. I could tell that he was frantically trying to get to a place where he could stop without losing his place on the page.

He is a child of many peculiarities since birth. I have learned to go along with these special requirements of his to keep a smooth and orderly existence. I have learned the hard way.

If it were his elder brother at the table this morning? I would have punished him for blatantly ignoring me.

“You are very permissive. I would have snatched that book away this instant.” My babysitter commented in Chinese.

I explained to her what Mr. Monk was trying to do and his needing such an order in his life.

“You should have fought to get him to change. You should have made him change through persistence. If it were my daughter, I would have taken that book away already.”

I made some feeble attempt to explain why I did not. Could not. “He’d be harping on this for the rest of the day if I did so. Maybe even tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. He’ll remember this for the rest of his life.”

“My daughter remembers everything too. Oh she fought but I persisted. You just have to be persistent and make them change their ways. It is not possible for him to not change if you just work harder.”

“You must have been very strict with your daughter?” I asked, as a compliment.

“Yes, I was.” She beamed with pride as she should since her daughter is now a VP at a prestigious investment bank on Wall Street.

“Oh she hated me back then. I am pretty sure she hated me but I persisted. She is very nice to me now, she calls me all the time. I think she finally understands why I needed to do what I did. She can see now.”

“You know, I cannot do that.” I admitted to her. “It must have taken a lot of strength on your part to remain strict.” I stopped short at telling her, “But I need my children to like me, and I cannot stand the thought that they may hate me.”

“Yes.” She paused. “But I did what I had to do.”

In traditional Chinese culture, (Warning: Gross generalization ahead. Buyer beware!) your success as a parent is not evaluated by how happy your children are but by how obedient they are when young and how successful they are when grown-up. Providing your children with a happy childhood is not a requisite for being a good mother. I am not suggesting that Chinese parents go out of their way to make their children miserable but rather that IT is not a priority.  Or rather, the definition of happiness is quite different, and also who gets to define happiness is debatable since we were often told, “You don’t know what you want. You don’t know what will make you happy. You will know when you are older.”

I am happy for her and for her daughter’s accomplishment. As I said, I am grateful for her coming here every morning so that I could keep my job. But it feels like an indictment of me as a parent every single morning. I will be getting out of the house as soon as she arrives from now on.

The Need for Convenient Justification

This is a different reaction from my reading of the controversy surrounding Amy Chua’s WSJ article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior?

Yesterday, I said, Bring it on! The can of worms has been opened! Today, I will continue to clear this raging case of “Oh oh oh I have something to say Pick Me Pick Me” via pontificating on my blog.

Disclaimer needed, again: I am not agreeing with Chua’s parenting style. This is simply ONE of my reactions as all these conflicting thoughts racing through my brains…

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Like many, I felt great anxiety and anger when I was reading Chua’s article. But I get anxious easily when it comes to parenting. Heck, I felt like screaming when I watched a holiday video from a Chinese friend showing her kids playing piano AND violin at a recital, speaking fluent Chinese AND French. Again, not because I wished my kids were better but because that video, akin to a resume for the future “survival of the fittest” audition, raised my anxiety level over whether I am doing enough to prepare my children for their future. And you know what? I wish my friend were a Tiger Mom, so I could easily dismiss her accomplishment as a parent by thinking, “Well, but her kids are like robots, and she is cold and unemotional.” They are not, and she is not.

To parent like this (ok, sans the name calling, BUT I did call my kids dumbasses more than once when they were, well, being dumbasses), it takes a lot of dedication and efforts. I am too selfish to devote myself like that to my children.  I cannot even spend an hour every day teaching my children Chinese. It really is easier to say, “To hell with it. Who needs to know Chinese anyway? [Ha!]” than to deal with all the crying and resisting. I WANT my children to like me. I don’t want to be the mean parent. My husband can be the bad cop. Me? I want to be the good cop.

I thank Amy Chua, not for the article since I knew all about “The Chinese Way of Parenting” and there was no surprise there, but for the 7000+ hateful comments and the public condemnations.  They reassured me, “Hey, what I am doing or not doing is OK. She thinks she is so successful, and her children are so successful, and her family is so successful, but you know what? They are all zombies with no emotions. And the Americans, including the Chinese Americans, HATE her.” Hopefully when I go home this February, when my parents cannot communicate with my children because they do not speak English, when people ask me why my children cannot speak Chinese and how come so-and-so’s American grandchildren can not only speak but read and write fluent Chinese and why I did not beat their asses so they would learn Chinese against their will, when my brother asks for the Nth time whether it is ok if he gives my independent children a beating and I say “Of course not” and he relents with a sigh “Americans…”, I will feel less like a failure.

