Maybe I am too self aware instead of being more status conscious.
I've decided to close my ears to the criticism, and the intimidation.
Sometimes, it is what it is.
Why create stress and negativity within myself just because someone thinks I am something I am not?
I've heard it all before. I did this. I said that.
I'm inappropriate. I'm disruptive. I'm irrational. I'm sarcastic.
Smacked my head on the glass ceiling again.
Failed to report anomalies.
Failed to kow tow when ordered.
Failed to submit.
Decided to put my needs first.
How dare I?
This time, I'm inspired to pull out all the stops.
I had the conversations I needed to.
I can overcome these challenges.
Rise to meet these obstacles and with ease, meet great success.
Yes, I took a risk.
I know I can power my way past such obstacles.
Events are moving fast, it may be wise to leave the slower bits behind.
There are no limitations here in the real world, except the ones I acknowledge.
Franz Kafka said: There are some things one can only achieve by a deliberate leap in the opposite direction.
Consider it done.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A Genealogical Dig
If you were to look at my face, you'd see an Asian, an Oriental woman smiling back at you. There would be no indication that I am descended from a Jewish great, great maternal grandmother. Until I opened my mouth to speak, you'd have no idea I am fluent in the English language. For undoubtedly, I look Chinese. Having no accent, it would soon be apparent that I was born in Canada.
I've been on a genealogical dig for a few years now. Collecting photos, talking to relatives, hearing stories searching the internet, library archives and various cemetery lists. Who do I think I am by tracing family history? I intend to find out.
It began when I read a letter to the editor in the Spectator regarding repealing the Head Tax that was accompanied by a photo of six brothers that got me thinking. I discovered I was related to the author of the letter and that one of the young men in the photo was actually Lee Ying Poy, my father's father. He arrived here in the early 1900's. I had no idea he had brothers. Until that moment I had never seen a photo of my grandfather. He died in 1931 when my father was an infant. Imagine not knowing who you've descended from. All I knew was each he and his brothers were required to pay a tax to enter Canada. He has been gone so long, he is just a vague memory to those who survived him and was very rarely spoken of.
I discovered a Lee Family Association in Toronto. I wrote letters. Posted on genealogical websites. I was able to garner some historical data on those six brothers. During the course of time, one of my second cousins was able to piece together her family tree. I envied her. I'm still working on mine. Along the way, I’ve made a few interesting discoveries and connections. One cousin has my paternal grandmother’s original Head Tax certificate. Wow! That was a find.
The search for extended family continues and is on-going. It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve encountered obstacles, denials and with those intent on secret keeping. This is also hindered by my inability to read Chinese documents and be fluent in the language.
My mother’s mother is my only surviving grandparent. Born on the east coast in Canada (unsure of the year), her view of the past remains skewed, so it’s difficult to get a handle on her version of events regarding that side of the family.
Both my parents have very little recollections to share. For my father, it’s the dementia that blocks the remembering, and with my mother—let’s just say she can’t be bothered. She has no interest in digging up the past.
The most influential factor for my genealogical dig came about by watching TV, and not by being encouraged by curious relatives. I happened to tune into Henry Louis Gates Jr.’s series entitled African American Lives, a special series tracing black heritage through historical and DNA research. It was his PBS program on genealogy that explores roots, race and identity through the ancestry of remarkable individuals that further sparked my interest in my own ancestry.
I’ll never forget the day I watched the Food Network, when Aussie chef Kylie Kwong embarked on a special visit to her home village in China. Kylie’s destination in China is coincidently near where my paternal grandfather is from. Who knew? Through research I also learned of the existence of a generational book that logs each descendent from the Lee home village. A place I hope to visit one day in the future.
I am grateful to my aunt Bev who confirmed our Jewish roots. Given the racial climate in those days, it's no wonder that the stigma surrounding mixed marriages helped keep this fact buried in memory. And memory is selective depending on who you are conversing with. Especially in my clan.
For now, there’s the knowledge that my brother David is the last Lee male to carry on the family name in this generation that I know of. He has no sons so the chain will be broken. But who knows? I may in time find more family members and I remain optimistic the lineage will not end here with me holding on to the knowledge that there must be other descendents out there waiting to be found. In doing so, I continue to dig.
I've been on a genealogical dig for a few years now. Collecting photos, talking to relatives, hearing stories searching the internet, library archives and various cemetery lists. Who do I think I am by tracing family history? I intend to find out.
It began when I read a letter to the editor in the Spectator regarding repealing the Head Tax that was accompanied by a photo of six brothers that got me thinking. I discovered I was related to the author of the letter and that one of the young men in the photo was actually Lee Ying Poy, my father's father. He arrived here in the early 1900's. I had no idea he had brothers. Until that moment I had never seen a photo of my grandfather. He died in 1931 when my father was an infant. Imagine not knowing who you've descended from. All I knew was each he and his brothers were required to pay a tax to enter Canada. He has been gone so long, he is just a vague memory to those who survived him and was very rarely spoken of.
