The Need for Black-Asian Solidarity

I love Twitter because it highlights reality. It's the source for essentially all of my news, and as opposed to other social media sites, it typically provides people's actual reactions to current events and glimpses of original thought.  Twitter isn't always the healthiest place, but at least you can get a sense of people's raw feelings towards a particular subject, for better or worse.

Lately with the rise of anti-Asian hate in the country, it's been heartbreaking to read some of the comments.  All of the "Chinese virus" and "kung flu" and other such rhetoric have culminated to a boiling point, and there seems to be a new viral racist incident with each passing day.  Unfortunately, even the most tragic of anti-Asian crimes with the Atlanta spa shootings leaving 8 dead (6 of whom were Asian women) has been met with an infuriating level of gaslighting.

Sadly, the anti-Asian bias is not the only prevalent form of racism right now.  It has not even been a year since George Floyd's murder, and now another black man has been killed by a Minnesota police officer.  The fact that George Floyd's girlfriend was Daunte Wright's former teacher is a devastating reminder of the endless cycle of interconnected trauma.

There's much to unravel here amidst such an ambivalent concoction of pain, anger, and fear, but one of the underlying themes I've seen on Twitter is that aside from the Asian community and the black community needing time to process everything that is happening, there's the general sentiment that the two communities are alone in their separate grieving processes.

Solidarity between minority groups has historically been shaky, which is by design, as pitting different minority groups against each other has certainly been a tactic of white supremacy.  It spurred the model minority myth, contrasting (among others) Asian Americans against African Americans, suggesting that the former are successful, law-abiding people and the latter are prone to be poor, dangerous criminals.

This myth fails to mention the existence of a "bamboo ceiling" and the idea that Asian Americans may always be seen as foreigners.  As my friend Jeff Le writes:

How do we change a society that sees us as invisible?  It requires the people in power to provide opportunities and enact inclusive policies, to recognize that AAPIs aren't universally privileged and are not simply white adjacent.  Yes, it requires other communities of color to support AAPIs and lend allyship.  It requires deep financial investment in AAPI civic and political organizations, professional networks and mentorship.

However, it's not just the people in power; many Asian Americans have bought into the model minority myth, too -- hook, line, and sinker.  Not merely in believing that they are "universally privileged" and "white adjacent," but also being intimidated by and biased against African Americans.  Much of this animosity is passed down from older generations, but of course that does not justify personal prejudice.

As an Asian American man with an Asian American wife and two adopted half black kids, I've experienced this prejudice countless times in the past 5+ years.  And while it may certainly be easier to ignore the occasional racist statement stereotyping black people, we've seen the power that such hateful rhetoric can have, regardless of how innocuous the words may seem.  "She just doesn't know any better," I previously thought to myself when deciding whether or not to say something to the auntie who was venting about her black neighbors.  But ignorance is not an excuse for further ignorance.  We must call out even the smallest of microaggressions and not wait until it's too late.

AAPI advocate Cary Chow tweeted this message imploring Asians to rally against all racism:

Some of the responses were telling of past hurt and an absence of solidarity:

It's sobering to read these replies.  Asian Americans are accustomed to trying not to stand out by default, especially in the political realm, but it's crucial to note that maintaining the status quo is maintaining systemic racism.  

I'm reminded of the famous Martin Niemoller quote at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out -- because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out -- because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out -- because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me -- and there was no one left to speak for me.

My hope and prayer is that we can learn from past mistakes and forgive past wrongs to mourn injustice together.  Only then can we join in solidarity to work towards fighting racism.

Hibernating Patriotism

I remember counting total gold, silver, and bronze medals with my friend Albert back in 2012.  There I was at work, with one monitor focused on a gas severance tax spreadsheet and another monitor streaming the Summer Olympics.  There was some light trash talk among friends residing in China and some discussion with my parents regarding which country they were rooting for in various events.

That's probably an oversimplified way of claiming my allegiance to the USA, but I specifically remember being so proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free... only to have everything flipped turned upside down in 2016.