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As the kids and I hurried along Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago this Sunday night in the freezing temperature, I spotted a mother bundled up with her two children on the sidewalk. There was a can in front of them with a few coins inside. She was trying to cover the little one’s head with a tiny scarf. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped to give her some money and quickly walked away. My oldest patted my arm as we walked further.

“It is freezing. Those kids must be freezing.” I said. “I don’t know why she’s sitting on the sidewalk in the cold. There are shelters. Doesn’t she know there are shelters?”

In an effort to comfort me, he said, “I heard a story about this guy who would go into the city every day and beg and then every night he comes home to a big house and car and everything.”

“Do you know why this story became so popular and everybody likes to talk about it?”

“Because it gives you the justification you need for not doing anything?”

“Exactly.”

Bring It On: The Can of Worms has been opened!

Tiger Moms. That’s all I hear/read about these past few days.

Ugh.

Yeah I hear you. But are you surprised that I need to talk about it?

In case you have not heard, the “Tiger Mom Controversy” refers to a WSJ article written by a Yale Law School professor, Amy Chua, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior?” In addition to the 6900+ comments on WSJ.com (and counting), the article (and the book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother) has inspired (mostly out of anger and spite) numerous articles and discussions, and Chua was interviewed on NPR (and they took heat for that interview).

You can go and read about all that by googling. So much anger. It’s like Mommy War all over again. Perhaps this time we (i.e. SAHMs and Working Mothers) can all band together by hating one common enemy.

“At least we are NOT like that.”

“Yeah, High Five, sister!”

Or you can read the non-angry posts that do NOT dwell on whether her parenting style is right or wrong (or “evil” as so many commenters have declared without actually reading her book). Instead these posts pointed out a couple of interesting ways to look at this controversy:

Brilliant marketing! Amy Chua and her publisher are laughing all the way home. Cha ching cha ching. “Thumbs up to the writer”

This controversy provides opportunities for ourselves to discuss and examine our own parenting styles and philosophies. “Be A Better Parent Through Blogging”.

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Or, read a post by someone who has actually read the book — Gosh, what a novel concept, eh? Amy Chua: Tiger Mother without a Plan, and draw your own conclusion.

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Because I am a lazy blogger, I now hate Amy Chua with a passion, not because of her unattainable parenting style or the whole perpetuating the stereotype thing, but because I cannot stop thinking about it. I have drafted several completely different responses to this giant can of worms that she has opened, and I hate working on drafts. Drafts are for suckers who like to work hard, who practices piano or (or “AND”) violin two hours every day, who does everything to perfection.

Curse you, Amy Chua!

Ok. So below is my second reaction (and NOT the last) after I recovered from the initial, visceral reaction.

Disclaimer: This is one of the post-visceral reactions I’ve felt. I am conflicted. I have argued against myself and contradicted myself. In this post, I am telling one of my responses like it is. I will follow up with the rest because OH GOOD GRAVY my head hurts. I need to now go rub Tiger Balm on my temples and tummy.

I may just be jealous.

There. I said it.

I am not suggesting that I wish my children were better or different or somebody else; I swear on my life, I am very happy with and proud of their performances and accomplishments in everything that they are doing, including the failed attempt at learning Chinese. However, I will cop to the wild fantasy that my kids were somehow more obedient, better disciplined, less wise-ass-y, and more “convenient” when I want to go to a fancy restaurant with real napkins and nice crystals. A girl can dream, right?

I may just be jealous because Amy Chua’s children seem to have it made: They are not teen moms. They don’t do drugs. They are not bums. They did not turn Goth or Punk or Neo-Nazi. They did not rebel. They did not run away and end up turning tricks. They did not turn into Valley Girls either. (Yes, as you can see, my expectations are fairly low…)  They did not get with the wrong crowd. They are on their way to prestigious universities and presumably will end up with great jobs, and so on and so forth. I can see their bright futures, and as a mother, that is what I am worried about: my kids’ futures.

Raise your hand if your child’s class is full of the so-called Asian prodigies.

Raise your hand if you ever shake your head or wince at the prevalence of Asian-sounding names on the list of winners at Spelling Bees, Academic competitions, Lego Leagues, Science Fairs, concerts, recitals, and what not.

Raise your hand if you ever try to dismiss the conclusion that Asian cultures put a lot more emphasis on academic excellence by saying, “But it is NOT the American way, and maybe THESE people should become more American now that they are in America.”

Raise your hand if you comfort yourself by thinking, “But colleges look at MORE THAN just SAT scores. You need to be well-rounded.”

Raise your hand if you ever think to yourself, “But they suck at sports.”

Here is a Chinese American raised in “The Chinese Way” (different from the way I was raised and I am 100% “authentic” Chinese — I use “authentic” with quotation marks and I can show you a chapter from my dissertation dissecting this word so don’t sling mud at me, yet) spelling it all out, for all her American readers (and by god, did she get readers or what because of this controversy!), sharing the Ancient Secret Chinese recipe with all of us, and we got all pissed at her.

