Growing Up A Mok: Planes, Trains, and David Blaines

With the baby set to embark on his first airplane ride soon, this is probably as prime a time as any to begin praying that he is nothing like me when it comes to being a passenger on enormous vehicles.

Nowadays, I'm rather harmless.

If I'm a passenger on an airplane, I tend to go for the window seat so I can doze off with my headphones on and without my neighbors being forced to step over me or nudge me or test the capacities of their bladders.

If I'm a passenger on a subway, I can begrudgingly resist the urge to do pullups and an Olympic gymnast rings routine for the sake of those around me.  However, it is essential that I attempt to stand without holding onto anything, and I will at some point stumble into someone else.  Don't ask me to explain it -- I just have to.

If I'm a passenger on a car, don't put me in the front seat because I will inevitably fall asleep.  It doesn't matter if you designate me as the "navigator" -- it's only a matter of time.

But alas, this wasn't always the case.  There was a time when I was a terror to deal with on public transportation.  On one of my first flights to Hong Kong, I was restless.  I don't know what they put in the food, but I could not be contained.  If you really think about it, an airplane aisle is an ideal place for a peaceful protest, and during one of the meals or drinks services, I clamped down and protested whatever it was I was protesting like my life depended on it.

I was lying face flat on the floor in the middle of the aisle with every arm, leg, or tentacle hooked around a chair leg.  I was immovable, like Thor's hammer. The stewardesses walked by and weren't sure what to do, so they asked my mom to move me, but she was also helpless against my sheer force of will.  Not even my mother's tears could loosen my death grip.  I can't remember how the standoff ended, though I'm pretty sure they didn't turn the hose on me or anything like that.  I wish I could recall what exactly it was I was protesting so fiercely against.  Whatever it was, you can't teach heart.

This sprawled-out, surface-area-maximizing technique was a recurring theme on the subway.  Our family took a detour from our stay in Hong Kong to somewhere in China, and I was not pleased about it.  Hey, at least I knew what I was protesting this time.  So I spread eagle on a Chinese subway car and somehow lived to tell the tale.  I got to my feet once the intercom blared out our destination in three different languages and discovered that my clothes were no longer in three different colors.  I was covered in dirt and grime and filth and other nasty things that I don't want to think about right now.  Admittedly, this protest was not very well thought-out.

But the older I get, the more I reminisce fondly on our family road trips.  Our parents ensured we traveled essentially every school break we got, so there were countless hours stuffed in the back of a car hitting mile marker after mile marker.  We were playing Mario Kart on N64 while cruising at 75 mph well before cars were built with TV screens and electric outlets.  I would be landing aerial attacks on my siblings with green shells, red shells, and banana peels, popping all of their balloons in battle mode until fatigue set in and I had to catch some shut-eye.

Long road trips are actually the perfect trap to keep the family all together, for better or for worse.  On the downside, I love sleep, so I would be snoozing as much as possible, but my parents and I would reenact the same argument every time we stopped at a gas station.  The rest of my family, equipped with significantly smaller bladders, would empty out of the automobile en route to those nasty non-Buc-ee's bathrooms, but I would continue snoring.  My mom and dad would start getting upset for some reason, saying that I should go even if I didn't need to go.  I think they resorted to rolling up the windows and turning off the car to smoke me out once, but my slumber knows no bounds.

On the upside, though, if you can ignore the people constantly endeavoring to usher you to the restroom, those car rides produced countless memories.  You're stuck in a car together, so you don't really have a choice but to enjoy each other's company.  There was the N64, sure, but there were also the songs, the games, the laughter, and the high fives whenever we got a trucker to honk his horn.

A top three road trip flashback for me would have to be the magic tricks.  A deck of cards is a staple on every vacation, and there are only so many times you can play War before you find something better to do.  Scratch that, War never gets old; we probably resorted to magic tricks because it was more of a 3-person activity.  Anyway, after we got through our elementary renditions of the "is this your card" tricks, I decided to get my David Blaine on.

I opened with a humble proposal: "Let's try to see if we can guess cards."

I held a card up to my forehead, thought for a couple seconds, then surmised, "Eight?"

My sister and brother were delighted. "Yeah!"

I pinned another card to my noggin, furrowed my brow in concentration, and theorized, "This feels like a... six?"

"Oh my gosh!"

After a few more runs with this, they glanced around, suspicious that my mom was feeding me the answers from the front of the car, but she wasn't paying attention.  Then I got cocky.

"Jack of diamonds."

"Three of hearts."

"Five of spades."

I must have went through half the deck, with these youngsters getting more and more riled up with every card.

Finally, the gig was up.  Not because they figured out that I was reading the cards off of the rearview mirror or the reflection on the window behind them, but because it got too dark outside for me to distinguish the cards.  I ended up just laughing and telling them the truth so they wouldn't think I was possessed and perform an exorcism on me during hibernation.

Moral of the story: if you have kids, buckle them in to their airplane seats with padlocks and throw away the keys. And don't drag them to China; China is the worst. Instead, force them to go on country-wide road trips with you, but if they claim they don't have to pee, then they don't have to pee. 

The "Why" Behind Adoption

When I tell people about my son's adoption story, they are always shocked about how sudden everything happened.  And as I reflect back on the past eight months, I grasp just how wild it must really look to everyone else.

We attended the AIM Adoptions orientation on March 24.  We walked in for our couples interview on April 19.  We went to the group home study on April 21.  I had my interview on May 16.  Ophelia had her interview on May 27.  We hosted our home study on June 17.  Our son was born on July 5.  We got the phone call on July 6.  We met our son on July 7.

