Home (fifth course)

Home

If you listen to my Mom speak you can detect the faintness of her British accent, she still has it after all these years. She often uses expressions that I have never heard of like “heavens to Betsy” “good grief”, and “you don’t know Adam from Eve’s house cat”. My favorite being “they have a face that could stop a clock”. I presume most of these are the derivative of British culture and humor being that they are expressions she learned from my grandmother Venus.

Presumably my Mom stands about five foot four, or as of lately, five foot two. Jokingly, she says that she is shrinking, but to me everything about her is remarkable. She is wise, strong and independent. Her natural ability to give unconditional love nurturing and kindness to me and others is unmatched. She is a Mom’s mom. I can remember when I was little I would lightly put my hand on the tufts of her curly hair for leverage as she dressed me for school. Nowadays, I am beckoned to take bowls down from the top shelves of the kitchencabinets, and sometimes half and half from the supermarket shelves simply because they are out of her reach. I joke with my mom often, as I exclaim “you’s a shawty” while getting the item down from the shelf. She usually shakes her head and laughs timidly at my slang, as then she pushes away with the grocery cart onto the next aisle.

One summer in my early teens, I looked over a handful of paper swatches. The one which was drawn from the pile by my mother, instinctively caused my intuition to go haywire. I had thought it to be too bright, but what did I know? I was after all, a teenager who often, was aloof to such pertinent ideas like painting the kitchen. I knew what my mom envisioned, something soft and warm and inviting. What was chosen, was loud and exuberant, and it had shown up that way once we applied it to the walls. It was as yellow as the yolks of sunny side up eggs, but as time went by we had grown used to it.

It would be years before my mother would allow me to entertain guests of my own. Even until this day mind you, she is reluctant to having people other than our family over. My mom is hospitable but is very self-conscious of our apartment. I have come to accept it is a mix of both a cultural and generational mindset, as I have many friends who can say the same of their parents. Somehow, she thinks that under the clichés of living where we live, we are a sham. Not, that we ever presented ourselves as so, she is accustomed to being in the company of her affluent friends. They had beautiful houses, decorated with exquisite items and furnishings. Utterly embarrassed about our clutter, the paint on our walls she usually remains reluctant, but I have managed to soften her worries after all these years.

Little does she know our apartment has been a place of solstice for many. And as for me, (well because I have been a visitor to many homes, some inhabited by people of affluence, and others by people not so affluent), I have determined many of us city folks live the same. In other words we make do with the space we have.

I have always reassured her that many of my close friends could care less about the way our apartment looks simply because they enjoy being here. Matter of fact there are times when I humorously wondered, who were they coming over to visit, myself or my Mom? I am often flattered by the fact they feel so comfortable conversing with her.

Many times, my friends have described an indescribable peace in our apartment. Such thoughts occur after the devouring of my Mom’s french fries (on occasion she melts sharp cheddar cheese on top and will sometimes add eggs and toast to accompany the fries). Shortly after they retire to my room to take a nap, while some remain in the kitchen with my mom. Close friends she considers sons and daughters of her own, and she’ll occasionally request me to invite them over so she could make a hard egg and bacon sandwich, or pork chops in a creamy mushroom sauce, if she has time she’ll make meat and veggie spaghetti, or dish of her Tuna casserole. Often after eating we are all anchored to the kitchen chair, eyes glazed over from fullness, until an interesting conversation ensues. We call this the ‘itis’ because of popular culture.

Mentioned many times over friends say that our place is cozy and peaceful, the energy calm and antidotal. There is a catch in the carpet along the hallway, and it trips people up many times over, but for the food, serenity and warmth, friends and family keep coming over to visit.

The Marina has been a wonderful home to us. On foggy evenings the fog horns serenade you, and the neighborhood dogs croon in the distance. Every other season or so, you can hear this unidentifiable bird make this unmistakably chirp. (As of recently I haven’t heard it but it is distinctive). At the closing of most summer days, a sweet floral aroma fills the air. On chilly fall nights, a smokiness reminds me that some homes still have old fashioned fireplaces.

