SarahLWLee

Sarah Lee, originally from Malaysia, is a resident of Kalamazoo, Michigan and loves big ideas, food and a total shutterbug. This blog captures her thoughts and inspirations.

[sarahlwlee]

As part of Kalamazoo Public Library's Reading Together program in March 2022, I participated in a virtual panel titled "We are Our Stories" along with fellow Truth, Racial Healing & Transformation (TRHT) Asian Affinity Group members sharing our lived experience through storytelling. Check out this video recording to hear our stories.

[sarahlwlee]

At the top of this week’s episode Alek and Doug address Monday’s troubling news that teachers within the Three Rivers Community Schools syst

"When we are confronted with pushbacks, love & grace are where we stem from… to do the work of justice is the work of love."

Check out the conversation I had with Alek Frost and Doug Sears, Jr from Watershed Voice's"Keep Your Voice Down" podcast

[sarahlwlee]

This past summer, I participated in an oral history project through the Museum of Chinese in America (MOCA) based in New York. I shared my lived experience through the pandemic and anti-Asian violence as well as reflections on grief, sorrow and loss captured in my recent blog post of “Why Do I Cook?” and also 31 Stories project. Learn more about the MOCA oral history project here: https://www.mocanyc.org/get-involved/one-world-oral-histories/oneworld-covid-19-oral-histories-phase-iii/

[sarahlwlee]

Why do I cook?

I love cooking because it satisfies the following curiosities of mine:

The intellectual pursuit of science, history and art through a recipe and the act of cooking,

The basic need to nurture the soul and feed hungry bellies, mine and my husband’s, and;

The connection to my past and my family.

Since the pandemic began, I have been cooking food I miss from my home country, Malaysia. The desire for connection to family and friends from my past has weighed on me heavily as sheltering at home for the sake of public health safety takes its toll. At the same time, anti-Asian violence began to escalate mainly driven by racist narratives and further perpetuated by systemic racism. I don’t need to explain this part, there are plenty of resources on Google about anti-Asian violence and the history of racism if you need it.

When I heard about the news about an elderly Thai man being fatally assaulted in San Francisco, my heart sank and I started to cry. As I read the news, I said to myself, “he’s close to my father’s age and he looks like my dad if he were still alive and lived a better quality of life.” My father passed away during the pandemic in May 2020 (I wrote about this experience in my 31 Stories in 31 Days series for AAPI Heritage Month in May 2020, you can read the full recollection here). All the feelings of grief and loss came rushing back to me as I sobbed over the loss of this man’s life.

In the last few weeks, the mass shooting of Asian women in Atlanta broke my heart. The women’s ages were my mother and sister’s age as well as my good friends I grew up with. I was at a loss for words with so many thoughts in my head — struggling with my own experiences as a Chinese Malaysian woman and managing my anger over these continued acts of anti-Asian violence and racism. I cried and sobbed throughout my work days navigating feelings I pushed down so that I could be productive.

The media cycle reported heavily on this mass shooting. Spurs of dialogue on social media around not only anti-Asian violence but that the shooter had “a bad day” and his motives were not racially driven became a source of pain for many including myself. Defining what was a racially motivated hate crime and what wasn’t, it felt like being gaslighted. Not only this one time, but every time before — in this country’s history and even in my own lived experience.

I had been researching and reading about gaslighting for a while because I wanted to understand my own response to personal trauma. I came across a short TikTok video created by @risethriverepeat from a Facebook friend that highlighted a kernel of truth I had never known. The individual in the video said, “Overexplaining can be a trauma-based response to being gaslit in childhood. When I figured that out, I worked to stop doing so. If I already told the truth and was clear, there’s nothing else to say… then overexplaining leads to distortion.” A light bulb moment occurred to me and everything started to fall into place about how I became wired the way I am, especially hazy moments where I had to tell myself a different story so that I could make sense of what was happening to me. I spent a lot of time overexplaining in my lifetime. I can’t even remember when it started but there were some formative memories of having to accept something that wasn’t true.

When I was about 10 years old, I was part of a group of students who competed in a inter-school choral speaking competition (I wrote about this experience in my 31 Stories in 31 Days series for AAPI Heritage Month in May 2020, you can read the full recollection here). The short version of this story is we found the judges scoring sheets by accident. Our school should have won first place by default because we scored the highest points out of all the schools. Yet we were second. When our teachers and parents confronted the organizers, the teachers were taken away from the parents and students to talk about this. When the teachers returned to explain, they looked disappointed and said to both the parents and students that we lost and the decision was final.

The key thing here is the queen’s granddaughter was in the group that won. Basically the implication was that the results were fixed in her favor. This was a form of gaslighting at a systemic and cultural level. When I reflect back on various times where I second guessed myself, I realized many of those moments were gaslit moments where someone told me I “imagined it” or “you’re telling lies” or even worse “it didn’t happen”.

In this particular story about the choral competition, I am glad I had some resolve where my mom told me what happened. It was the only way I could process it but it also formed new behaviors in me to always rewrite narratives in my head to make myself okay with it and also overcompensate for areas where I felt no one would believe me, even when I was telling the truth. I had many more formative moments in my youth, even through adulthood, where I had to comply with believing something that wasn’t true for fear of retaliation and isolation; it was survival for me.

With this memory and the recent mass shooting, all the feelings of grief and loss from last year came rushing back once again with the pain of not being believed. Truly, what I needed to do in this moment was to process, grieve and heal so that I could re-align my internal compass with the recognition of what I believe to be true.

I read stories from other Asian women, talked to my mother, posted resources from Asians as well as Asian organizations in America, and spent time processing in spurts with others who would listen. Each of these actions helped me slowly embrace healing. The one part about healing I never enjoyed personally was remembering who and what we had lost. I felt like I didn’t have the capacity to hold it or that I didn’t have the courage to keep moving forward to not live in fear.

Keeping a memory alive of a loved one or of a moment time is how we make peace with ourselves, fill the cracks of our broken heart, and mending it back together so that our heart may beat again. So that we can be strengthened by our ancestors — our joy and love from rich cultural traditions passed from one generation to another. It’s inherent to our identity and how we continue to live authentically as we are. At least from what I have been told.

So why do I cook?

Cooking recipes that remind me of my dad, family, friends and moments in time of joy and love, helps me find peace and healing through action. It helps me bridge a lost connection; it fills my soul and mends my broken heart.