From start to finish, the process took 15 weeks.  105 days.  Most expectant couples are pregnant for 9 months.  We were "paper pregnant" for 19 days between being approved at our home study and picking up the phone call that left our jaws on the floor.

Those 19 days were an interesting time.  The wife and I had naively planned a bunch of mini weekend vacations scheduled after our home study thinking that we could take advantage of our last few months of DINK (Double Income No Kids) before becoming DIOK or SIOK.  Of course, things didn't quite go as expected, and the only trip we were able to take was a July 4 weekend in Dallas.

I remember discussing the adoption process with some of my closest family and friends, and there were always two main questions that popped up from their end.

1. How do you feel about becoming a dad... at any moment?

This one was easy -- I felt terrific.  Wonderful.  Amazing.  I don't know if it's just my personality to not worry or stress about much, but I'd like to think that in this case it was a combination of both my personality and my faith.  Honestly, there was just this overwhelming sense of peace about the whole situation.  In a poetic sense, having everything out of my control was the best reminder to me that I was never in control in the first place.  God was and is and will always be my compass, and I knew there was no reason to fret about the adoption because it wasn't a matter of "if" he would provide us with a child, it was a "when."  I have no doubt that He had Levi in mind for us well before the thought of adoption ever entered our consciousness.

2. Why are y'all adopting?

This question was much more loaded.

The Cliffs Notes version?  We felt like God was leading us to adopt this year.

The slightly longer version?  For me, the idea of adoption first started gnawing away at me in Kenya in 2006.  I was there on a church missions trip with my siblings and some other friends, and we met hundreds and hundreds of kids.  We visited several orphanages, and our time spent playing with those children is something that I will never forget.  It was so gut-wrenching to think about all the kids in the world who, for one reason or another, have to grow up without parents.  Someday, I thought to myself, someday I might be able to adopt.

I remember Ophelia and I talked about adoption at least a couple of times while we were dating.  The funny thing is, we talked about adopting more than we ever talked about getting married... which was just once.  (I was incredulous that men don't get engagement rings, and I was secretly trying to figure out her ring size.  Which I got wrong anyway, but that's another story.)  We both had a heart for adoption, and that's when I realized we would adopt at some point in the future... you know, assuming we got married and all.

Fast forward to 2015, four years of dating, one year of engagement, and four years of marriage, we began earnestly praying about the timing of a potential adoption.  Then Fort Bend Community Church launched an adoption sermon series, where we got to not only hear testimonies from people in our church community who adopted but more importantly hear the pastors drive home the parallel of our adoption into God's family.  Things took off from there, and we listened to the adoption sermon series from Austin Stone as well, and eventually, it hit us.  This was it.  Let's do this thing.

Now today is National Adoption Day 2016, and I'm finishing up this post with a beautiful 4.5-month-old baby boy on my lap, with both of us cackling at the sweater vest hoodie that covers his eyes.  Looking back over the 10-year journey that God has brought me on to this point, I can't help but wonder in awe at what the next leg of the adventure will look like.

Growing Up A Mok: Chinese School

Ever since we adopted Levi, one of the most common questions we get is: "Are y'all gonna teach him Chinese?"

The short answer?  We don't know.  His grandparents will definitely try their best, but it's tough for me to consider Chinese school when I went through more than a decade of classes with essentially nothing to show for it.

No offense to any of my teachers -- they are wonderful people -- but teaching kids Cantonese when they rarely, if ever, speak it at home is such a waste of time.  I memorized a lot of vocabulary words during those years, but the dialect is like 90% slang, so the majority of those words were useless in the real world.

I'll always remember Chinese school for what it truly was: a hindrance to my love of basketball.

When I first started Chinese school back in the 90s, it was the heyday of the best Sunday afternoon TV lineup ever: NBA on NBC.  Like 98% of Asian kids back then, I did not have access to cable television, so those Sabbath tripleheaders were my only real glimpse into the rest of the NBA world outside of my beloved Houston Rockets.  I still dream about that intro music sometimes.

We'd be plugging away in class waiting for our next break, and when the teacher finally relented, we would all crowd around the beat-up television set in the corner and try to catch a scratchy, pixelated glimpse of a Michael Jordan highlight.  Someone would have antenna duty, which consisted of twisting and curving that precious piece of metal until a semi-clear image would appear on the screen.

Kids today got it so easy with their smartphones and tablets and Wi-Fi.  Back in our day, we had to work that antenna like a Stretch Armstrong to get a decent picture.

I couldn't get enough of basketball back then.  It was always on my mind, and the obsession manifested itself with basketball cards.  Every week after worship service, it would be a trading frenzy that even the folks at the World Trade Center would be proud of.  And since Chinese school was also at church a couple hours later, much of class turned into a prolonged negotiation.  I did everything I could to collect cards of my two favorite basketball players: Sam Cassell and Penny Hardaway.  This is especially fitting now because my entire collection is currently worth pennies as well.

The strangest thing about Chinese school was that my parents still somehow got me to keep going.  We're not merely talking about a couple of my formative years, we're talking tail end of middle school territory, and I'm sitting in a small church classroom on a Sunday afternoon... still waiting for that cherished mandatory break.

There was a bell involved, but not the fancy kind at normal schools that dings over the intercom system.  No, the Chinese school bell was literally a bell that some volunteer lady would have to parade around the church ringing that signified when everyone could escape from their classrooms for a few minutes.  You just hoped you would be at the beginning of her bell route instead of near the end because everyone was headed for the same place: the basketball court.

Ball is life.  It didn't matter that the break was only supposed to be maybe ten minutes long.  We'd always try to get a game in.  Then the bell lady would inevitably start her march again, and we'd all groan, hang our heads, and head back to class wondering what we were doing with our lives.

