The Average American Communist

2013-05-04

The Story of my Grandmother

Regardless of all I have to complain about (stupid right?)… The one thing, the only thing, that warrants something other than a stupid tumblr post right now would be my grandmother. To live as an aging person is one thing, to exist as a bedridden person, unable to speak to your loved ones, unable to eat of your own accord, and unable to function as humans are meant to is entirely different. There is a truth that I will never say to my family or for that matter anyone who ever knew my grandmother. This truth is that as much as she cared for me, I never knew her as that person. In fact, I have no memory of her before her lifelong affliction. All my life, my bond with her has been based off of descriptions from my parents of times past. Although I am still new to this concept of life and death I guess I assumed it would be somewhat similar to my grandfather’s passing. Maybe I should have realized that nothing is ever the same as it was before. Last weekend, as I was visiting my fading grandmother I created the only experience I have and ever will have of her. As I was seeing her for the first time since her admittance into the care center she was in, I took her hand. I was always too little and too immature to understand the importance of being there for my grandmother. Of providing some moment of joy in her life that was nothing but hell for the last 11 years. However, this time was different. Maybe I understood the importance of it then, probably not, but one can only wish. As I took her hand I also looked into her eyes. My mother’s hand enclosed mine for a moment until she let go but continued to speak to my grandmother as only someone raised in Korean culture could. Her voice rang of nothing but pure respect, compassion, and love. And as a choking lump was brought to my throat from my mother’s speaking, a tear was brought to my grandmother’s eyes. And looking back at this tear of her’s I realize that we both knew. We both just knew. This was a tear reserved for me. My grandmother had been cut off from life support and yet she still had the strength left for one tear. The tear for the grand child who she cared for, the oldest son of the family, and forever one of her pinnacles of joy. And as I write this it brings both the choking lump of grim sadness and the mental picture of my grandmother to my head. The tear in her left eye, the spirit of her, the real her, behind those bright eyes. This was and will forever be the only moment of real, understandable, and human connection between us. Later in the day as I left, I took her hand once more, I looked at her and I knew that this was the last time. “Goodbye grandma.” I know that I will never share the bond that she had with my father. As I came home today I saw the quiet sadness in his eyes as his only remaining parent left this material world. And after leaving that care center, I realized that my mother represented this last remaining shred of Asian and Korean culture to me. The utter respect and passion that most Asian Americans have lost in this country. Although it can be repeated to value your time with your loved ones, it is impossible without experiencing the moments gone unvalued. If a last sentence were to be made to my grandmother it would contain my feelings of stupidity for not being around as much as a good grandson should have. Rest In Peace Grandma.

Thanks for sharing this experience with me if you read this whole thing, sorry to burden you with it but I just had to get it out somewhere.

Not Agaain uuurgh….

2013-04-16

fuckyeahalisonbrie:

Untagged. Untouched. And with the full interview below:

I love…

…the number thirty-eight. It’s so round. It’s a voluptuous number. Eighty-eight has gone too far.

Seeing my reflection in somebody else’s sunglasses. It’s a nice way to check in with yourself.

How loud my mother laughs at her own jokes.

Giraffes, because their bodies defy nature and embrace it at the same time.

Getting a script in the mail from Mad Men.

How there doesn’t seem to be any alcoholics in Scotland, even though everybody drinks all day every day.

My afternoons, because they’re always different.

Going to bed early. If I can get eight hours…

Going to bed watching The American President. I’ve seen it so many times I can close my eyes and still know what’s happening.

The moment when Annette Bening has her date with the president lined up. She’s in her office. A guy is talking to her. She’s just kind of lost in space, tapping her pencil near a cup of pens. The guy says, “What’s wrong? Got a big date tonight?” She does a double take and knocks over the pens. It’s my favorite comedic moment. It seems so unexpected. It doesn’t seem calculated. You know she thought out that move. It was probably written in: Looks up, surprised. Knocks over pens. But it comes off so sincere.

Trying to recall the details of my dreams when I first wake up.

My ability to say no to people now that I’ve turned thirty.

Movie theaters when they’re either supercrowded or totally empty. Your opinion is not influenced by anyone when you’re alone at a matinee. It’s just you and the movie. And crowds at a premiere or at Sundance are a special treat. At Sundance, nobody’s like, “We didn’t have anything to do tonight, so we came here.”

The romance in parks. Being on a blanket with the right person. You don’t want to be on a blanket with just anyone.

My agents, because they don’t ever want me to do nudity.

Butternut squash. Spaghetti squash. Kabocha squash.

My real last name. But the mispronunciation of it is like nails on a chalkboard. It starts S-c-h, so everybody pronounces it as if it were Shermerhorn. But it should be pronounced like it’s Skermerhorn.

Yoga. It’s like my church.

My sister’s temper. It keeps me in check.

Teahouses. Green tea as opposed to jasmine green, which is a little more flowery. I like to taste that green.

Aretha Franklin—but in the evening.

Whistling, but I’m terrible at it and embarrassed to do it in front of people.

“Strawberry Fields Forever.” It’s the first song that I thought was so beautiful it brought me to tears.

Frank Gore and the Niners. I didn’t miss a game last season.

Getting photos of my little nephew. They make me laugh in a way I never did before.

Cupcakes. The smaller the better. You can taste different flavors and not feel guilty.

Living in the hills above Hollywood. The quiet gives you time to think.

Popcorn. On the stove top, with a little olive oil.

The Princess Bride. “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Holly Hunter. She’s got gumption.

Coming home after I travel.

Sex, because some of the most humorous things happen when you’re naked with another person.

The cast on Community and the way everyone moves the comedy.

There’s nothing to love about auditions.

Petting my cats’ fur. So soft, and how my cats love being pet.

Money. Money means better meals at better places.

Securing reservations.

Darioush Winery in Napa. Duel is the wine the owner made with his son, so it’s the two of them bringing their styles.

Running, because it never seems like a strenuous exercise and always clears my head.

Organization.

Omakase. That means the sushi chef just makes you whatever. I love not having to make decisions.

Mrs. Carlson, my second-grade teacher at Mount Washington Elementary. She had the most wonderful stories. She would travel around the world and come back and show us pictures. I remember this story about her being in Africa. This baby ostrich kicked her in the leg and almost broke it, and she showed us the giant bruise. She had us make corn tortillas from scratch. What a great second-grade class. I wonder if she’s still teaching.

Flowers. If you’re a guy, you should get girls flowers all the time. They never get old and you can never get them enough. I’m never disappointed when I get flowers. I always thought guys who don’t buy women flowers are such fools. All it takes is one. A little goes a long way with flowers.

Shorts. My clothing of choice. They’re easy. But don’t give me shorts without pockets.

Working. It makes life much simpler.

Virgin America.

Deep-tissue massages. I like to be in pain when I’m getting massaged. That way I know I’m getting my money’s worth.

Looking at my dad when we’re singing together around the holidays.

About 80 percent of my day.

Who doesn’t love authenticity?

Source: fuckyeahalisonbrie

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