Because the truth is difficult to hear.

The truth is not whether HER parenting style (or anybody else’s for that matter) is better.

The truth is… I am going out on a limb here… we feel anxiety for our children’s future because the way the world has been changing.

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Here is a theory:

Raise your hand if you are ever concerned, or even outraged, by the state of the teenagers.

Raise your hand if, even though you do not believe in hovering or overprotecting, you still sometimes wonder whether what you are doing with your children is enough to prevent them from going astray.

Raise your hand if you are not sure what the correct balance is between discipline and freedom, between rules and independence.

Raise your hand if you ever worry about your kids not being able to get a job when they grow up because of the fierce competition. Not just in the U.S., but from all over the world.

Raise your hand if you are not sure about the outsourcing trend, worried about people in China and India taking the jobs away.

Raise your hand if you are convinced that social security is going to disappear by the time you retire.

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By now many have heard and probably been shaken by the much cited line from the documentary Waiting for Superman:

Out of 30 Industrialized Nations, our country’s children rank 25th in Math, 21st in Science & falling behind in every other category. The only thing our children seem to be ranked number 1. in is confidence.

Coupling that with the revelation and the fear that China is US’ biggest foreign creditor, with roughly $900 billion in Treasury Securities, and $1 trillion if you include Hong Kong. (Don’t think there is a mass hysteria over the “imminent” Chinese threat? Remember the “Chinese Professor” political ad running last October?)

I suspect what we have observed in the disproportionate outcry against Amy Chua’s short article is a perfect storm.

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We are all in this

**The following is a repost from Martin Luther King Day, 2010**

Mr. Monk, my 7-year-going-on-50-old child, asked me last Friday at dinner,

“Mom, is it true that you would not be here if Martin Luther King did not give THAT speech?”

I was caught by surprise, I’ll be completely honest. Although I understand the impact Dr. King’s speech has had on the American history, culture and psyche, it has never occurred to me that what Dr. King said from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 23, 1963 would have material effect on my personal fate. After all, I was not even born then in 1963. What’s more, I was born in Taipei and grew up there and did not make my way to the U.S. until 1993.

I looked at my husband, and although he looked as puzzled as I was, he did give me the “a-ha” look that confirmed what was racing through my mind. Mr. Monk was right.

The Chinese Exclusion Act, a federal law enacted in 1882, was not repealed until 1943 (China was, after all, an ally during WWII…) when Chinese already residing in the U.S. were permitted to become naturalized citizens. However, it was not until the Immigration Act in 1965 when the federal law in the U.S. was relaxed enough to allow large number of immigrants, especially from the non-European parts of the world (contrary to the belief by the politicians at that time, I am sorry to point this out), to enter the country legally. The Civil Rights Movement led by Dr. King in the 1960s opened the eyes of many Americans to the rampant racism permeating the country and therefore made the passage of the Immigration Act even thinkable.

“You are right. It is possible that Mommy would not have been allowed to enter this country if the Civil Rights Movement had never happened.”

As I looked at Mr. Monk, his beautiful face, wondering what was inside that little head of his, it came to me: And there was the laws against interracial marriages!

Anti-miscegenation laws were not eradicated completely from the U.S. until 1967. As a matter of fact, as recently as in October 2009, a Justice of the Peace in Louisiana refused to officiate the civil wedding of an interracial couple, citing his concern for the wellbeing of the interracial offspring produced from such a union. (No, I am not making this shit up… I wish I were. Believe me.)

I added, “You are right. Without Dr. King, it is possible that daddy and mommy were not even allowed to get married.”

“And that means I would not even be here!” Mr. Monk said with amazement, looking pleased and proud that his existence on earth was made possible because Dr. Martin Luther King gave that speech, 47 years ago.

And he was right.

Sundays in My City

I am in downtown Chicago with the kids this weekend. NO laptop. I have aniPhone with no SIM. But it has a camera: look out, world!!!

I am sitting in the hotel lobby using the free Wi-Fi, trying to blog via my iPhod thingy. Ok. Seriously? How the fuck does anybody type on this thing?!?! So far I have accidentally published this post twice. Ugh. FWIW, Here it goes…

If it is round and comes in pairs…

My boys are becoming more and more uncouth each day, and I am not doing anything about it because deep down I think I am a 13-year-old boy.

I am going to blame it on Austin Powers though. Lately they have been watching Austin Powers. All three of them. Yeah. I know.

Mr. Monk loved all the bathroom humors and antics and in fact, was so excited that he could not sit still,  jumping up and down through the movie. I could hear his excited, high-pitched laugh all the way downstairs through the closed door to the master bedroom where the TV is.

Nowadays the easiest way to start a fit of giggling around our house is to show them something round, and in pairs.