By the time we reached high school, my class was the oldest grade for Chinese school.  Nobody really wanted to be our teacher anymore, as I think we had developed a bit of a bad reputation.  Frankly, most people were wondering why we were still there.  Myself included.

Chinese school hit rock bottom when our class consisted of maybe five people, and we had straight up lost all motivation to take it seriously.  We wouldn't stop talking and/or playing paper football, so the teacher punished us the only way he could think of.  He started by putting my friend Evan in a corner for timeout.  Evan was confused at first, but he got to his feet, stepped to a corner of the room, and goofily stood there, looking back at the table where the other four of us remained sitting while the teacher tried to continue the lesson.

But we kept chitchatting, so the teacher sent me to another corner.  And on and on until I swear four of us high schoolers were standing in a different corner of the room, with only one student left at the table with any chance of learning Chinese.  The room wasn't even that big, maybe 10 x 15, so we were all within arm's length of the table.  We were clueless about what to do, so at one point we started doing the wave.  It was bizarre and hilarious -- to this day, I can't think of that story and not chuckle.

So back to the original question: are we going to teach our son Chinese?  Yes, but probably not through Chinese school.  And for sure only the most important words like "bathroom," "are you kidding me," "too expensive," and "beef flat noodle."

Growing Up A Mok: CiCi's

Whenever I'm with a group of people who can't decide where to go for their next meal, I typically suggest CiCi's.  But the idea is almost always immediately vetoed, and I'm left wondering why with tears streaming down my face

For those living under a rock, CiCi's is an all-you-can-eat pizza joint that has somehow developed a bad rep.  They serve other stuff too, like salads and soups and pastas, but only weird people put that stuff on their plates.  Going to CiCi's and eating something other than pizza is like... going to a pizza joint and eating something other than pizza.  There's absolutely no justification.

But I'm biased towards CiCi's, of course.  I grew up on that glorious buffet line.  You can ask my sister or brother -- if we heard we were going out to eat, we would get hyped... until we'd ask my dad where we were headed, and his response would predictably be the same.

"Chinese restaurant."

We'd wail and we'd whine, but an hour later, we'd be spinning a lazy Susan at one of three restaurants our family would cycle through.  It got to a point where my brother hated Chinese food.  Actually, maybe he still does, and that's why he lives in Chicago now.

Then my parents discovered CiCi's.  And everything changed.

I'm still not sure how it happened.  I'm guessing they caught a fateful CiCi's TV commercial that detailed the kids' special price of $1.99, and their eyes naturally lit up like a Christmas tree.

That tiny human price was supposed to cover children ages 10 and younger, so my parents snuck us all in there with a slouch until we were at least 12, possibly even 13.  I specifically remember the cashier giving me some side-eye one of the final times my parents risked getting blacklisted from the greatest pizza place in the world, but what were his options?  Was he gonna card me?  Ask my parents for a birth certificate?

Another time I was so anxious to burst into the restaurant that I exited the car a couple seconds prior to my dad pulling into the parking spot.  But my dad was also so anxious to burst into the restaurant that he didn't register my calls of distress after he had parked the car on my foot.  He was halfway to the entrance before he finally understood my screams.

Aside from the bargain basement cost of entry, let's talk about the pizza for a second.  They offer a plethora of options sitting out ready for consumption; from the classics (cheese, pepperoni, sausage) to the specialties (taco, barbecue, chocolate), there's a flavor for every type of palate.

You know that feeling when you pay for one package of Reese's peanut butter cups from a vending machine but two drop down?  This part is kinda like that.  Not only is CiCi's already scrumptious with the endless supply of pizza, but they will build and cook you ANY PIZZA YOUR HEART DESIRES.

I thought there was a catch at first.  But next thing I knew, my mom had ordered a spinach and pineapple pizza, and our lives were never the same.

You can hate on CiCi's all you want, but one thing is undeniable: nobody makes a better spinach pizza.  It may sound bizarre, but add pineapples to it, and your taste buds will do a happy dance.  As I've grown older, I've added Italian sausage to the mix, so now every food group is covered.

But some things don't change, like my habit of piling up the uneaten pizza crusts like carb-loaded trophies in order to keep count of how many slices I've scarfed down.  Every visit to this legendary restaurant has a built-in eating contest added to the experience.

And perhaps now you understand why it's 2016 and my siblings and I are still celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and other momentous occasions at CiCi's.  And perhaps still sneaking Sprite into the water cups.

Growing Up A Mok: BELUGA

I had an epiphany the other day.  I realized that I've been a sports fanatic for over 20 years, and those west coast games are still too late.  They tip off somewhere in the vicinity of 9:30 PM and just seem to last forever.  That's two decades of staying up way past my bedtime to support my team to victory.  Story of my life, you could say.

When I was a wee lad, I had this handheld radio that I would turn way down and put underneath my pillow.  My parents would come upstairs to make sure my siblings and I were all tucked in and asleep, and I would have my eyes closed but my ears tuned in to the basketball game.  I always knew the next day would be miserable with so little shut-eye, but I was committed -- I couldn't take a play off.

Sometimes I'd be bolder and wait until my parents went to sleep to try to sneak downstairs to the living room to turn on the TV.  I'd tiptoe down the stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creaked.  It was super suspenseful since my dad heard absolutely every sound back then.

I would reach the TV and angle it away from the direction of my parents' bedroom to minimize the light.  It was pitch black in the room, but I had that remote control memorized better than my phone number.  I'd hit the power button, followed immediately by the mute button.  Then I'd take a quick five second delay to look for any movement from the parents.  After that, the coast was clear, so I'd let a tiny smile escape and watch the Seattle SuperSonics crush the Houston Rockets and all my hopes and dreams.