I think the overarching feeling to my usual patriotism the past four years has been one of embarrassment.  Because deep down, no matter how much we claim "not my president," Donald represents this country, and he represents us.

Do you recall the first Republican debate that included Donald?  It was hilarious because we thought he was the punchline.  Now, a presidential term later, we realize that the joke was on us.

I'm still shocked at how much people hated Hillary, but the current two-party system is a mess.  More often than not, voters are left to seemingly choose which candidate they'd rather lose, which is a bizarre method of voting.  Of course, who's to say what's the correct way to cast a ballot?  Some hone in on character, others policies.  Many are single-issue voters who just punch red or blue down the ticket, no matter what.  It's a flawed process because we are voting for flawed people.

There is no such thing as a perfect candidate because there is no such thing as a perfect person.  But with every part of my being -- as a Christian, as a father, as a husband, as an Asian-American, everything -- I'm tired of feeling embarrassed because of Donald.  The word "evangelical" is thrown around a lot around election time, but I'm tired of worrying about whether Donald is somehow speaking on my behalf in the eyes of nonbelievers.  I'm tired of anti-racism somehow being categorized as a political stance.  I'm tired of seeing AA friends worry about our safety with each time Donald trashes the "Chinese Virus" that his administration has completely failed in handling and resorted to ignoring.

As my brother-in-law Josh said so eloquently, my faith informs my values, and my values inform my politics.  And so, today, I continue to pray for my country, and I celebrate the hope of new beginnings.  Hello,  President-elect Biden.  Let's get to work.

How Omar Dominated Hurricane Harvey

Hurricane Harvey was 10 months ago, and Omar is getting married this week.  I think now is the perfect time to set the story straight.

Harvey was devastating to the city of Houston, but we are a resilient people, and out of the torrential, never-ending downpour birthed countless stories of heroism and sacrifice.  I have always been proud to throw up the "H," but that fateful week in August was peak H-Town.

But somehow or other, it has gotten back to me from various people that my role in the “rescues” has been grossly exaggerated.  Like, worse than how badly the folks on Storage Wars overestimate how much they can sell their cobwebbed junk for.  No, I did not backstroke from my own flooded house with my wife and 1-year-old in tow.

Our house was under mandatory evacuation, so we spent a rushed hour moving a lot of our stuff to the second story before loading up the Honda Fit to head over to my parents’ house.  The three of us huddled into the car, bowed for a quick prayer, turned the key… and nothing.  The battery was dead.

The timing was not ideal, with the water on the roads rising by the minute, and by the time we transferred everything and everyone to the other car, the water was over the curb and creeping onto the sidewalk.  Luckily I was able to maneuver around the new lake by cutting across my front lawn, and I thought I was so slick until we got to Sienna Parkway and grasped that my car was way too low to pass.  Defeated, we retraced our steps, sliding across the front lawn and back into the garage.

Enter Omar.  His giant truck showed up on our driveway to take us to the promised land.  With my family safe and Omar willing and ready to continue helping out, I started asking around via text and tweets to see if anybody was stuck at their house.  Over the next few hours, we assisted a couple of church families with escaping from neighborhoods with knee-deep water on the pavement.  That’s when we started hearing about one particular flooded subdivision in Riverstone. 

Omar and I showed up at the scene at about 10 PM, with two church families in mind to pick up.  We had two addresses in hand and were getting more via the magic of the internet.  My phone had died, so I was signed in to Twitter on Google Chrome on Omar’s phone inside of a Ziploc bag.  It was still raining hard.  The water was more than halfway up the stop sign poles.  There were all kinds of first responders there, including volunteers, police officers, and the fire department.  We told a handful of officers about the addresses we had, and they only had room for one of us on their boat, so Omar went with them while I hurried back to his truck for warmth.  I was soaked and shivering and regretting ever making fun of one of my friends for being a hoarder and keeping random items like a wetsuit in his garage.