The boys saw the failed muffins

and decided that the muffins looked like boobs.

Mr. Monk: Oh mom!  They look like, you know, boobs!

12-year-old: (To his brother, with his mouth stuffed with one of the burned and misformed muffin tops) Hmm. If you don’t want to eat your boobs, I will have your boobs.

Me: (Trying not to laugh) Do not make fun of boobs.

Mr. Monk: Yeah. We would have died without boobs. You know mommy would not have been able to feed us… and we would have starved.

Me: Staying out of this topic because I did not want to explain to him, again, that I only breastfed for less than two weeks

12-year-old: Or we would not even have been born if daddy were not attracted by mom’s boobs…

Fortunately, at this moment, the conversation was derailed by my asking Mr. Monk what he was doing [No. Don’t ask] and we moved onto a discussion of penis vs. balls vs. ball sack vs. scrotum.

Boobs and balls. Boobs or balls? Boobs or balls?! Cake or death?! (Sorry. Got carried away a bit over there…)

Hey, at least we are using the correct anatomical terms.

$5000 a Bullet

Many of us have seen Chris Rock’s standup routine on gun control, or as he called it “Bullet Control”, either on YouTube or in the movie Bowling for Columbine.

In the wake of the shooting in Arizona, there is a heated discussion surrounding the fact that 1) the gunman fired off a large capacity magazine with 30 bullets within seconds and ended up killing 6 people and wounding 14 (He was subdued when he paused to reload), and 2) the federal law that would have banned assault weapons and gun magazines that can hold more than 10 bullets expired in 2004 because the congress failed to renew it.

It just seems so poignant right now. From the mouth of a comedian.

(The transcript of Chris Rock’s routine is after the jump in case you cannot watch the video because 1) your phone sucks like mine, 2) you are being productive)

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And everybody’s talking about gun control. “Got to get rid of the guns.”

Fuck that. l like guns.

You got a gun, you don’t have to work out.

l ain’t working out. l ain’t jogging. You got pecs, l got Tecs.

Fuck that shit.

You don’t need no gun control.

You know what you need? We need some bullet control.

Man, we need to control the bullets, that’s right.

l think all bullets should cost 5000 dollars.

5000 dollars for a bullet. You know why?

‘Cause if a bullet costs 5000 dollars, there’d be no more innocent bystanders.

That’d be it.

Every time somebody gets shot, people will be like,

“Damn, he must have did something.”

“Shit, they put 50,000 dollars worth of bullets in his ass.”

And people would think before they killed somebody, if a bullet cost 5000 dollars.

“Man, l would blow your fucking head off, if l could afford it.”

“l’m gonna get me another job, l’m gonna start saving some money… and you’re a dead man.”

“You better hope l can’t get no bullets on layaway.”

So even if you get shot by a stray bullet, you won’t have to go to no doctor to get it taken out: whoever shot you would take their bullet back.

“l believe you got my property?!”

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35 seconds

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On January 12, 2010, at 4:53 pm, in Haiti,

an earthquake with a magnitude of 7.2 on the Richter scale has plunged Haiti into hell… 35 seconds later… the capital of Port-au-Prince was destroyed over 75%. Today it is estimated that the number of dead could rise 300.0000 dead “as many” injuries and than 2.3 million people were displaced, more than a million live still in camps or makeshift shelters. Yesterday as now, nothing has really changed… Port-au-Prince is a monument of ruins which seems to have escaped to the time…

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On the anniversary of this tragedy that continues to go on, Kathy, who lives in Haiti with her partner, has written a moving, thought-provoking post “Haiti’s 35 Second Tragedy: a Second Chance for Peace“.

And what I see—every 35 seconds—is a city still in ruin.  I see the weary but not teary eyes of human beings too stunned to grieve even colossal losses.

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Kathy’s message is one of hope. She asks all of us to

Please take 35 seconds to share this prayer with me.  Take 35 seconds and pray for peace in Haiti.

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I urge you to visit Kathy, to at least read this one post by her.

I cannot pretend to know much of what’s been going on in Haiti in the past year. I will admit that like many people in the Western world, I cried over the destruction and the victims a year ago; I read and watched the coverage with an obsession; I made the donations; I hugged my kids; I was moved by the outpouring of compassion all over the world. Then I moved on. I briefly thought of Haiti when I heard of the cholera outbreak in October. I did not think of Haiti again until I heard on NPR the other day of a report of refugee camps and tent cities that have failed to disappear and in fact have now evolved into something semi-permanent.

Yes, horror stories abound in these tent cities. But if you listen to NPR, like I did, you will also hear stories of hope, self-reliance, will power, survival and perseverance. Cities of hope. “Tired Of Waiting, Haitians Build Their Own Homes“. “Haitians Take Rubble Removal Into Own Hands“.

Let’s focus on hope today.

35 seconds.