tucking in a little note

I recant some of my recent comments I made about life in the United States, especially the ones that are critical of the lifestyles and abundance of resources in the US. My most central reason for doing so is that several conversations and observations occurred in the last few days in Buffalo that's made me understand some things about myself that are quite judgmental and a perception based on a worldly culture masquerading as a godly attitude (which makes it all the more insidious and gnarly).

Instead of, I appreciate family, and legacy, and God as the source of all good things a little bit more and more rightly than I have before. Hopefully I can elaborate more when I have more time, so I myself don't forget about these rather important personal revelations.

the allure, the divide

As I spend more and more time in the heartlands of America, I'm starting to realize how deep I'm submerging into the culture of Americana, wherein driving for hours in a van is normal, and so are the twangy radio music I cycled through in Indiana, gigantic supermarkets like the Meijer we stopped in for dinner in Ohio, the almost unbearably cold A/C anywhere we go indoors, and also the public libraries, the fantastically cheap book sales and yard sales full of amazing, new-used stuff, and lots of community events (especially during the summer, it seems).

I don't like the first part, by which I'm starting to remember why it's so easy to get fat in the US, but the second part is seducing me into doubting whether living in Taiwan is better for the kids. At our dinner with Daniel's relatives tonight in downtown Buffalo, NY, Declan spent the majority of meal time investigating the exposed air conditioning system of the restaurant. It's clear to me that my son has an insatiable curiosity about how and why things work the way they do, and it makes me worry about his future encounter with the Taiwan school system, which if I recall correctly or have received accurate testimonies in recent years is excellent at crushing the creativity out of the very marrow of every soul (even the teachers). And being able to check out so many great books for the kids from the public library makes me feel like I've become a billionaire without the responsibility.

Sigh. The larger part of me honestly don't feel that the US is my home. Never had, probably never will. Its abundance and surface tranquility in light of what I know about the rest of the world makes me too uneasy to stay and feel comfortable as a resident. As a visitor, I am enthralled and mildly repulsed by the excess I see. But to stay would mean I need to come to terms somehow with such discrepancy. I am at a loss. And then there are my children... there is clearly so many opportunities for them here. My husband has so many typically American/well-adjusted/full of parental support childhood memories while my pleasant childhood memories are embedded throughout with the turmoil of my mom's mental and physical illness and all the moves and starting over every year; Naturally, it's easier for me to envision happy childhoods for the kids in the style of my husband's childhood. On the other hand, I'm already starting to hear the demanding brattiness growing in the kids' voices as they get used to what seems like free electricity/resources (tv, chauffeur options/destinations, giant fridge, unlimited food...)

I don't know I don't know. God, please remind me.

huge tracts of land

I haven't been back in the U.S. since three years ago, and the first thing I've forgotten and now immediately notice is the largeness of everything. Well, this is not something I've forgotten in abstract, but the sense of vast physical openness has definitely grow vague from removal of experience, much like the memory of being food poisoned. Some things need to be experienced first hand to be truly understood.

There's one house about a block away from Daniel's parent's home which is unlike 95% of the other houses of these cul-de-sacs and street loops. Its front lawn and most of its backyard is covered with ground floras instead of just plain grass. In the middle of the backyard is a small meadow-like clearing--a pocket of neat tranquility with a light shading of thin fir tree branches and bird calls. I like to slow down my running pace as I pass by that particular house to imagine lying down in that pocket of cultivated wilderness and, while lying there, imagine that I'm in the middle of a real forest. It makes me that much more aware of the difference in natural environment between southern Illinois and the Pacific Northwest. Everything here is spread-out and slightly monotonous as a result. I wish there are more trees.

Daniel opined in response to my wondering out loud why all the houses here have such sprawling front lawns with just nothing but grass that it's probably because people want to feel like royalty. The great expanse of land that is not only just for decoration, but which consumes massive amount of labor in mowing and watering in order to look that way, certainly suggests people of almost unlimited means. But I think royalties can/should only be one in a million in order for it to mean anything, or be harmless and not exploitative.

running

My pace during this morning's run from Daniel's parents' home to their city hall was about 20 seconds faster than my usual, mainly because of a pack of high school senior boys who ran past the kids and me two afternoons ago. We were on our (slow, tortuously meandering) stroll to the city park after being cooped up at home hiding from the rain, and as I waited for the kids to negotiate between themselves who get to carry the giant tree branch that got felled by the storm, four figures--lithe, flawlessly smooth skins shiny with sweat--cruised by, each wearing no shirt and a typical cross country running shorts.

My mind went back to a conversation with Daniel right after we saw the US women's soccer team score its fifth goal against the Japan team; somehow we had ended up defending our respective high school sports (me: cross country, Daniel: soccer). Daniel had goaded me by saying that cross country was for aspiring soccer players who've been cut from the team, and I retorted with the fact that cross country guys were quirkier and hence cooler than soccer guys, who tend to be cocky know-it-alls who don't have the endurance to run distance. If Daniel were with us that day (he was researching at UI), I rest my case on the basis of those fleet-footed golden boys. I'm not sure if it's compliments to my sense of fidelity or a conviction of a massive self-centeredness that I really really really desired...to be one of those runners. I know the predictable response according to my description is that I might have lusted after their Adonis physique, but I guess right now my focus is I would really like to admire my own body/athletic ability as much as I admired theirs on an aesthetic level.

In the end, I had to walk a little bit around the 6K mark before jogging the rest of the way home because my pace was currently too fast for me. Envy can only get me so far. As I jogged, another memory surfaced: when the other varsity girls and I would warm up with a slow stumbling jog before a meet, and trace a little bit of the course together, how we had matched strides and chatted about trivial things as we shambled in a tight physical group together. I conjured up our leader, Natalie, then the irascible (but also by turns very sweet) Lauren, steady and self-confident Beth, quiet and classic Catherine. A few of us had gotten in a car together in the dark and watched the sunrise as we travelled together along Highway 101 to run the Race for the Cure as just a fun thing to do together. It's a one-time Saturday morning event that just gets more memorable with time, as is the nature of good memories. I wish I had lived more in the now when I was in high school, instead of having treated it as a prelude to "when my life will really begin" aka college.