Omar returned about half an hour later, explaining that they only had a chance to go to one of the addresses.  By this time, I had acquired another church friend’s address as well as countless others from strangers.  Omar and I clearly needed a boat to be of any use at all, so we started looking for one.

Somewhat miraculously, we found one lying on the side of the road.  The motor was busted, but at least it floated.  We requested permission to borrow it from two officers in the vicinity, but nobody seemed to even know who it belonged to, and one of them shrugged and told us to just return it after we were done.

This is the part of the story where I clearly delineate our character roles.  To put it into board game context, I was the dispatcher in Pandemic, trying to figure out who needed to be moved where and when.  Omar was the tank piece in Monopoly, doing unbelievable tank things.  Wait, there’s a tank piece in Monopoly, right?  If not, that entire metaphor falls apart.  Okay, back to the story.

We pushed the boat to the entrance of the neighborhood, and since there weren’t any oars or paddles, I was thinking we could wade alongside the boat or I could kick from behind like Dash in The Incredibles.  But Omar had other ideas.

"Get in," he said simply.

So I hopped into the 3.5-seater and watched as the Beast from the Middle East threw the rope attached to the front of the boat over his shoulder, tied it around his midsection... and just.  Started.  Walking.

Thanks to Cynthia Hua for the quick picture!

I had transformed from a dispatcher to a human GPS, and I sat there using my best robot voice for directions as Omar dragged me and the boat in cold, chest-deep water.  This wasn't a short adventure -- we had two houses to get to, and the further one was more than half a mile from the subdivision entrance.

I wish the rain let up for a single fleeting moment so I could sneak a picture in.  But Omar kept on trekking, and you couldn't hear anything except for the raindrops falling on the rising water around us and the motors of the other boats.

One of the officers driving another boat stopped us.  We were in a boat going way below speed limit in the midst of a hurricane, and we still got pulled over by the cops.  Things got unnecessarily tense:

Officer: "Where did y'all get that boat?"
Us: "It was on the side of the road."
Officer: "That's the property of the Fire Department.  You shouldn't be out here anyway.  Turn around and put it back where you got it.  You're lucky we don't have you arrested."
Us: "Well, we asked one of the officers there if we could borrow it."
Officer: "Did you?  What was his name?"
Us: "Uhh... I don't remember.  But we have two families at two addresses who need help, and we'll return the boat after that."
Officer: "You have two addresses?  Okay, fine.  But you can't fit more than 3 other people on that boat.  So lead these officers to one of the addresses and then return the boat immediately."

So Omar resumed his Strongman competition, except now we had a larger boat with three officers in it chugging along slowly behind us.  We passed by submerged cars and SUVs, making sure to avoid trees and fire hydrants as the caravan made its way towards the first address.  When we finally arrived, we stepped inside to lend four hands with moving luggage and/or kids, and the water was almost two feet deep on the hardwood floors.  Water damage is awful.  We quickly escorted the family of six into the bigger boat, and I squeezed back into the water rickshaw to navigate to the second address.

After a number of twists and turns in the dark night, we reached the second house.  The water level was about two feet away from the base of the garage, and we loaded the family of three into our bobbing vessel.  The mother was confused as to where Omar was going to sit.  I didn't say anything so I could fully enjoy the moment all their jaws dropped when they realized that Omar was about to singlehandedly haul the four of us out of the neighborhood.

It was a bit painful leaving.  The family was understandably worried about their home, and we passed up dozens of their neighbors appealing for aid from their front doors.  Our boat was probably past full capacity already, so we could only assure them that the Fire Department was on site and would be coming back soon to rescue more people.  But that must have been a sight to behold for them -- watching a hulk of a man ford a river while pulling a boat with four passengers in the middle of their street.  I hope they had popcorn ready -- that's superhero work.

Now we're coming up on the one-year anniversary of the natural disaster, and while the city is still recovering, I am honored to have witnessed the feats of incredible people like Omar who gave credence to the #HoustonStrong hashtag.

And that, my friends, is the (short) true story of how Omar dominated Hurricane Harvey.