I managed a 75% success rate.  On the times that I failed, I'd be focused on watching Detlef Schrempf sink another bucket, and then my heart would skip a startled beat as my dad would suddenly be four feet behind me saying one single word: "JONATHAN."

That's all it took.  One word, and I'd turn off the TV, mutter good night, slink back upstairs, crawl into bed... and turn the radio back on.  I mean, what else could I do at that point?

As luck would have it, my family moved to another house a few years later.  It was just like the previous one, with all three of the kids' bedrooms upstairs, but with one essential addition: an upstairs game room.  And we got a TV in there.

Oh, boy.  What a time to be alive.  But I started getting cocky and wouldn't leave the games on mute.  I wanted to hear the crowd ooh and ahh after a beautiful Dream Shake.  I wanted to feel the crowd silenced after a dagger jumper.  I wanted to get the full experience... especially since I was sacrificing some much-needed sleep for it.

My success rate at getting away with it increased slightly.  Either I was way too immersed in the basketball game or my dad was way too much of a ninja, but he'd still make me jump with his patented "JONATHAN."

Then it clicked.  Why did God bless me with younger siblings if not to be lookouts?  So we talked it over and came up with a code word: "BELUGA."  For the life of me, I can't recall how we came up with this word other than it sounding funny, but it sure worked.

My brother's room was the closest to the stairs, and when he'd hear footsteps, he'd let out a quick "BELUGA," which gave me plenty of time to turn off the TV and slide back into bed.  Little did we know at the time, but this system of ours would also reap large dividends when it came to fruit.

You see, my mom never thought we ate enough fruit.  It was probably true, but she would overcompensate by preparing three servings for each of us at a time.  I swear her life calling is to prevent any of us from contracting scurvy.

By now, you probably know how my dad always lied about the "Is this new" question, but with my mom, her pants-on-fire Achilles heel was the "Is this one fruit" question.  She'd always try to convince me that yes, this overflowing bowl stacked with oranges did indeed come from one single orange.  I'd try to test the theory by putting the orange pieces back together like Legos, but not once did it ever fit.

Some teenagers rebel by smoking or drinking.  Me?  I did the more sensible thing.  I rebelled by throwing orange slices off my brother's balcony into the empty lot adjacent to our house.  Yes, it was wasteful, but man, I really didn't feel like eating three oranges in one sitting every night.

Thanks in large part to the "BELUGA" call, the balcony had a 100% success rate, and chunking all that fruit built up my arm strength, so win-win.  A couple years ago, I came clean to my mother about the gravity-defying produce, and she was appalled, but (I think) she was eventually able to laugh it off.

Oh, but my parents don't know about the "BELUGA" thing yet, so if y'all could do me a solid and keep that on the down-low, my siblings and I would truly appreciate it.  Never know when it might come in handy again.  And now there's a lake behind their house, so the balcony Hail Marys will end up feeding whatever river monster lies beneath the surface.  Ugh, water sucks.

Growing Up A Mok: "Is this new?"

My dad is one of those people who grew up poor and is now not poor, but old habits die hard.  That statement may not have anything to do with the rest of this story, but it might, so I figured I'd lead with that to cover all my bases.

Growing up, my dad would always have some form of sustenance ready for his three kids in the morning.  He is a rad dad.  Half the time it would be something delicious, like pigs in a blanket or croissants.  The other half the time it would be some horrendous combination, like toast with both butter and peanut butter.  They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but butter and peanut butter is a punishment nobody deserves.

One thing was always consistent, though -- a giant cup of milk.  Now from this point onward, I know I'm going to risk sounding more and more like a spoiled brat, but in reality, I love milk.  Me and milk are tight.  Milk is responsible for cheese and ice cream, two of my favorite things (not together), so you know I have no problem with milk.

I just can't drink "old" milk.

No, I'm not talking about expired sour milk, although I definitely can't drink that, either.  I'm talking about milk that has been poured out and sitting for longer than ten minutes.

I don't know how to explain it.  The first 9.99 minutes after it leaves the jug?  Cold, fresh, and anything 1% fat and over?  Money.

Once that timer hits ten minutes, though?  The taste of the milk completely transforms.  Like I said, I don't know how to explain it -- it's just science.

But my dad would never believe me.  I've had a lifelong struggle with alarm clocks, so I wasn't always the most punctual person to the breakfast table.  I take sole responsibility for that, but nobody should have to drink old milk.

After the first couple times, I told my dad to not pour me milk.  If anything, I could pour it myself, right?  In theory, yes, but every time I came downstairs, there it was.  A glass of milk waiting for me.  He just couldn't help himself.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm grateful.  More so now than back then, probably.  But I started asking my dad what became a recurring question in the house: "Is this new?"

My dad's automatic response: "Sun, gah!"

For my non-Cantonese brethren, that's a yes.  Specifically, the direct translation would be "new," followed by one of the thousands of interjections Cantonese people tack on to the end of every sentence.

So I took a big gulp.  I don't know what was worse, the poison going down my throat or the knife in my back.

Maybe it was just bad milk, I thought.  Gotta give my father the benefit of the doubt, right?  It's all good, just a one-time strange mishap.

I reminded my dad that I would get my own milk, but the following day, there it was again, a full cup sitting on the counter.

I inquired with a raised brow: "Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

So I took a smaller sip this time, a little more skeptical than the day before.  And my suspicions were justified -- this was definitely old milk.

We reached an impasse.  My dad couldn't not pour me milk, and I couldn't drink old milk.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I would wait until he left the kitchen, then I'd pour it down the drain.

Everyone judging me for wasting milk right now, please stop.  It wasn't just me.  My siblings followed suit.  That doesn't change much of anything, but at least it should spread the judging around.  If I'm going down, I'm taking y'all down with me.