I discovered a Lee Family Association in Toronto. I wrote letters. Posted on genealogical websites. I was able to garner some historical data on those six brothers. During the course of time, one of my second cousins was able to piece together her family tree. I envied her. I'm still working on mine. Along the way, I’ve made a few interesting discoveries and connections. One cousin has my paternal grandmother’s original Head Tax certificate. Wow! That was a find.
The search for extended family continues and is on-going. It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve encountered obstacles, denials and with those intent on secret keeping. This is also hindered by my inability to read Chinese documents and be fluent in the language.
My mother’s mother is my only surviving grandparent. Born on the east coast in Canada (unsure of the year), her view of the past remains skewed, so it’s difficult to get a handle on her version of events regarding that side of the family.
Both my parents have very little recollections to share. For my father, it’s the dementia that blocks the remembering, and with my mother—let’s just say she can’t be bothered. She has no interest in digging up the past.
The most influential factor for my genealogical dig came about by watching TV, and not by being encouraged by curious relatives. I happened to tune into Henry Louis Gates Jr.’s series entitled African American Lives, a special series tracing black heritage through historical and DNA research. It was his PBS program on genealogy that explores roots, race and identity through the ancestry of remarkable individuals that further sparked my interest in my own ancestry.
I’ll never forget the day I watched the Food Network, when Aussie chef Kylie Kwong embarked on a special visit to her home village in China. Kylie’s destination in China is coincidently near where my paternal grandfather is from. Who knew? Through research I also learned of the existence of a generational book that logs each descendent from the Lee home village. A place I hope to visit one day in the future.
I am grateful to my aunt Bev who confirmed our Jewish roots. Given the racial climate in those days, it's no wonder that the stigma surrounding mixed marriages helped keep this fact buried in memory. And memory is selective depending on who you are conversing with. Especially in my clan.
For now, there’s the knowledge that my brother David is the last Lee male to carry on the family name in this generation that I know of. He has no sons so the chain will be broken. But who knows? I may in time find more family members and I remain optimistic the lineage will not end here with me holding on to the knowledge that there must be other descendents out there waiting to be found. In doing so, I continue to dig.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sharing Wisdom from Julia Cameron
Writing is alchemy. Writing that poem, moving out of that
cramped and cerebral space of bitterness into the capacious heart,
I am no longer a victim, an enemy, an injured party.
I am what I am: a writer.
Writing is medicine. It is appropriate antidote to injury.
It is an appropriate companion for any difficult change.
Writing about the change, we can help it along, lean into it, cooperate.
Writing allows us to rewrite our lives.
Thanks Julia Cameron.
...
I believe this to be true.
cramped and cerebral space of bitterness into the capacious heart,
I am no longer a victim, an enemy, an injured party.
I am what I am: a writer.
Writing is medicine. It is appropriate antidote to injury.
It is an appropriate companion for any difficult change.
Writing about the change, we can help it along, lean into it, cooperate.
Writing allows us to rewrite our lives.
Thanks Julia Cameron.
...
I believe this to be true.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
What I brought versus what was required.
What was I thinking?
I brought:
Empathy.
Ingenuity.
Strong work ethic.
Authenticity.
Emotional labour.
Integrity.
Reliability.
Thoughtfulness.
Calm, assertive leadership.
Critical thinking.
They required:
Absolute servitude.
Passivity.
Chaos.
Defensivenness.
Victimhood.
Conflict.
Silence.
Pettiness.
Willingness to gossip.
No focus on adding value, building relationships or conflict resolution.
Do as I say--not as I do mindset. Yikes!
It is what it is. My perception. As I see it.
I brought:
Empathy.
Ingenuity.
Strong work ethic.
Authenticity.
Emotional labour.
Integrity.
Reliability.
Thoughtfulness.
Calm, assertive leadership.
Critical thinking.
They required:
Absolute servitude.
Passivity.
Chaos.
Defensivenness.
Victimhood.
Conflict.
Silence.
Pettiness.
Willingness to gossip.
No focus on adding value, building relationships or conflict resolution.
Do as I say--not as I do mindset. Yikes!
It is what it is. My perception. As I see it.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Guest Spot on the Catherine Show
Looks like the guest spot on the Catherine Show was brief.
Originally written in to provide relief, the role quickly became clear.
It was the catch all, the scapegoat, the once in a life-time shot.
A band aid solution. The dissent present long before my arrival would no doubt continue surely, long after my exit. Expect the unexpected, I always say.
The ass kisser still kisses ass.
The punisher still punishes.
No wrongs were righted.
The song remains the same.
I did make a difference.
However brief.
The truth does set you free.
I am no longer being bull dozed by the bully.