Growing Up A Mok: Mighty Ducks 2

Mighty Ducks 2 likely spawned not only an illogical amount of ill will towards the country of Iceland but also a generation of kids hell-bent on pranking people who are passed out.  The movie came out when I was in elementary school, so I know all about the flying V, the triple deke, and the fact that Pat Riley looks exactly like the evil Iceland coach and is therefore never to be trusted.  But the best thing about D2 was the introduction of the shaving cream prank.

The prank is simple, as most genius ideas are.  Wait until the victim falls asleep.  Put an ample amount of shaving cream in his/her hand.  Use a feather to brush his/her face.  The victim will then also become the perpetrator by having to scratch his/her face with the hand loaded with shaving cream.  The perfect crime.

My friend Ryan, also a newfound prank enthusiast, was sleeping over at my house.  We waited until my brother Jason fell asleep, and then we snuck into his room and got to work.

Unfortunately, I lived in a shaving cream-free home, as my dad used an electric razor, so we had to find an alternative.  We actually didn't have any kind of cream, including whipped.  The only household item we could think of to do the trick?  Toothpaste.

Between muffled giggles, we squirted some Crest onto Jason's hands and then used a feather duster to try to get him to smear it onto his face.  Unfortunately, he wasn't being super cooperative, and the result ended up rather underwhelming.  Finally, we got tired and gave up and just put the toothpaste directly onto his face.  Then we called it a night and went to sleep.

The toothpaste didn't magically evaporate, of course, so I think Jason woke up with a burning sensation in his eyes and toothpaste all over the pillow and sheets.  My mother was quite unhappy, but she probably would have understood if she had caught the movie.

Now I can order some shaving cream off Amazon to try the same prank on the kids.  These suckers ain't ready.

Growing Up A Mok: Gravity

The hardest part of being a dad is not laughing when your kid does something he’s not supposed to do.  The other day Levi was stacking some plastic donuts on the window sill, and I was tired, so I laid down on the floor next to the window.  Then he started stacking the donuts on my face.  So I sat up and put a donut on top of my head before doing a full-body shimmy and letting the donut fall to the ground.

Little man found it hilarious, so I did it a few more times, with more emphasis on each successive shimmy.  Then I let the donut just sit there on my noggin, and Levi took a couple steps closer to me, reached out...

...and full-on slapped me across the face.  The donut fell.

I was so shocked that I couldn't catch myself from literally ROFL-ing.  I told him "not for hitting" a couple times between cackles, but those pearls of wisdom probably didn't hit home.

Our upstairs loft area is slowly but surely transforming into a Gymboree, complete with toys and tunnels and all sorts of things to climb up on.  You know, the same setup you would want for a pet hamster.  A few months ago, little man started hurling items off of the second story and watching them crash down to the living room floor below.

My first reaction was the same as Tom Cruise’s at the end of his greatest movie, Jerry Maguire.  Nice arm!  But I didn’t want to reinforce the bad behavior, so I tried (probably unsuccessfully) to hide my delight.

He has flung toys into the open abyss a few more times since then, and he definitely knows it’s wrong at this point, but every time he acts up, I’m quickly reminded that he could be much worse.  He could be me.

Way back in the 90s, during one of my family’s trips to Hong Kong, I remember my siblings and I were hanging out at my grandparents’ apartment.  Now I can’t recall where my parents were, but I do know that the adult supervision was lax, to say the least.  Of course, this could be because I was at an age where I shouldn’t have needed Shawshank level security, but don’t worry, nobody got physically hurt or anything.

My grandparents' place was 35+ stories high, so we did what any kids would do in that situation.  We cracked open a window and started throwing stuff out to behold the power of gravity.

The adventure began with some folded paper airplanes, but we soon ran out of paper.  There wasn't much just lying around the house that seemed all that disposable, so we started searching some drawers.

Next thing you know, we were throwing my grandma's underwear out the window.  In the name of science, I suppose.  It was glorious.  We'd take turns tossing one out, get on our tiptoes to follow the flight path as far down as we could, then giggle with pure glee.  Rinse, repeat.