Last weekend, I made butter kaya toast. It is popular in Malaysia and one of the many local favorite childhood breakfast or treat. Kaya is a unique jam or spread made from pandan leaves, coconut milk, eggs and sugar. Combined and cooked down gently to a thick spreadable jam. Some have translated this in English as coconut jam or something decadent like coconut caramel. These translations don’t do justice for this unique spread. The forward flavor isn’t coconut, but rather the pandan essence. When combined with coconut milk, it becomes a rich unique flavor. Interesting fact, when you translate the word “kaya” from Malay to English directly, it means “rich”.

My mom and dad used to take me to these open-air coffee shops near where we lived in Sri Petaling and OUG (Overseas Union Garden) for breakfast or brunch. Since my palate at the time was a little picky, they would order this Hainanese breakfast meal for me comprised of kaya on two thin slices of toasted white bread with slivers of cold butter in between, two soft boiled eggs with soy sauce and white pepper to season, and a hot cup of Milo. Sometimes the alternate to kaya was just white sugar, which was also equally delicious but not in the same way how kaya satisfied my sweet tooth as a child.

Sometimes my dad or my mom would tell me stories about their childhood through food. Where they were when they first had it, who they shared kaya with or even where the best kaya they ever tasted came from. This often inspired my dad to buy little cylindrical plastic containers of kaya from local vendors on his way home from work. I remember his face lit up when he would tell everyone at home that he had bought kaya. When he made kaya toast for himself at home, he would always ask me if I wanted one. Whether I wanted one or not, he always made an extra one that he ate or shared.

This childhood memory became much more vivid with every bite of the kaya toast I made recently. It helped me feel closer to my dad even though I know he is no longer here on earth and that he is in Heaven. The act of eating and remembering gave me space to nourish not only my stomach, but also my soul and to feel whole again. I will continue to cook and relish memories of the past. The feelings of warmth, love and joy will always stay with me and be my source of healing whenever I need it.

I will always remember and keep working on myself.

If you would like to read more stories about my lived experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant living in America, check out “31 Stories” project I did in celebration of Asian American Pacific Islander month in May 2020.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Belonging

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Carrie PE. and the word is “Belonging”. Thank you Carrie for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

When I was growing up, I didn’t like myself and how I looked. I had a poor self-image and tried really hard to be something that others would like and accept. Whether it was for my parents, friends, co-workers or even acquaintances. I use to tell little lies or fudge details to make myself seem more than my ordinary existence. Culturally, I learned, it was more acceptable to lie than lose your temper. Losing your temper was a form of losing face (to lose the respect of others or to be humiliated publicly), especially in Chinese culture.

Some of the core narratives in my head that struck a chord with me during my formative years and stayed with me for a long time include: “you are not attractive, if you were attractive boys would like you without you even trying” and “you are not good enough that’s why you can never win”. There wasn’t one specific moment that I could point to that led to these core narratives shaping my self-image, but an accumulation of side negative comments by grown ups and peers during moments when I had accomplished something. Moments such as when my exams results came out, I was proud of what I accomplished but would hear grown ups take pride  in their children who had straight A’s in their report cards and brag about it to my mother. In those moments, I felt incompetent and I didn’t make my mother proud to brag about my results.

In school, there was the constant bullying by schoolmates about being better than me academically because that’s the only reason they thought I ended up in the Arts stream — I didn’t do well in my exams. Also, boys in school avoided me like the plague and would never want to be known having a crush on me. I was either too direct, had interests that nobody knew about or spoke English only; characteristics of me that boys found unapproachable. The girls in my secondary class also enjoyed making fun of me, especially if there was something that took my character down a peg or just to humiliate me. One day, my school uniform had a slight stain on the back of my skirt. One of my classmates noticed it and loudly exclaimed to the whole class that I had period stains on my skirt and started to make fun of me. I was embarrassed and I panicked because I wasn’t suppose to be on my period neither did I bring any pads with me. I asked the teacher if I could be excused to the bathroom. The girls in the class continued to laugh and make fun of me as I left the classroom. In the bathroom, I learned it wasn’t period stain it was partially dried out bubblegum stain. It was the same uniform from last week where I sat on bubblegum someone left on the seat of my chair. The stain did not clean off completely even after going through the washing machine.

Most of these experiences fed into my core narratives, such as “if I were smarter, these girls wouldn’t be making fun of me and would be asking for help from me” and “if I were more attractive, boys would be interested in me and would have come to my defense when these girls were bullying me.” When I went to college, I had to confront many of my core narratives because I hit rock bottom where all these core narratives were working against me instead of helping me be better.

I liked a guy with an Australian accent who lived in my dorm. I had told one of my transfer mates, Serene, from Sunway College that I fancied this guy because he reminds me of an ex-boyfriend. He caught wind of my interest in him and decided to call me and tell me to stop it. I was shocked and appalled by his actions and I learned from him that Serene had told him. I was angry and fuming about what Serene had done. Serene lived in an adjacent dorm building and I walked over to her room to confront about this. She said, “Sarah, you don’t have very good luck with boys and you’re not very pretty either. I thought I’d help you out by telling him about how you felt.” I was so angry. All I could muster up to say to her was, “Why did you do that? Now he doesn’t want to hang out with me or even be friends. I can’t hang out with our group of friends anymore because he’s part of the group.” She didn’t apologize and I stopped talking to her after that conversation.

In a previous story, I wrote about Charlize, one of my best friend’s at the time and we moved into an apartment together. Her incessant criticisms of the way I looked and behaved added more fuel to my terrible self-image and I really hated myself. I felt trapped in a corner and I didn’t fit it nor did I belong anywhere. I felt alone even amongst a group of people. It was a feeling that gripped me at my core and refused to let me go. I didn’t like feeling this way and I needed something to change. When Charlize moved out, it was only then I started to work on myself because I had a lot of time on my hands and a whole apartment to myself. I was scared living alone the first few weeks but I started to make the apartment a place I wanted to be, my safe haven. I got my class schedule organized for months at a time and drew large scale calendars on the wall so that I had a visual on what my days would look like. I bought food that I liked from Meijer to cook at home or ordered my favorites from Campus Kitchen. I even bought beauty and hygiene products that I was curious about just to figure out how to take care of myself. It was the most nourishing care I did for myself physically.