Abuse of power, is what it is. I am removed from the script at long last.
Actually the stint was a gift. It's all good.
Best to just let go, gracefully.
Everything does indeed, happen for a reason.
As one door closes, surely another opens.
On to the next gig!
Originally written in to provide relief, the role quickly became clear.
It was the catch all, the scapegoat, the once in a life-time shot.
A band aid solution. The dissent present long before my arrival would no doubt continue surely, long after my exit. Expect the unexpected, I always say.
The ass kisser still kisses ass.
The punisher still punishes.
No wrongs were righted.
The song remains the same.
I did make a difference.
However brief.
The truth does set you free.
I am no longer being bull dozed by the bully.
Abuse of power, is what it is. I am removed from the script at long last.
Actually the stint was a gift. It's all good.
Best to just let go, gracefully.
Everything does indeed, happen for a reason.
As one door closes, surely another opens.
On to the next gig!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
My Anti-Mother's Day Rant
I hate my mother. Why? You ask? A number of reasons, but primarily because she mistreats me.
Looks at me with disdain. Talks to me in a tone that is condescending. Tells me I’m stupid and simple (well not exactly verbatim) with below average functioning skills. Which is of course far from the truth.
She refuses to acknowledge me. My existence. My right to be a person separate from who she is.
Did I mention the narcissism? If I did the graph, you’d see her face at the far end of the spectrum as extreme.
It’s that time of year. All things ‘Mother’. While others will be celebrating their beloved mothers (and rightly so), I’ll be celebrating….wait for it….Me.
Yep. Me. Celebrating my survival.
For others, thoughts of dear mom conjure up love and comfort, safety, protection…even the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Like in the movies, mom is all loving, and nurturing and her eyes light up the minute she sees you. You reside in her heart. You are valued. You are her child.
My thoughts of mom are the antithesis of all of that.
What if you were brutalized by violence, cruelty, indifference and neglect by the woman who bore you? What if the assaults (with weapons and not just fists), the echoes of the insults, the humiliations not to mention the memories of the times you were tortured (with various implements) are what thoughts of ‘mom’ conjures up?
What’s to celebrate?
Recently my lovely mother emailed me asking a question.
What year were you born?
WELL if that doesn’t burn a hole in your chest where your heart used to be, what does? If that doesn’t invalidate you as a person, I’m not sure what else could. Dagger, right in the heart. Thanks for the gumball, mom.
When your own mother can not, or will not recall her own child’s birth date, there is clearly some disconnect. But then again, that is an essay for another day.
Yeah, it’s only words you say. Right. Sticks and stones. But given the context and being on the receiving end….well—let’s just say ‘major trigger!’
Get over it, you say. Hmmm. I'm working on it.
My 6 word memoir reads: Despite your best efforts I survived.
Take that! You witch!
So, Happy Mother’s Day, Mother.
I’ll pretend my childhood did not happen, and I will light a candle in your honour.
Are you even sure you are my mother?
Looks at me with disdain. Talks to me in a tone that is condescending. Tells me I’m stupid and simple (well not exactly verbatim) with below average functioning skills. Which is of course far from the truth.
She refuses to acknowledge me. My existence. My right to be a person separate from who she is.
Did I mention the narcissism? If I did the graph, you’d see her face at the far end of the spectrum as extreme.
It’s that time of year. All things ‘Mother’. While others will be celebrating their beloved mothers (and rightly so), I’ll be celebrating….wait for it….Me.
Yep. Me. Celebrating my survival.
For others, thoughts of dear mom conjure up love and comfort, safety, protection…even the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Like in the movies, mom is all loving, and nurturing and her eyes light up the minute she sees you. You reside in her heart. You are valued. You are her child.
My thoughts of mom are the antithesis of all of that.
What if you were brutalized by violence, cruelty, indifference and neglect by the woman who bore you? What if the assaults (with weapons and not just fists), the echoes of the insults, the humiliations not to mention the memories of the times you were tortured (with various implements) are what thoughts of ‘mom’ conjures up?
What’s to celebrate?
Recently my lovely mother emailed me asking a question.
What year were you born?
WELL if that doesn’t burn a hole in your chest where your heart used to be, what does? If that doesn’t invalidate you as a person, I’m not sure what else could. Dagger, right in the heart. Thanks for the gumball, mom.
When your own mother can not, or will not recall her own child’s birth date, there is clearly some disconnect. But then again, that is an essay for another day.
Yeah, it’s only words you say. Right. Sticks and stones. But given the context and being on the receiving end….well—let’s just say ‘major trigger!’
Get over it, you say. Hmmm. I'm working on it.
My 6 word memoir reads: Despite your best efforts I survived.
Take that! You witch!
So, Happy Mother’s Day, Mother.
I’ll pretend my childhood did not happen, and I will light a candle in your honour.
Are you even sure you are my mother?
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