We must have gone through at least a week and a half's worth of bum covers before we were finally caught red-handed.  My poor grandma... we didn't think it was worth it to go down to ground level to look for the scattered undies, so they were probably lost forever.  Except for maybe one pair that I remember had gotten caught on a clothesline a couple floors down, though I doubt ole G went down there to claim them.

I started out writing this as a parenthood-type post with a lesson to be learned at the end of the story, but now I can't stop chuckling at the visual of some unsuspecting passerby walking around, minding their own business, and then having their world go completely dark due to flying granny panties.  This seems like a proper way to conclude.

The Story of Shiloh

"We'll see what happens."

When you're a married Asian couple, you learn to develop a conditioned response for whenever your parents or family members or friends or complete strangers ask you when you're going to start a family.  We handled the first round with relative ease, but lo and behold, the questions don't stop after the first child.  So those five syllables were our defense mechanism to inquiries regarding baby #2.

If you know me and Ophelia, you know it was only a matter of time.  We love kids.  She would argue that I am still a kid.  In fact, one of her most repeated phrases during our first 6+ years of marriage is "I married a child."  (Which is actually kind of a weird thing to say, given her job.)

Where we differed a bit was in terms of the timing of our family planning.  I thought the ideal age gap between Thing 1 and Thing 2 was two years.  Ophelia's timeline was a bit lengthier, which can be attributed to the fact that she's a decade older than her sister.

Long story short, with Levi being a wild handful at 16 months old, we hadn't really talked seriously about bringing another pooping human into the equation just yet.

So it was the Thursday before Thanksgiving, and we were hosting our small group for a feast of food and feelings.  There was, as always, much to be thankful for, and then in the middle of dinner, Ophelia pulls me aside and says "we need to talk."

From my experience in both real life and pop culture, those four words are rarely followed by good news, so I followed her to the kitchen expecting the worst.  I'm normally pretty talented at reading people, especially my spouse, but I had this one pegged all wrong -- the look of shock on her face was not one of tragedy, but one of... well, shock.

She told me that Denise, our adoption case worker, had just called her.

Okay, I thought.  So far, so good. 

Levi's birthmother...

Uh huh... 

...had just given birth to another baby...

Woah... 

...and it's a baby girl...

Slow down... 

...and Denise wants us to pray it over and let her know what we think.

What.

We rejoined our small group at the dining room table and were able to give off the impression that our lives had not just potentially experienced a dramatic change.  But a short time later, we broke the news to them and asked for prayer.

Everyone else soon scurried home, and Ophelia and I prayed some more.  It was tough ignoring all of the outside factors.  Timing wise, it was a busy time of the year for both of our jobs, especially with me not yet hitting the one-month mark at the new gig.  But in my opinion, there's never a perfect time for any monumental life changes.  I mean, it's change -- and we're creatures of habit.  But you just have your faith and each other and you make it work.

We called Denise back and said yes.

Then we phoned our parents and siblings to pass the surprise along.  I was feeling a whole lot of deja vu from July 2016... except they all knew we were expecting to adopt a newborn baby back then, and this time nobody knew, not even us.

We spent the next day trying in vain to prepare a babbling toddler to be a big brother, but what can you say, really?  (Even now, not yet a month later, we'll read "big brother" books to him that don't make much sense.  "I'm a big brother.  My little sister has to wear diapers, but I can... wear big kid underpants!"  Wait, no you can't...)

On Saturday, after 40 hours or so of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual preparation for a second child, we walked through the AIM Adoptions door with a full backpack, an empty hand-me-down car seat that had been stashed in our garage, a crazy toddler, and open hearts ready to explode.

And three-day-old Shiloh Yan-Shun Mok did not disappoint.  I will never be able to say no to her.

PC Sharon Ku

Time to buy a shotgun.  (Only half joking.)