What helped me work through my core narratives was meeting a few good people who were willing to reflect back to me how untrue those narratives were. Some are my friends today and some were acquaintances who were really good at lifting people up instead of tearing them down. Talking to someone helped a lot too. I participated in some student counseling through a student community theater and as a working adult continued to take on additional therapy to help me unpack these narratives as well as understanding the root of these issues that keeps me feeling othered instead of belonging. Many of those issues rooted from wanting acceptance from my mother. During my 2012 trip back to Malaysia, I was able to get closure with my mother on these issues and begin the process to self-acceptance and reclaiming my sense of worth. It sounds very linear but there were many ebbs and flows that took me off track of accepting myself and not allowing these old core narratives play this vicious cycle.

One of the best practices I learned from a therapist was to keep a list of things that I knew to be true and believable about myself and then recite those statements to myself on a daily basis as well as when my mind started to spiral into these core narratives. It was part of active participation in my own narratives to disrupt and rewrite what my new core beliefs and narratives. This process sounds easy, but I have struggled through this. I learned in this process that I need to prioritize healing myself in order for this to work well. Restoring my tank became more of a priority recently because I finally figured out after two decades that I am not my best self when my old core narratives take hold of me, which makes me incompetent not only as a leader but also as a human being.

One of my past co-workers and friend once said to me, “I see you and I hear you.” I don’t know why but no one has ever said that to me and those words sank in so deeply into my heart. Her words reminded me of what it felt like to belong. Thank you Kelley for saying those words, it has left an imprint on me that will never fade. I continue to hear and see those words in social media posts and conversations, especially in the work I am doing on myself as it relates to my internalized racial oppression and working on what being an anti-racist is as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant living in America.

When I shared with Chauncey the featured word for today’s piece, he sweetly shared that belonging is like a warm hug where everything melts aways and you feel like you belong. It seems like a simple analogy for such a complex process and yet it resonates deeply for me. My hope moving forward, beyond these 31 stories, is to experience that feeling of a warm hug (without having to hug someone physically) to know I feel like I belong and that feeling would start with self-acceptance as well as the continued willingness to challenge my old core narratives every day with a rewrite of my choice. It’s a work in progress and thank you for sharing in my journey.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Jade

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Chauncey L. and the word is “Jade”. Thank you Chauncey for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

My love language is gifts. I love receiving them and I love giving them. I do my best to give the best gift with the recipient in mind, whether it is a surprise or an intentional plan. This is my biggest expression of love and care for someone else. There’s something about a gift and the amount of thought someone put into assembling this gift for you — it means a lot to me.

After I graduated with my undergraduate degree, I came home to Malaysia for three months before I returned to Kalamazoo for my graduate studies. I received a gift from Aunty Win before I left Malaysia, it was a jade pendant from Myanmar. She had just returned from a trip visiting Myanmar and she picked up this small gift for me. This was her way of showing her affection through jewelry. In fact, both of my aunts — Aunty Win and Aunty May — were great gift givers. They are my mom’s two elder sisters, both single and live together in the same house. I was always amazed by their choice of being single and had always wondered if that could be a choice for me some day.

Every time my aunts traveled abroad, they would pick up awesome souvenir gifts for my family. I remember several times Aunty May would bring back Toblerone, a Swiss chocolate bar, for me. It was the only time I had special chocolate to eat and I would savor each triangular bite. We would store it in the fridge for days and if I didn’t eat it quickly, my father teased me that he would eat it all. So I tried my best to eat it quickly and also hide it better in the fridge. I could have hid it in my room, however with the hot temperatures in Malaysia, my special chocolate would have melted. Also my dad was good at finding the things I hid or maybe I was just terrible at hiding things in my room.

My sweet tooth probably came from my father. When I was a kid, our family dinners always included a glass of ice cold Coca Cola for my dad. He would buy six 2-liter bottles of Coca Cola every time he went to the grocery store and it would be stored next to the refrigerator with at least one well chilled in the refrigerator. Whenever we went out to eat dinner at a restaurant my father would always order in Cantonese, “Hor lock” (Coca Cola). His favorite drinks were often Coca Cola and hot instant coffee with three teaspoons of condensed milk. My father liked his drinks sweet, whereas my mother liked it less sweet — my mom preferred only one teaspoon of condensed milk in her hot instant coffee. I would know, I use to make their coffee drinks when I was little. It was my one of the many gifts of training my parents gave me.

One of the most memorable gift moments was with Aunty San San, my father’s younger sister. I was probably 8-years-old and I had been reading the original classic Beauty and the Beast illustrated for young readers. In this rendition, Belle requested for a single white rose from her father when he went into the city to sell his invention. I related to the character Belle greatly because she loved to read and dreamt of a life beyond her current circumstance, which was something of a theme in my lifetime of seeking and imagining something different for myself. The day before my birthday, Aunty San San called the Sri Petaling house and asked my mother what gift does Sarah want for her birthday. My mom was undecided and called me to the house phone to talk to Aunty San San. As a shy child, I spoke very few words especially after greeting Aunty San San on the phone. She asked me what would I like for my birthday gift. I paused and then said white roses. Aunty San San was taken aback and said, “Are you sure that’s what you want?” I said yes without hesitation. In my head I imagined I was Belle asked for that single white rose.

The next day, a bouquet of flowers arrived at the house. My mother woke me up in the morning telling that a surprise arrived for my birthday. I had forgotten about my call with Aunty San San and wondered what might it be. I walked down the stairs and into the living room to see a love bouquet of white roses as well as other white flowers beautifully arranged in a basket. It was displayed on top of the aquarium, which was located in the central focal point of our living room. I walked up to the bouquet while my mom kept repeating phrases like, “Isn’t it pretty?” “Is this what you asked from Aunty San San?” “Do you like it?”. She handed me the little card attached to the basket and it was a message from Aunty San San wishing me Happy Birthday as well as to enjoy my special flower request. I loved my white roses. This was the first time anyone gave my flowers as a gift. I remember from then on my favorite flowers were white roses.

When Chauncey became my fiancé, I had mentioned to him that I wanted to have white roses for our wedding however I received a lot of push back from the florist that white roses were often for funerals and not weddings. In addition the ribbons we were using had iridescent red, orange and purple. I acquiesced to a mix of white, ivory and peach roses, which made for a lovely bouquet at the end of day. I still have my wedding bouquet dried and displayed in my library. Since then Chauncey remembered I loved white roses and bought me white roses as a surprise gift as a show of his affections for me. I still love white roses and have grown to love all types of roses, especially after learning more about the symbolism behind yellow and red roses. Yellow for friendship and red for romantic love.