My dad caught one of us in the act, and he wasn't all that giddy about it.  What followed was an unpleasant discussion, but I thought that was the end of him pouring milk for us.  But he just adapted.

The next time, there it was, taunting me.  Another cup, brimming with milk.

"Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

So I grabbed the handle on the mug, and it sent my Spidey sense tingling.  The handle was cold.  Cue the dramatic music.

My dad had poured the cup of milk, placed it in the fridge, waited until I was almost downstairs, pulled it out of the fridge, placed it on the table, and told me that he had just poured it.

I trust my dad with everything in life.  Except for an honest answer to the "Is this new?" question.

But it's easy to flip the script and see things from my dad's lenses.  He just wanted to make sure the three of us had our fill of vitamin D.  His motives were pure.  His inability to tell the truth was limited to milk.

Or so we thought.

Fast forward a few years, and my brother Jason was home from college for the weekend.  Only problem?  He forgot his toothbrush and asked our dad for one.

My dad disappeared into his room, reemerging a few seconds later with a toothbrush.  No plastic wrap.  No container.  No nothing.

"Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

Jason went in for a closer inspection.  The stick was slightly worn.  The bristles were pointed in different directions.  This toothbrush was definitely used -- on someone else's teeth, on the bathtub, on the toilet seat -- your guess is as good as mine.  My brother looked up, prepared to protest, and my dad just had the goofiest grin on his face.

The best part?  Jason ran into my dad's bathroom to investigate, and my old man had a handful of brand new toothbrushes still in their boxes just waiting to be opened.  That nasty toothbrush from who knows where that my father had tried to pawn off onto my brother wasn't even close to being the only extra toothbrush he had.

Needless to say, nobody asks my dad "Is this new?" anymore.

Growing Up A Mok: Mini Identity Crisis

I've always been tempted to write a book.  My interest piqued at the height of popularity of David Sedaris books.  I read one and thought to myself, I could write stuff like this and somebody would pay me?  But the motivation proved fleeting, and now when I think of writing a book, it just sounds like a whole lot of work for very little payoff.

All that is to say that this is the start of (hopefully) a series of posts about random childhood stories.  Man, my writing is rusty.  Well, I suppose I gotta start again somewhere, so if it's anything like riding a bike, I'll be pedaling headfirst into a mailbox soon.

But that's a story for another time.  Today let's just start simply with an introduction to my name.

My parents almost named me Godwin.  It was a tossup between that or Jonathan, and I don't know what turned the tide, but I'm glad it did.  At this point, though, I've been called so many different names in my life that I go through a mini identity crisis every time I am forced to introduce myself.

Life began easily enough.  Everyone called me Jonathan except for the family friends who knew my Chinese nickname, Kay-Kay.

And then I got to 6th grade and joined the orchestra.  And, wouldn't you know it, there was another Jonathan Mok in there.

It turned out we lived in the same neighborhood.  And we both had sisters named Jennifer.  And we both had mothers who were realtors.  And we both were cool enough to pick up a stringed instrument.

So what happens when two people have the same name in a class?  Contrary to popular belief based loosely off the movie Highlander, we didn't have a cage match fight to the death, with the sole survivor being awarded the honorable name.  He was older and in 8th grade, so he became Big Jon Mok, and I was henceforth known as Lil Jon Mok.

The nickname caught on quick, and it even became one of my first AIM screennames.  But somewhere along the way, I forgot the password.  I don't have any regrets in life, but if I did, losing that password would be way, way up there at the top of the pile.

My family moved that summer, and the other guy didn't move with us, so at my new school, "Lil Jon Mok" was soon shortened to just "Mok."

Names have been on my mind quite a bit recently.  The wife and I had about 12 hours to finalize a name for our son after we got a phone call informing us of his birth, so it's a good thing we had juggled a couple potential boy and girl names beforehand.  The conversation started off something like this:

Me: I don't want a name that's too long.
Wife: What's too long?
Me: Anything more than two syllables.
Wife: But your name's Jonathan...

I don't have anything against my name.  My parents would repeatedly tell me that it meant "gift from God," which is coincidentally something that I also repeatedly remind the wife of.  I like the name, but for a variety of reasons, it just has no staying power.

I think it boils down to two primary aspects:
1. The name is too long
2. The name has one relatively strong syllable and two laughably weak syllables

With the first bullet point, I haven't done the necessary research, but according to my 30-second mental list, 86% of names over two syllables are cast aside for shorter nicknames.  The proof is in the pudding -- think of all the Jonathan's you know.  Do any of them actually go by Jonathan?

Regarding the second bullet point, imagine a crowded, noisy area.  Your local pub, perhaps.  I can't even begin to count how many times this exact situation has taken place after making some small talk with a stranger:

Stranger: HEY I'M ___, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?
Me: I'M JONATHAN.
Stranger: WHAT WAS THAT?
Me: JONATHAN.
Stranger: JOHN?
Me: JONATHAN.
Stranger: JOHNNY?
Me: OKAY.

Thankfully, not all of my interactions require yelling, and in my professional life, it's rather straightforward.  "Hello, my name is Jonathan.  Nice to meet you."

However, in a more informal setting, I run through a quick mental algorithm to figure out if I should call myself Jonathan or Mok.  Am I going to come across this person again?  If so, how many times?  Are we going to get past the acquaintance stage?

Sometimes I decide on "Jonathan" and am in mid-handshake when a mutual friend will pop his/her head in and be like, LOL WHAT WHO'S JONATHAN?  Thus begins a much longer explanation than necessary culminating in a "Mok, Jonathan Mok" catastrophe in my worst James Bond impersonation.