Most mornings give way to an unfathomable peace, an invigorating freshness, a soul inspiring mindset. Through our bay windows, the sun tickles my face. Within the rays, thousands of dust particles float aimlessly awaiting their permanency on a piece of furniture. On some early morning walks, you can smell someone cooking up bacon, or you can smell someone making toast. When I was a teenager, I use to wake up at 5:00am in the morning to take a walk. I would pack my pockets full of cassettes and take a walk down to the Marina Green. Upon returning, I would make myself a bowl of doctored up Ramen. It had to be Maruchan ramen, because in my experience the base for Maruchan ramen has a pronounced unami flavor. I dropped in one egg, along to taste added Rooster sauce and Patis (Sriracha and Filipino fish sauce). The water had to be soaked almost all the way down, this made the noodles plump and sodden, from the liquid being reduced down, but back then this is the way I enjoyed it. It was my morning ritual on most weekends.

Early morning walks became my routine, and began to take notice of this one apartment on the corner of Francisco street. There was a woman visible through her window and she sat morning after morning, doing work on her laptop, her cat curled up next to her, most likely giving her instruction on whatever work she was doing. I gathered that it was her home office she was working out of. Rather than her veering out at me, making me feel uncomfortable, it made me feel safe and protected. Years later when I had grown quite a bit, we would meet face to face. She had asked if I had been that same young lady, who would walk in the early mornings. When I answered yes, she introduced herself, I did so as well, and she confirmed that she always watched over me. I confirmed that I assumed as much, and I expressed my gratitude as well.

Similar to my grandmother, my mother had been friends to many people in our neighborhood. Back then the demographic in the Marina was made up of predominantly Italians and other Europeans. Some families but mostly single adults and not many children. What we did take pride in is, my mother along with a few others were the trend setters of doggy parties at Moscone park. They are the real “Ogs” when it comes to the epitome of being dog lovers, pampering their pooches, and each other of course. Our neighbors and their dogs from the building over, would often walk along with my Mom (who at the time had our two standard poodles, Samantha and Marissa). They would trek down to the park, and the humanstand pups would have a potluck. The dogs ran about chasing each others tails every once in a while checking back in with their human, who had became lucid from libations. I remember one neighbor in the next building specifically for his boat. On weekends, I would watch him and his best friend lug it out of the driveway to go sailing on the bay. Another neighbor and friend of my mothers invited us to in attend the Golden Gate bridge’s 50th Anniversary event. There were thousands of attendees, so many people walking on the bridge that at one point the road tilted and shook. The energy was so overwhelming and the feeling of community unforgettable. The grand finale was spectacular. Thousands of additional lights illuminated the Golden Gate bridge. Specialty lights created a waterfall effect as they cascaded downward on both sides of the bridge, fireworks burst over the Marin headlands and Fort Point. The entire show was spectacular. At three years old I was so taken back, utterly impressed so much I burst into tears. When asked the reason behind such an emotional response, I simply lamented that I was happy that everyone else was happy and that it was both beautiful and overwhelming at the same time. (This was years before I understood what is and what it means to be empathic). The experience itself truly was unforgettable.

My favorite pastimes are Fourth of July and Fleet week. If you grew up over here most likely they are your favorites as well. Many of my childhood memories are of spending time with our neighbors from the building. The anticipation of gathering on rooftops or walking down to Fort Mason or to “the Green” where everyone would stake their claim on an area of grass. Food vendors were present on those holidays, but not as plentiful as they are today. It was a tradition to go to the Marina Deli to get your favorite sandwich and salads. You go to Lucca’s whether you wanted a sandwich, antipasto, fresh pasta, or Deli cuts for your charcuterie board. Mom swears by Luccas because it’s an authentic family owned classic Italian delicatessen. To be forward they know how to handle their prosciutto. There are of few who really respect the art divvying up a well made, well balanced prosciutto sandwich, and hands down they do it and do it well. Of course the mainstay is the Marina Safeway, which to affectionately say is “our” Safeway. We take a “possessive stance” which I think most people do when it comes to things they admire about their neighborhoods. The best sandwiches, anti-pasta, salads came from these places, if you are in the Marina, and eventually they would land on our neighbor’s table, where we would all clamor to make a plate for ourselves. Whether we were waiting for night to fall to see the fireworks, or waiting mid-afternoon for a tiny plane to whirl itself into oblivion and back, we stood together, differences and all. I looked up to most of our neighbors, as any child would do growing up surrounded by adults. I admired one neighbor who originally moved to SF from the East Coast. She was cool to me, she was bad ass, and had a heavy New York accent you couldn’t resist. There would be the sound of ice-cold beverages being cracked open, and then “Kaboom”, the first firework illuminated the sky, or the sound barrier was broken by the whiz of a jet flying by. We all took notice and would observe in awe, others took cover as they found it too noisy. I understood this, even at this age. Things change, we all change, we grow out of things. I like to think that I carry the tradition on, and every year I wait with anticipation, along with many others who still hold a special place in their heart, for the Marina, the city and all of our favorite pastimes.