This past Valentine’s, Chauncey bought a lovely bouquet of yellow and red roses to celebrate our friendship and love. Before we got married, we were best friends. I remember telling people that I was going to marry my best friend, which some thought was very romantic or very weird. Regardless, it’s probably one of the best decisions in my life to marry Chauncey. He truly is my best friend and I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Breath

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Meagan R. and the word is “Breath”. Thank you Meagan for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

Some of my best memories growing up were moments where I could look up at the sky and take a deep breath. When I was in 6-years-old, I enjoyed coloring and drawing. I would take my little make shift color pencil holder made out of an old tin can and an old hard bound diary with blank pages that my mother gave me and sit in a shady spot on the cement floor at the front of the house in Sri Petaling to draw. Often I would look up at the sky, take a deep breath to take in my surrounding and wonder in the the clouds, finding shapes and faces I could trace.

When I was in Dubai in 2012, I took a desert safari trip with three other strangers and our tour guide, Eddy. We were traveling in an SUV along with other tourists traveling in other vehicles. Since I wasn’t traveling with a companion, I was a solo traveler and spent a lot of time talking to Eddy whenever we made rest stops towards our destination. He talked a lot about his family and his kids, all of whom were still in Manila, Philippines. I asked him if he missed them and if he visited them often, he replied no. The last time he was back in Manila was 10 years ago when his kids were little. Eddy said the money he was earning here in Dubai was too good to leave even a moment and every penny he earned he was sending it back to his family. If he left Dubai, he wouldn’t have a job to return to and jobs were hard to find in Manila.

When we arrived at our desert destination, I got out of the SUV and looked up at the horizon. It was miles and miles of sand dunes as the sun set adorned the sky. I walked further into the desert and scooped up the sand in the palms of my hands to see the numerous colors that existed in the sand — red, yellow, black, grey and white. Together and from a distance the sand looked brown but it wasn’t. Every grain of sand had a distinct color and shape of its own, somewhat similar to a snowflake that emerges with different shapes. Unfortunately, no photo could do justice to what I saw and felt as the sand slipped through my hands. I looked up at the sky and across the desert and took a deep breath to take in my surrounding. It was the most amazing experience I have ever experienced — being in the desert with strangers watching the sunset and admiring the sand dunes.

I asked Eddy if he ever got tired of taking in this sunset during these daily desert tours. He said it never gets old because it meant he had put in a day’s worth of good work in and his kids will be able to live a better life. Never have I ever met someone so focused on their purpose in life that nothing could sway or deter him. I felt really encouraged by Eddy and the trip. It made whatever problems I was experiencing at the time seem small and insignificant. I was extremely humbled and privileged to have met Eddy and learn of his story while taking in this unique wonder in Dubai.

Today was another hard and heavy day. Chauncey had left the house to take a walk through downtown, an activity we usually do together, however I was working on wrapping up some work that took longer than expected and I wasn’t able to join him. I decided to walk on my own in hopes I might catch up to him somewhere downtown. It was such a beautiful day outside, bright and cool with the a gentle breeze. My heart was heavy with grief thinking about my dad and I felt incompetent in carrying on as normal at work. I messed up on something at work the week my dad died and I felt bad that I let my team down. It was really hard to sort out my thoughts and what I was feeling.

During my walk, I was on the verge of tears until I heard someone call out my name, “SARAH!” It was Chauncey with a bag full of candy and a 6-pack of retro soda from Rocket Fizz across the street from where I was. He was the breath of fresh air I needed in that moment. He hugged me and said he was surprised to see me. I was just happy to see him because I didn’t like being lost in my own spiraling thoughts. Chauncey explained the candy and soda was suppose to be a surprise for me when he got home to share. I smiled thinking that it’s mostly for him than it is for me. We walked and talked about our day, even laughed a little. As we approached our house, I looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. I thought to myself, “Just one day at a time, Sarah.”

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Resilience

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Emily O. and the word is “Resilience”. Thank you Emily for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

Resilience to me means surviving and taking a step forward even when you don’t want to. It also means knowing when to stop and take care of yourself.

More than two weeks ago, I shared about my dad’s passing and it turned into a tribute to my dad. It was unexpected and I didn’t intend it to be that way. I am still grappling with the thought of how do I accept one moment someone is here and the next they’re gone. Everyday I’m grappling with a question or thought or even a memory about my dad. However, all I can do is take one day at a time and finding time to care for myself while I sort through these questions, thoughts and memories.

The last two weeks on social media has been filled with more updates on loved one’s dying because of COVID-19, unexpected health issues, and for being the color of their skin. Many white allies have stepped up to demand justice for the many Black lives taken due to police brutality as well as getting other white people to understand racism is alive and we all need to do better. I am encouraged by these actions and it brought me to tears.

Recently I have been learning more about Asian Americans & Pacific Islanders (AAPI) in America to understand what I can do in solidarity with other Asians in the midst of the vitriol and racism Asian Americans are experiencing due to media and the US president ignorantly naming Chinese people as the cause of the COVID-19 outbreak. The racism that was already there is just manifesting itself more because of social media. What I have learned in my research recently is many AAPI groups and individuals are standing in solidarity with Black Americans. It was refreshing to see content of solidarity that I felt confident to share to show my support for racial justice.

One of the other things I learned about myself in this process, I am not good at solidarity nor lending my voice to important racial justice issues because I often feel that I am not heard or that I might be judged for not completely understanding the ways of America. As a Chinese Malaysian immigrant living in America, I still don’t understand many things about America and I’m privy only to what I’ve been exposed to for as long as I’ve lived here in Kalamazoo. So I keep trying every day to learn what life is like for many people of color in America and hold space for people of color where ever I am. This is exhausting work but I have to hold on as best as I can.

My father was not a racial justice advocate nor did he talk about such things, but he understood what it meant to gather wealth and give his kids a better life so that we didn’t have to live a hard life like he did. Many people of color in America share those same dreams and more for their children, but a multitude of barriers that were in place historically continue to exist that prevent many of them from accomplishing those dreams. Barriers such as blatant racism and systems that actively prevent people based on the color of their skin and identity from accessing resources to accumulate wealth and build a positive life for themselves and their families.