So there's the answer, right?  In mega-decibel arenas, I refrain from using my first name, and it has worked.  I have completely avoided being called "John"!  Instead, this exchange occurs:

Stranger: HEY I'M ___, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?
Me: I'M MOK.
Stranger: WHAT WAS THAT?
Me: MOK.
Stranger: MARK?
Me: MOK.
Stranger: MARK?
Me: OKAY.

Problem solved.

Three Things I've Learned in my Three Weeks as a Dad

It's been a crazy three weeks in the Mok household.  One night my wife and I were cooking a simple dinner together, and the next we were going to pick up our son Levi from the adoption agency.  This happened two days before our 5-year wedding anniversary, so there have just been a lot of feelings floating around.  In the midst of this wonderfully surreal chaos, between the midnight feedings and the diaper changes, there's been a delicate balance of the incredulity at how life has suddenly changed and the realization that God always knows what He's doing.

I've learned that God's plan is far better than my own.  And in the season of glorious uncertainty known as adoption, this mantra provided us with an indescribable sense of peace.  The process became not a question of "when" we would become parents, but "who" the child was that God already had in mind for us, long before the thought of adoption ever crossed our minds.

I've learned how crucial it is to know my compass.  When you become a parent, you get bombarded with a ton of reminders, tips, strategies, worries, concerns... the list goes on and on.  Though this input from friends and family always comes with good intentions, it's easy to get swept away with a certain idea until you go down an endless Google rabbit hole and you're tallying pros and cons off of random strangers on the internet.  At the end of the day, the inane details don't really matter, and what's left to figure out in raising your child comes down to prayer.  I've prayed a lot.  Constantly, it seems.  It definitely helps knowing that Ophelia and I aren't in this whole parenting thing by ourselves.

I've learned that there is nothing that I wouldn't give for my son, but my son will never be my everything.  One thing I supremely appreciate about my marriage is that we both understand that our identities are not entirely tied up with each other.  So it doesn't matter if it's my wife, my kid, my career, my ministry, my family, my friends, my hobbies -- I have to make a conscious effort to not worship any of these different aspects of my life.

So everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.  Praising God from whom all blessings flow.

The Story of Levi

Normally when the phone rings and I don't recognize the number, I let it go to voicemail.  But it was 9:30 PM, and I was just sitting on my bed, debating between going to the gym or finishing the Astros game, so I went ahead and took the call.

The voice was one I recognized -- Denise, our social worker from AIM Adoptions, who had just been at our house nearly three weeks earlier to complete our home study.  She had declared us "paper pregnant" at that point, and Ophelia and I had celebrated by planning a bunch of weekend trips over the next couple months while we had the chance to visit old friends and new places.

Denise asked if Ophelia was there with me, so I went to go get her.  I didn't want to get my hopes up, but my heart began to race, as I anticipated Denise telling us that she had shown our book to a birthmother, and we had been matched for an October or November birth.  Ophelia joined me in our room, and I put Denise on speakerphone.

"Are you ready to pick up your son?"

We were both speechless.  We looked at each other.  Back at the phone.  At each other.  At the phone.

"Hello...?"

We recovered from our shock long enough to respond and decipher the rest of the conversation.  He was born the day before, and the birthmother had called the agency to place him for adoption that same day.  We were asked to pray about it and let her know our decision that night.

I hung up the phone, still stunned.  But we prayed.  It's a good thing God knows our hearts and our prayers before we even utter a word because I don't know if either of us made much sense.  After saying "amen," we were convinced.  This was it.  He was the one.

First we called our families to relay the good news, and then it was logistics time.  The only baby-related items we had at our house was a crib that we had assembled a week before and the accompanying mattress that was still sitting in its comfy Amazon box.  We spent the night at Walmart, and Ophelia spent the next morning at Target to buy everything we needed.

We kept praying and preparing and working and cleaning until 4:00 PM, when Denise told us that our son was being discharged from the hospital, so we could make our way to the agency.  An hour later, we walked through the AIM door with a full backpack, an empty car seat, and an indescribable sense of joy.

After filling out some paperwork, we went to the next room, ready for the introduction.

Then we heard footsteps around the corner, and Denise came in with a car seat at her side.  And there, wrapped up in a white blanket, was our son.  20 hours after a phone call we'll never forget, our son, Levi Lai-Shun Mok, was in our arms.

It turns out that the profile book telling our story to potential birthmoms hadn't even been printed yet, but the last line of the book reads: We know that God has a child in mind for us, and we wait patiently for His perfect timing.

His timing is indeed perfect.  God is so good.

We have been overwhelmed with both God's love and the love from our families and friends.  Thank you all so much for all the messages, texts, calls, gifts, meals, prayers... the list goes on and on.

Many of you have asked about dropping off food or checking out our registry or donating towards Levi's adoption, and we are so grateful at just the thoughts behind the inquiries.  We have amazing friends who are working on setting up a care calendar and a registry for us, but if you would like to help donate towards Levi's adoption, you can do so here.

Thank you all for the support as we became parents overnight.  Levi is so, so loved.

The Curious Case of Russell Westbrook

Russell Westbrook is teetering on the precipice of unchartered territory.  He is on the verge of a complete transformation in my eyes from the antihero to the superhero, and that just doesn't happen.  Normally, my initial assessment of an athlete sticks.  Forever.  Sure, my love or hatred of said player can vary from year to year, but it never flips from one end of the spectrum to the other.

By most accounts, I should have loved Russell Westbrook from the get-go.  The aspect I value most in a basketball player is his heart, and RW's heart is probably half of his body weight.  But his basketball IQ left much to be desired, especially coming from the point guard position.