Epilogue: On my mother’s dresser there is a tiny catch-all basket. Amongst small trinkets, is a button pin, it is a photo of her and I smiling from ear to ear. We took this picture at a rock and roll festival in Fort-Mason, where apparently at two years of age, I became the center of attention. I was dancing with one of the other party goers (I swear I do not like much attention, but I can confirm I enjoy dancing). As I make my way from the dresser, I go to sit on her bed, being careful not to smoosh her Teddy bears.

This is where I found myself many times prior to writing the drafts for this story. I listen to her tell me the stories of her childhood. I look along at her bedroom walls; the black and white pictures of her, my grandmother, and my uncle, rolling down hills of grass at the near by Jackson street park. As she speaks, I look at her while she is next to me, and in certain moments of her dialogue, you can see the nostalgia take a hold of her movements, the tone of her voice waivers from time to time. It is almost as if she gets lost in memory lane. The same thing happens to my uncle as he engages with my mother, after we have finished our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Shortly after we have cleaned our plates, my uncle will ask to open the window he sits next to. As he opens it the brisk night air rushes in, and the freshness of it re-awakens us from over consumption of the holiday meal. A conversation about their childhood and upbringing ensues, and usually carries well on into the evening. I observe them and I cannot help but to feel enthralled. Long after my grandparents have gone, both my mother and Uncle emanate this warmth, this amorous way of reminiscing. They both have a way of bringing you back in time with them. Their memories are superior, the details they recall are unfathomable, and they are both adamant about clarification and order. On many occasions, I usually catch an intuitive cue to let them be, as I take a rest in my room. There were a couple of years when a knob-tailed Doberman (my uncle’s dog) would follow suit, and lay next to me, as we awaited the announcement of dessert. Long after dessert, when my uncle would make his way back home, my mom would retire to her room, I would retire into my own. We would dote over the food we ate, and as of recent years, both my uncle and mother compliment me, telling me how much my cooking, reminds them of Venus’.

As of a recent cleaning of his storage area, my uncle was able to gift us with some trinkets from my grandmother. My mom has a miniature Buddha in which she practices prayer all while rubbing his tiny belly. As for myself I have a couple of pictures of two of his Dobermans he had in the past, and handwritten letters/postcards Mickey had sent to the family from China. As I read the letters, and consider the memories shared with me, I think about the substantial amount of love and tradition. We may have a small family, however it is filled with plenty of tradition and unconditional love.

I have pestered my mother many times over, to tell me about my grandparents and our heritage. Even though she may get weary, her patience is unwavering. My mother has always taught me to embrace every aspect of our multi-ethnic background, and to never falter to people’s opinions or stereotypes. In all honesty, we all have been on the receiving end of bias and exclusion, but we have also been privy to live authentically meeting others who understand what it sincerely means to be multi-ethnic. We are not confused about who we are, we've simply created our own narrative of diversity and understanding for ourselves.

As I lie on my mother’s bed, we approach the subject of my Grandparent’s passing, (in which each passed at a different time). My mother’s speech softens and then advances subtly. A sentimental person she is, but I am the one who readily wears the emotions on my sleeve. While talking about Diddy and Venus, the closeness she had to them, individually and together, her eyes moisten and her voice quivers. A tear of my own silently falls first. The impression my mother has on me has always grounded my sensitivities, but on this day, it had softened my heart. Through her recollection I can tell that both my grandmother and grandfather had affected her in the same way. Although I was but two years of age when my grandmother passed, I am sure I carry a part of her spirit within me. Venus longed to see my great Grandmother again, but sadly she had never been able to make the trip back to China, and Mickey had passed before they were able to reconnect.

While I never had a chance to meet my grandfather, he is the one who secures our lineage. We wish we knew more about his side of the family. He is the one who started it all by simply having a dream and a guitar.

Through stories I have been told, and through my own experiences, profound circumstances come together when cultures intertwine. Whether it is done willingly or unwillingly the outcome is often outstanding and groundbreaking. It changes the way we think and certainly it changes the way we eat. And if it has just enough allure, it can be as fascinating as when East Met West.