Thank you white allies for lending your voice to racial justice and getting other white people to do better. Right now I am tired mentally, physically and emotionally, not only from grieving personally but also from the grief people are holding for the one’s they have lost. It’s heavy right now and I’m going to take care of myself so that I can rebuild my resilience for what comes next.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Humility

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Meagan R. and the word is “Humility”. Thank you Meagan for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

When I was 14, I was appointed as the Cleanliness Monitor, an additional leadership role the school created for all the classes to ensure classrooms were kept in shape. In addition to the new position, there was a weekly competition between classes for the cleanest class and the winning class would receive the school’s coat of arms plaque with their class name on it. It became highly coveted by every class with bragging rights if you are able to keep it for several weeks at a time. I worked hard in building the cleaning roster and made sure every person in class had a cleaning responsibility such as sweeping the floors, cleaning the chalkboard, wiping the windows clean and many other chores. In addition I designed posters that illustrated our class name and served as decorations on the door.

One day I fell sick with a high fever and I didn’t get the posters completed. It was due at a certain point in the week before the panel of judges comprised of teachers would walk past all the classrooms to conduct their cleanliness assessment. I panicked and kept working on the posters while I was sick. Color printers were not very popular or widespread, so all the posters I was creating were by hand with crayons, glitter glue and markers. My mom kept insisting I should rest and finish the posters later. I refused and kept working on them.

When I was feeling better, I went back to school with posters in hand and put them up as quickly as I could. My class teacher really liked my posters, the rest of the class not so much. We didn’t win the plaque and for weeks on end we still didn’t win. After several months there was an opportunity where a class teacher could nominate a few students from their class to be prefects, a student body focused on upholding school discipline and serving as role models for other students. My class teacher nominated me to be a prefect. I was elated and was given a new badge of prefect-in-training. Since I was training to be a prefect, I couldn’t continue holding the Cleanliness Monitor position and a new student was appointed. What I didn’t know was this student who was appointed, wanted to be Cleanliness Monitor for a long time and had been running a lot of different ideas by our class teacher on how we could beautify our classroom while maintaining the cleanliness. The class teacher advised her to share them with me but insisted that I wasn’t interested in her ideas. Many of these ideas she talked about, I had never heard of during my tenure as Cleanliness Monitor. Mainly because I wasn’t soliciting any ideas and I never talked to anyone about what I was implementing, I just did it.

Shortly after the transition of roles, the classroom looked different. All the posters I had created were taken down including the cleaning roster. In place, curtains were put up, a new cleaning roster was designed and a framed photo collage became our new door signage. Furthermore, all students were given wrapping paper and plastic wrapping sheets for our desks to beautify and keep our tables clean. After all these changes took place, our class finally won the plaque for the most cleanest class and we were able to maintain it for a couple of weeks at a time.

The new Cleanliness Monitor did something better than me — she was great in getting other students involved and giving them opportunities to contribute where they were interested in. She engaged others where I couldn’t. I learned quickly that I am not the most talented person when it comes to beautifying a classroom and considering others talents in areas I fell short.

I also learned that I loved autonomy in my work and didn’t quite like working with others. Becoming a prefect was the best thing for me. I didn’t need to work in teams, we were all individually assigned floors to patrol during recess and designated assembly responsibilities as well as end of school door monitoring (to ensure no student left school early before the bell). Socializing with other students was not allowed when you are on duty so it made it easy for an introvert like me to not be gregarious. Just strict and scary enough to enforce the rules of the school with students my age. I even remember a school mate I barely knew once said to me, “You should smile more, you look too garang (fierce).” I was glad to hear that feedback. I was comfortable with my persona in school as being fierce and distant because I had friends outside of school where I could be my true self.

This is just one story about my personal learning about humility. Over the course of my lifetime, I have found myself in awkward moments of humiliation and stumbling through moments where I wasn’t the smartest person in the room. I have learned to check myself at every point possible on how I am carrying myself and remembering that there are much smarter people than I am to help figure out solutions. Maturity and age has certainly helped me recognize what my strengths are as well as finding strengths of others to complement where I fall short. It’s still a work in progress and I have great teams I’m working with today to help keep me in check while lifting them up where their strengths could shine.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Faith

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Heather A. and the word is “Faith”. Thank you Heather for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

When I was 14, I was baptized as a Christian at Holy Light Lutheran Church in Malaysia. One year prior, I had been taking catechism classes with the pastor and a few others who were preparing for baptism. I spent a lot of time in prayer and reading the Bible in preparation for this day. My faith in God was simple and it felt easy to understand His word, especially through song. In addition to the preparation to be baptized I was serving in church as one of the classic piano or synthesizer players for Sunday service. Whenever I prayed or read the Bible I felt a song within me that I use to play on the piano during communion or prayer at church.

The day I was baptized, I felt renewed and lighter. It was a surreal experience that is indescribable. When I shared this feeling with my parents and other grown ups, they said everyone’s baptism experience is somewhat similar but yet unique to that individual because it was about your commitment to God. Within the following year, I started to volunteer more in church especially with the youth group — from weekly cell group meetings,  to serving in the youth ministry executive team and leading worship service. This was the time where I felt most accountable to my faith and my belief in Christ was at its strongest or so I believed it to be.

After serving for more than a year on the youth ministry executive team as the secretary, I was excited to renew my service in this role. We had a new youth ministry leader take over and everyone’s role within the team was renewed with a unanimous vote. A few weeks later, the new youth ministry leader drove over to my house late one night to speak to me. My mom had greeted him at the gate and she called for me to come out and talk to him. I invited him into our house but he refused and said this was going to be short. He said that he would like his girlfriend to be the secretary because he is closer to her and feels much more comfortable working with her. In short, he asked me to step down from my role so that his girlfriend could fill the spot. No one else on the team was asked to step down, only me. As a young teenager at 16, I was disappointed and frustrated but felt helpless in pushing back or even asking for a formal process to make this official instead of some late night conversation in front of my house on opposing sides of a metal gate.

This was the beginning of when I started to lose faith in people at church. The new youth ministry leader pushed for a tight knit circle of people he liked and had existing relationships. I slowly felt pushed out of youth related activities and my opportunities were cut back to just playing the piano. One of the older youth leaders noticed I was not as active in church as I used to be and he asked me what’s holding me back. I couldn’t bring myself to explain to him what had happened and that it wasn’t me holding back but rather the opportunities were taken away and given to someone else. So I did what I did best at the time, I shrugged my shoulders in shyness and said “I don’t know.”