Russ entered the league with unmatched brashness, which I typically adore, but unfortunately, that personality was shackled with poor shot selection and headshakingly-ridiculous decision-making which came at the severe detriment to the rest of his squad.  He was, and perhaps still is, the personification of a double-edged sword, as you can fall in love with him and want to kill him all within a 5-second span.

The Oklahoma City Thunder never had a chance against the Miami Heat in the 2012 NBA Finals.  We all knew it, especially with Scotty Brooks flailing as the head coach, but more glaring to me was the fact that Russell Westbrook wasn't ready, nor did I ever think he would be.  He was built for war, but he wasn't a leader of men.  Instead, he easily fell into the petulant youngest child role -- throwing mini tantrums accentuated by dumb fouls, never playing completely under control, and carrying around a gigantic chip on his shoulder for no apparent reason.

But sometime this past season, someone pulled a switch, and something clicked.  Russell is among a handful of people in the world who can not only play basketball when he's angry, but now he is actually better when he's angry.  And just like the Hulk, Russell Westbrook is always angry.

Watching Westbrook hoop now is a reenactment of that scene on a never-ending loop.  He has learned to control his fury and channel it against his opponents.  He still relies a bit too much on his athleticism at times, but that is a luxury that few can enjoy.  He's nowhere near a traditional point guard, but he is morphing into the dynamic hybrid guard that his team needs him to be.

I can't believe I'm saying it, but Russell Westbrook is about to make the impossible jump from my hated list to my top 10.  I said four years ago that RW would never win a ship, but he is clearly not the same player he was four years ago.  He has been an exemplary case study on the evidence of maturity and a reminder to all of us of one of the most beautiful qualities of human nature: the ability to change.

Some of you may not understand the significance of this development, but ball is life.

On Jealousy, Schadenfreude, and FOMO

I hate that "jealous" has become a common response on social media to something good happening to another person.

Obviously it's meant to be harmless, but jealousy in and of itself implies a sense of envy, and truth be told, we've probably all been programmed for the word to be more than just a joke.

A couple months ago, I learned the word "Schadenfreude" from a sermon at church.  It basically means that your happiness stems from someone else's misfortune.  There were a few chuckles here and there throughout the congregation at this concept, but at a time when everyone is constantly comparing their lives to those they see on social media, it can easily become the norm.

I was in Kansas City for most of February for training, and every morning I'd stop by the hotel drugstore to pick up a couple snacks for breakfast.  It got to the point where the guy recognized me, and we would chat for a couple minutes before I had to scamper off to work.

We had some good conversations throughout my four weeks there, ranging from the Super Bowl to the folk music convention in town, and it was all pleasant until one day he pointed to an article in the local newspaper which mentioned that certain poorer areas of the city would get free Google Fiber.

My first reaction was that this would be a great thing for Kansas City.  But then I saw the outrage on his face and heard the anger in his voice as he complained about a situation that didn't even affect him personally at all.  It just made no sense to me -- why was he mad about it?  Or furthermore, why would he even care at all?

Maybe it's all an extension of FOMO.  Ironically, the oversaturation of social media in our lives has led us to be more inward focused instead of outward.  Don't let this happen to you.  Celebrate when good things happen to other people.  Sympathize when bad things happen to other people.  Let's spread love, not jealousy.

Disdain for Intolerance

The one thing that two sides of an argument have in common is intolerance. You observe this in the recent obsession with the Presidential race, not only in televised debates, but among borderline awkward family discussions and light-hearted conversations with friends. The greater the knowledge a person attains, the more intolerant they become towards other viewpoints... which is kind of absurd, isn't it? The more we know, the less accepting we become. The more educated, the more stubborn.

Those who are at the forefront of a cause are so emotionally intertwined that they are rendered incapable of understanding the opponent. What results is intolerance: an "unwillingness or refusal to tolerate or respect [contrary] opinions or beliefs." It's a nasty word. It is inflexible, rigid. It is hostile towards the target. It has no issue with eradicating its enemy. It sees no value in the competition. Intolerance too hastily results in hate.

So how do we stay steadfast to our beliefs while still retaining our humanity, our goodness? How do we make ourselves heard while still showing love? The moment that we shift to intolerance, we become no better, no less despicable than our counterparts.

I only use politics as an example because it is readily available, but intolerance is everywhere. Intolerance is the basis of wars, deaths, genocide, broken families, smoldering bridges, and cyclical hurt. I think a fundamental human right is being entitled to an opinion. Not every opinion is just, morally acceptable, or a desired social norm -- but every opinion is valid in its existence. Intolerance is constructed when we unilaterally deny someone the immovable human right to have an opinion.

Recognizing that everyone is afforded an opinion is the beginning to learning how to stand for principles while not hating others who also dutifully stand by theirs. We must be able to conserve dignity as we advocate passionately. Martin Luther King Jr. has become ubiquitous in portraying peaceful fighting that I hesitate to quote him -- in case we have become numb -- but his words are too prudent to not repeat: "I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear." (Martin Luther King Jr., 1967. "Where Do We Go From Here?")

Personal Finance 101

Not to get all political up in here, but every second that Donald Trump continues to be anywhere near the top of the polls is yet another painful reminder of how ignorant this country can be.  Unfortunately, for many of us, that ignorance often rears its ugly head when it comes to personal finances.

This is a topic that is rarely talked about, and people just end up taking on the same spending/saving habits as their parents did, for better or worse.  So today I just want to touch on 10 quick-hitters related to personal finance.  If this helps even one person out there become a better steward of their money, then I'll be thrilled.

(And at the risk of sounding too preachy for the rest of this blog post, let me just start out by saying that I am not a perfect financial guru by any stretch of the imagination -- I've made mistakes with my money just like everybody else, and this is just a way for me to share some of what I've learned.  If nothing else, this will help me get some of my thoughts onto paper and get me back into the swing of this whole blogging thing.)