I've said it before, and I'll say it a million times more: God is so good.  Thank you everyone (again) for all the love in every form imaginable.  I'm getting questions (again) about dropping off food (Erica has set up a care calendar for us) or checking out our registry (we don't have one) or donating toward's Shiloh's adoption (guess I'll piggyback off of the one created last year), and I can't stress enough how blessed we feel in the midst of the chaos of being parents to 2 kids under 2 (2 under 17 months, but who's counting).

This is us.  We'll see what happens.

PC Sharon Ku

Big Eyes, Full Hearts

"His eyes are so big!"

Those are by far the most common five words I've heard in the past year, and for good reason.  Levi has a pair of eyes that you could get lost in, and the trouble is, he has already mastered how to use them.  He'll give you the side-eye when he's suspicious of you or the puppy eyes when he wants to be picked up.  And trust me when I say you don't ever want to see those bad boys well up with tears because you will be at his complete mercy.

But those five words also speak to a larger point.  While I still enjoy people telling me that little man's got my lips, if it's not already obvious, it's going to be blatantly obvious as he gets older that Ophelia and I are not his biological parents, which will only garner more comments and questions about his story.  I suppose the question most people want to directly ask but don't (well, some do) is:  Wouldn't it be easier to adopt a kid who looks like you?

There's no easy answer for that.  When we were praying over this whole adoption thing, there were countless factors to consider.  Domestic or international?  Infant or toddler?  Open or closed?

I've been out of school for almost a decade, but I still get the occasional nightmare where I show up late to a class completely unaware of the final exam.  Is that normal?  But let me tell you about the most unprepared set of questions I ever had to fill out.

The adoption agency gave us a questionnaire for our child preferences, and me being the efficient man that I am, I wanted to run right through it on my own.  You know, filling out the answers that I knew before reviewing the rest with the wife.

I got nowhere fast with that strategy, and all I ended up completing was our names.  But still very efficiently, obviously.

I'll tell y'all what, going through that questionnaire with Ophelia was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life.  It was just strange having those questions be multiple choice.  For a biological child, you don't get preferences as to gender or health or anything.  No matter what, you're going to love that child, and that child is going to belong to you.  Then all of a sudden we're talking about what medical issues we would be "okay" with, and things of that nature?  "Bizarre" is an understatement.

One question we immediately knew the answer for?  Which race we were open to: all of the above.

Label it a calling or cast it off as naivete, but the race issue was never really an issue.  In my mind, the entire adoption process was without a doubt in God's hands, so if He wanted us to have a baby that looked exactly like us, then He would give us a baby that looked exactly like us.

Most of you who know me best are likely aware that I was/am borderline obsessed with black babies.  I'm not sure if it was solely due to the trips to Africa or what, but those Kenyan kids sure did a number on my heart.  At the same time, though, I would be remiss if I completely ignored the current racial climate in this country.  Seemingly every single day there's another hate crime or another police brutality incident or another... the list is endless.

On the night we brought Levi home from the adoption agency, I was on the highest of highs.  My heart was so full.  I remember watching him sleep and going through all those new-parent feels... the "I can't believe I'm a dad" thoughts that finally had a chance to come to the surface after a 24-hour phone call notice.  But then, the shooting of the Dallas police officers happened that evening, on a day that was supposed to be focused on justice for the police killings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling.  Reality hit real quick.

And now today, on the eve of my first Father's Day weekend as a dad, the officer who shot and killed Philando Castile has been acquitted of all counts a month and a half after there were no federal charges against officers in Alton Sterling's case.  Unfortunately, nobody is surprised, but people are definitely getting understandably angrier.

I hate to think about how my parenting might change depending on how dark my son's skin color ends up being.  I don't want him to grow up fearing or hating the police, and I shudder at the thought of something as simple as a traffic stop ending up like any of these worst case scenarios.  There's too much hate to the point that it gets overwhelming at times, and race is often a driving force behind it.

So today and every day I pray for my boy's big eyes.  I pray that they be able to take in everything around him -- the good, the bad, and the ugly -- and still shimmer with excitement and determination to make this world a better place.