The youth cell group I was a part of was named “Joy”. Each youth cell group was named after the Fruits of the Spirit. Eventually our attendance started to drop and the same thing happened to “Love” youth cell group, so they merged our groups together. I really enjoyed these gatherings and the activities we did, however I always felt like I was the outsider trying to find a way in to this group. The inside jokes they shared, I could never get into nor understand the context. So when a joke was told, I wouldn’t laugh because I didn’t get it. This interaction continued to drive a wedge between my desire of connecting with the youth group and pursuing something else. I stayed for as long as I could because it pleased my mother that I was serving God and participating in Christian youth group.

During this same time, I started to engage more with a writers group called Phases Young Writers (PhYW). I met some really amazing people through this group and felt more accepted as well as welcomed into this group. Many of them were Christians and wrote for the Phases magazine, published by Scripture Union. The experience allowed me to explore writing and also step up as a leader to bring a group of people together who often felt like they didn’t fit in anywhere else. As I began to increase my involvement in the PhYW, I reduced my involvement with the youth cell group.

Subsequently, I told my cell group leader that I was leaving the group. He was sad and disappointed that I was leaving and wanted to make sure I was still getting the guidance I needed for my faith. I told him all about PhYW and what we had been doing, it sounded just like a youth cell group but with an emphasis on quirky writing and fans of good literature. He reluctantly approved my departure and I never returned to any youth activities except for Sunday church service with my parents. I even stopped volunteering to play the piano. A few of the musicians on the worship team tried really hard to engage me to continue playing with them by leveraging other instruments I played such as the violin. I was just so disappointed in the youth ministry and the church overall for allowing this culture to permeate its congregation.

In reflection, could I have told somebody about my frustration and would things be different? I don’t know. My family was labeled as big complainers in the church, especially after a big argument my mother had with another older youth leader about me. I felt that if I complained to someone, I would be labeled being just like my mother and people wouldn’t take me seriously or be blamed for getting kicked out because I was a troublemaker. I don’t hold any grudges towards anyone in that church today. These were very difficult thoughts to process as a teenager and the only reasonable choice I had at the time was to leave.

When I traveled to Kalamazoo for my undergraduate studies, I left everything about Holy Light Lutheran Church behind and thought I could start fresh with a new church or youth group at college. The first church I went to was a Lutheran church on West Main. I attended a few Sunday services on my own and inquired with the pastor if I could join their music ministry. He introduced me to the music ministry lead and they told me there is no extra spots in the music ministry where I could participate in. I kept asking about other opportunities on how I could get involved and each time they said no. Eventually I got the feeling that I was too different than everyone else in that church and they weren’t as welcoming to foreign students. I stopped going to the church because why would I want to keep going when I’m not welcomed. Later I found out a different foreign student who came from Sunway College went to this same church at a different time than I did and was given the same treatment.

I researched on campus for a Christian Fellowship group for college students and when I joined I thought I had found my people. I joined a Bible study group as part of the Christian Fellowship and we threw a few awesome Salsa dancing parties to bring people together. I even designed the invitations. After awhile, the Bible study group leader started to withdraw from her leadership role and subsequently the Bible study group fell apart. I wanted to join another group, but they were not taking anymore people into their group. If they took anymore, the group would have to split up to form new groups and they didn’t want that to happen. So I stopped going and trying to engage with other Christian groups.

Today, I don’t go to church nor do I belong to any Christian group. I have made my peace that I shouldn’t put my faith in people when it comes to having faith in God. We can only be responsible for our own actions and behavior. People stumble, fail and make mistakes all the time, just like me. So holding them responsible for my personal stumbling in my faith seems unreasonable. I still pray because it brings me a lot of comfort during very difficult times and have several prayers from the Bible memorized since I was a teenager. Reading the Bible is now much easier in a digital format than reading a physical book, which has made it easier for me to digest God’s word.

Not many people know I am a Christian at heart, it’s a piece of me that I keep hidden and private because I don’t want to discuss judgment others might have of me not going to church or not carrying on practices that a typical Christian should be doing. I know I am not typical and I have accepted that part of myself. It took me a long time to come to this acceptance and I have felt so much lighter in my heart.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Collaboration

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Lori T. and the word is “Collaboration”. Thank you Lori for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

In 2002, I had the opportunity to join 60 students from the Pacific Rim to participate in a program called Voices of the Future for APEC (Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation) in Los Cabos, Mexico. The six-day APEC education initiative comprised of producing videos and TV interviews with leaders at the APEC meetings in the broadcast center called “APEC Surf Cafe”, the first student-run APEC broadcast center at an APEC summit.

This was a once in a lifetime experience to meet with leaders of countries to discuss how APEC’s goal of “cooperation and consensus” can be realized in such a large and diverse network of economies and cultures. I didn’t apply for this opportunity. I was in Sunway College and serving as the college magazine editor. One day, the head of the Student Services Department called me into her office for something urgent. My heart sank as I was walking to her office thinking something had gone wrong with one of my editorial team members or the magazine production. When I walked into her office, she was smiling and said to sit down. She asked me if I would like to serve as a student delegate from Malaysia for the APEC conference and proceeded to highlight how this would be a great opportunity. I was in shock at the offer and said yes without hesitation.

She passed my name to a Malaysian government representative and they took take care of my visa as well as government clearance to travel with the deputy prime minister’s contingent. My mom and dad were so proud of me that I had this great opportunity. Before leaving for the APEC conference, the Malaysian government representative said I should meet up with the other student delegates. My traveling mates were Nuralina and Ena, both from Universiti Teknologi Petronas (a local university in Malaysia). Nuralina was like me, a first-year in college, and Ena was a lecturer (instructor) at the university. They were such a great group to travel with. They took care of me because I didn’t travel well, I threw up a lot on the plane ride.

When we arrived at the Mexico airport, I remember getting into a small shuttle van where we driven to the APEC summit site. All the houses that faced the main highway we were traveling were freshly painted with signs on the highway barriers stating “Welcome APEC Delegates” in multiple languages. As we entered the APEC summit site, I remember seeing so many security guards surrounding the perimeter and everywhere you went you needed to have your name badge or else you couldn’t access various parts of the site. When we arrived at the APEC Surf Cafe, we were introduced to other delegates from other countries quickly. Many of the Mexican student delegates had arrived several days earlier to set up for the broadcast and work on a variety of projects. We were divided into smaller groups so that we could meet students from other countries but also to team up on a video project. Somehow I felt like I was behind on the video project. One of the Mexican student delegate had already planned out the video outline and all I had to do was help proofread the video to be mentioned in the credits.