1. Any debt is a priority

I was fortunate enough to have a few scholarships and college savings help from my parents to walk away from college debt-free, but I know that is not the case for most of the nation.  ANY interest you pay on debt is STEALING money from you that you could be using on yourself/others.  That's the way you have to think.  You should cut out any discretionary spending until you get this paid off.  I could go on and on about this, but I think my man Mr. Money Mustache sums it up rather nicely here.

2. Budget monthly

The easiest way for you to lose money is for you to not keep track of your spending.  You gotta know your numbers!  At the end of every month, I break up all of my family's expenses into 4 main categories: tithe, bills, food, and discretionary.  Then I subtract these out from our income to see our net savings for the month.  I also have three more categories for insurance/taxes, vacations, and miscellaneous expenses, but the important thing is that you have to know where your money is going.  If you are reading this and would like a budget template, just let me know.

3. Load up on your 401K and Roth IRA

Now that you know where your money is going and how much you really spend every month, it's time to calculate how much you can put away into your 401K.  Of course, the bare minimum you should contribute is whatever your company matches -- that's just free money.  The maximum annual contribution is currently $18,000, and I suggest working your way towards that max.  After that, you should also max out your Roth IRA account with $5,500.  The difference between these two?  401K is pre-tax, which means you pay taxes later when you take out the money during retirement, when your tax bracket will likely be lower than it is currently.  So as a bonus, you lower your current taxable income and pay less taxes now.  For the Roth IRA, the money is already taxed before you put it in the account, and the income is tax-free from that point forward.

4. Pay extra principle on your house monthly

If you're currently renting, you should be saving up for a house downpayment, unless you live in an area where prices are ridiculous and it actually makes more sense to rent indefinitely.  If you're about to buy a house, see if you can afford the 15-year mortgage; compare the amount of interest between a 15-year and a 30-year, and you'll see why.  If you're already a homeowner, consider making extra principle payments monthly.  A mortgage is the only "good" debt, but interest is still interest -- better to pay off the balance sooner rather than later.

5. Minimize your checking account

The interest rates for money left in your checking or savings accounts are a joke.  And if you have more than a 6 months cushion worth of living expenses in those accounts, the joke is on you.  Any additional money you have shouldn't be lying around lazily, it should be working for you.  I dabble in individual stocks now and then, but for the most part, I know that I don't have the time, energy, or knowledge to follow the market that closely.  I recommend a set-it-and-forget-it strategy with index funds.  Personally, I have a Vanguard account split into four different funds ($VFIAX, $VTMGX, $VBIRX, $VTSAX) with dividends being automatically reinvested.

6. Treat your credit card like it's a debit card

Credit cards are not evil items.  They're a convenient way to pay for stuff, and you can get rewards back in the form of cash or miles.  The wife and I both have Chase Sapphire and Freedom cards at the moment.  But you gotta view your credit card like it's a debit card.  If you don't have the money to pay off your entire credit card balance, then you shouldn't be making that purchase.  Basically, only spend money you already have.  That "pay minimum amount" option they have on credit card sites is the worst thing ever.

7. Give yourself an allowance

Yeah, I know it doesn't feel like the grown-up thing to do, but giving yourself an allowance each month helps you to be wiser with your spending.  It doesn't have to be an end-all-be-all with self-loathing and punishment inflicted upon exceeding the allowance, but your discretionary spending amount should go hand-in-hand with your budget.

8. Don't borrow for cars

When did it become customary to borrow money to buy cars?  Why would you take out a loan on such a highly depreciating item?  If you can't afford to purchase a car with cash, that car is too expensive for you.  You don't want a monthly car payment hanging over your head for the next 5-10 years.  Refer back to #1 way up at the top of this post if you need to.

9. Find a money-making hobby

I'm a huge proponent for everyone having three kinds of hobbies: a fitness hobby, a creative hobby, and a money-making hobby.  These should help keep both your body and mind in shape, as well as giving you ideas for what you can do with your time once you reach retirement, where you won't have an 8-hour block of time siphoned off for your day job.  This money-making hobby can also end up funding some of your discretionary income or vacations, which is always useful.

10. Be generous

I wrote this post in hopes that people will worry LESS about their money, not MORE.  The topic of money should never consume your mind, and when you're not worried about your debt or your spending or your savings, you find that you actually have a lot of money leftover that you can be generous with.  Give to your church.  Give to organizations that are doing good work.  Give to causes that hold special meaning to you.  Give presents and pay for meals.  Give freely with your time, too.

Nobody ever reaches retirement by accident -- you have to plan for it.  If you get to retirement age and have nothing to show for it after working your butt off for decades, you have nobody to blame but yourself.  It's never too late to start good personal finance habits!

Deja Vu All Over Again

So far in 2016, it's been deja vu all over again.

This time last year, I was traveling from Houston to Denver to train with people whose jobs I was essentially taking over.  It was a sticky situation where I didn't want to step on anyone's toes, as those toes were soon officially losing their employment status.

Fast forward to today, and I am in the midst of my third week at my new company in Sugar Land, but they've sent me to Kansas City to train with people whose jobs I will essentially be taking over.  Yet another potentially awkward set of circumstances.

But in both instances, the people have just been so warm and welcoming.  Not that I had anything to do with the loss of their jobs in either case, but they could have just as easily seen me as the bad guy who's not only taking away their livelihoods but also forcing them to teach me how to do my job.

It's a delicate balance, and one where I am thankful to have met such resilient and big-hearted people at a time when our economy is anything but stable.  Thanks, humanity.