What I found really valuable was listening to the interviews with leaders and representatives of countries. We met U.S. Secretary of State Colin Power, Mexico Secretary of Foreign Affairs Jorge Castaneda and First Lady Marta Sahagun de Fox. Nuralina and I were given a special opportunity to interview live on international broadcast the Deputy Prime Minister of Malaysia, Abdullah Ahmad Badawi or more commonly known as Pak Lah. One of the most notable moments during interview was how he described Malaysia as a melting pot and how both Nuralina and I represented this concept, especially through our traditional Malay wear. It was a moment of pride to be representing Malaysia and the discussion of collaboration as a critical factor in ensuring Malaysia’s progress forward was very inspiring. I wanted to contribute to this collaboration and dreamt of a day where I could join the Malaysian government ranks to make this happen.

Clearly things have changed since then, both for Malaysia and myself. I have moved on from that dream and pursued other dreams here in America. Malaysia has gone through a lot changes for the worse in the last 16 years or so driven by political unrest and poor government leadership. Sometimes I have thought about pursuing the dream of returning to Malaysia, as I’ve mentioned in a previous story, and contributing in some way that would help our country get back on track to the vision I heard so many years ago of international collaboration that made Malaysia the amazing melting pot that it is. I guess I’m still waiting for that a-ha moment of what I could do and yet I acknowledge that the a-ha moment might not come because of what I have committed to here in Kalamazoo.

Some days when I think about home in Malaysia, I’m often rife with opposing tension points tied to proximity. Whether it’s about my family or some greater calling to do something in my home country. Some of the questions I ponder on are, “I miss my family in Malaysia, but I also have a family here in Kalamazoo - how do I live with this tension of being pulled in two different directions?” Through my actions, I know I have already made choices that lead me in one direction however it doesn’t make it any easier on me living in this tension point. I am hopeful some day that there will be a moment where my a-ha moment will come to past and I don’t always have to keep living in between this tug and pull.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Community

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Lisette MA and the word is “Community”. Thank you Lisette for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

One of the many things I look forward to when I was a teenager was attending camp during school holidays. It was the only time I had the opportunity to meet other kids my age who spoke English well and be part of a small community with a common purpose for a whole week. Most of the camps I attended were Christian-based and organized by Scripture Union, a Christian evangelical organization focused on using the Bible to inspire children, young people and adults to know God. Scripture Union sold a variety of literature and also hosted numerous camps for kids, tweens and teenagers.

My favorite part of any camping experience was the unauthorized late night chats and games with other campers. We do our very best to make sure all the camp counselors are fast asleep and then sneak out to the agreed upon designated spot to talk about boys or girls as well as play a round of truth or dare. The first time I sneaked out to hang out with a few friends was at a tweens camp and it was early in the morning. Our schedule stated wake up was at 7am and many of my newfound friends woke up early around 6am to hang out at the playground because they couldn’t sleep the night before. We talked about a variety of things and laughed. It was a lot of fun. Right before the 7am alarm bell went off, we decided to shout “Wake up”. The bell rung and we shouted really loudly “Wake up”.  We had time until 8am breakfast so we stayed on the playground and continued chatting.

The lead camp counselor had just woken up and was walking towards the bathroom when he saw us at the playground. He asked us why we were hanging out at the playground, we told him and he joked with us for a little while before he walked away to continue to his destination. Little did we know, we were going to pay for our actions. At 9am we had a daily camp assembly outdoors and we lined up within our designated groups to listen to our camp counselors’ announcements before we separated into our respective groups for activities. The lead camp counselor started talking about a group earlier that morning making a lot of noise prior to 7am. He said those individuals are punished for not following the rules of maintaining quiet hours and the punishment was duck walking (squatting like a duck with your arms like wings and walking in squatted position) in circles five times around the assembly. He didn’t point out who, but he said, “You know who you are, so get going on the punishment otherwise we will ALL have to stand out here in the hot sun until you do.”

A few of my friends started falling out of line and started duck walking. I looked at my friend Aliza if we should follow suit, she looked at me and you could see the guilt all over her face. She followed suit duck walking with the others. I couldn’t continue staying in line while I watched my friends get punished. So I joined the group and duck walked. This was when I learned to never get caught by a camp counselor and to do your fun unauthorized activities at night.

When I was about 15 or 16 years old, I attended a camp called Closer 2 God (pictured in group photo wearing black t-shirts). One of the late nights, I decided to hang out at a friends room with a few other girls to chat and talking about some of the boys at camp. It was the best way not to get caught by a camp counselor. While we were talking, someone knocked on our door. I felt a sudden dread that we had been caught. My friend Rachel opened the door and it was two fellow campers seemingly frantic. They stayed in the room next door. What we found out was they were locked out of their room and both of them left their keys in the room. This was one of those doors, where you always need your key or else the door locks behind you. They were afraid to ask a camp counselor for help especially since it was late and we didn’t want to get caught being awake. I asked if their window was open and where exactly was their keys. They said yes to the window and the keys was on the table.

We had wire hangers in the room closet and I had learned a trick from my family who were back fans of MacGyver, so you can imagine where this story is going. I grabbed a wire hanger extended it out and created a hook at the end. Outside of my friends’ room window was a ledge large enough for one person to stand on and walk over to the room next door. I hopped outside with my make shift wire hook and walked over to the open window next door to find the keys. The keys were where she described it and I pushed the hook through the window to fish the keys out from the table. It took a few tries before I got the keys and pulled it towards me. I grabbed the keys from the hook, walked on the ledge back to my friend’s room and hopped back into the room. The two campers were elated. They thanked us for our help and started hurrying back to their room. I said to everyone in the room, don’t tell anyone not even the camp counselors about what happened otherwise we’re all going to be in trouble. We kept out agreement and decided to end the night after all that excitement.

Going camping was not only adventurous but also the time where I applied a lot of random life skills I learned at home. You see, when my family use to own two cars sometimes we would travel separately to church because someone in the family had to go early to set up, practice for service or attend a meeting after church. A couple of times, my mom, brother and myself, would go home and we wouldn’t have the house keys on us because whoever was holding the house keys earlier swapped cars and left the keys in the center console. The first time this happened, my brother had to climb over our fence gate and try to open the front door. The problem is getting past the gate at our front door. Malaysian homes has a lot of gates or metal cross cross frames around windows and doors to prevent people from breaking in. The spare key was in the house, so my mom made a hook out of a metal wire hanger and my brother fished the spare keys from inside our house.

The subsequent time this happened, my mom had the foresight to hide a spare key in a shoe closet outside of the front door for easier access should something happen again. All these experiences taught me a few things: 1) Always brings your keys with you no matter where you’re going, 2) If you’re stuck in a pickle, use what you have to get yourself out, and 3) many favorite television programming influenced our creative problem solving. Sometimes it takes a community to learn together and solve a problem together. You never know who in the group might have experience making a hook wire out of a hanger.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Kalamazoo

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Stacey CM. and the word is “Kalamazoo”. Thank you Stacey for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

When I started working on growing my network and circle of friends while living in Kalamazoo, one of the most influential programs that helped me meet people and learn more about Kalamazoo was Leadership Kalamazoo, a year-long leadership program hosted by the Kalamazoo Regional Chamber of Commerce. Our class graduated in 2010.

The program featured a variety of team building activities, an individual personality assessment called DiSC and also a group project focused on a specific area about Kalamazoo. I really enjoyed all facets of this program because it allowed to learn more about myself. I remember Mike Srodes, our facilitator, helping the class understand their own working styles using the DiSC assessment and how we could leverage our classmates as a way to practice working with others with different personality styles.

At the time, I was a “C” personality. Everyone congregated within their respected personality types and engaged in an initial discussion about similarities as well as challenges. We found a lot in common even though we were all different ages and backgrounds. It felt like we were commiserating over the difficulties working with “D” types. Mike suggested to the group, if there is a personality type you were experiencing difficulty with a co-worker or supervisor, try talking to one of your classmates who holds this personality type to help you understand what its like on the other side.

So I decided to reach out to someone in the “D” group just to put this exercise to the test. I reached out to Paula Norder. What an amazing woman. I really appreciated her patience with me as I was fumbling through questions as well scenarios to help her understand what I was struggling with. “D” personalities often make me feel uncomfortable and I always found it difficult to get an inch in during a conversation. Paula helped me appreciate the boldness of a “D” and how to navigate my discomfort through relationship building. I am still in touch with Paula today, she owns Clock N’ Lock Escape Room located in Downtown Kalamazoo.

The small group I was a part of for the group project focused on talent and retention. My group was really awesome to work with. We took a long time on what we wanted to deep dive into in this area and we were able to identify a key question,”Why I chose Kalamazoo?” We created a video (it’s 14:27 of unedited footage, you’ve been warned about the length) and we asked almost everyone in our class as well as notable representatives of our community to be part of this video. This was a way to illustrate the “why” from different perspectives — why we stay in this community— which we hope could be used as a recruitment tool or even on the Chamber’s website. It was a long video but it made for a lot of great content for the Chamber to share. We showed our finished product to the whole class and it was well received. Many in the class who were not in the video, shared with us their story on why they chose Kalamazoo and what made them stay.

Many of the individuals I met in class are people I still talk to and connect with. In fact, I have had the opportunity to collaborate with a number of them on a few projects since 2010. The first project I worked on after Leadership Kalamazoo was Kinetic Affect Live (KAL), a television show created by dynamic duo Kirk Latimer and Gabriel Giron as Kinetic Affect and it was broadcasted through Community Access Channel (now Public Media Network). Kirk was in my Leadership Kalamazoo class and had announced an opportunity to help volunteer for a project Kinetic Affect was working on. I had never done anything like this before and thought what a great opportunity to meet new people and help with a creative project in Kalamazoo. We recorded the show every Saturday afternoon in front of a live audience.

When I joined the KAL team, I was helping out with some grassroots marketing and eventually became the concessions manager. It was quite a treat to meet so many talented people in Kalamazoo and watch them perform live on the show. Once the television show was done, Kirk asked me if I wanted to stay on in my role as a concessions manager for a new live show they were putting together called Blood, Sweat & Tears, a local talent competition show (depicted in photo). I said yes, it was a shorter time frame engagement than the television gig and it meant I had the opportunity to continue hanging out with new friends I had fostered through the television show.

In reflections of Leadership Kalamazoo and all the great connections I was able to foster, I am extremely grateful to be amongst people who are doing great things in our community and leading with such compassion. It’s almost like we were living up to the poem I wrote and performed on our graduation day with Kirk. I would like to end this story today with the poem and hope this serves as a reminder to myself, even in the midst of a pandemic, leading with compassion is still a critical trait even after 10 years.

“A pomp and circumstance, a tradition without resistance, graduation bears much meaning and recognition in an instance. Hoods and gowns you will not see today, however we will claim the magnitude that we have been changed this day. We have begun a journey that has no end, how do we continue to blend? Not into the background we fade, but the perpetual intertwining of our fate. With hope and fiery passion, I implore you to lead with compassion.”

NOTE: If anyone from the Leadership Kalamazoo 2010 class still has a copy of our class photo at Fetzer Center, please send a copy to me. For some reason I can’t find a copy in my files.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Loneliness

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Sue Ellen C. and the word is “Loneliness”. Thank you Sue Ellen for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

I am by nature an introvert who has learned over a period of time how to extrovert. I enjoy spending time alone working on solitary projects or activities. The idea of intentionally building and maintaining friendships has always been a difficult concept for me to grasp. When I was growing up, I was willing to make one or two close friends that are deep and meaningful. Even in a large group, I would only spend my time with one or two people who gel well with me.

While studying at Western Michigan University for my graduate studies, most of my college mates who transferred over with me had graduated and returned home to Malaysia or traveled away from Kalamazoo for work. I lost touch with many of them, even the close ones. Tieng and Chauncey were always there as my go to friends whenever I needed to talk or to do activities together. After I graduated with my master’s degree, started working and got married, Chauncey’s work place went through significant restructuring and he was moved to the third shift from 11pm to 7am. We both thought this was temporary and he said he would hang in there until a better opportunity came up at work to switch back to day shift. For six months after we got married, I got into the groove of Chauncey’s night shift schedule and spent many of my waking hours at the Chamber working or hanging out with Tieng.

Tieng eventually graduated from her master’s degree and decided to return home to Malaysia. It was really hard to see my best friend leave. I knew she was always available by text, phone or some video conferencing platform, but I knew the time difference would start to weigh heavily on when we could reach out to one another. Chauncey’s work place continued to keep him on the third shift and the prospect of leaving third shift seemed unlikely. Months turned into two years and my waking hours became long working hours at the Chamber from 8am to 8pm. My weekends were quiet, Tieng was gone and I didn’t have anyone to call on to hang out. I wasn’t as close to my mother-in-law at the time nor was I talking to my mother nor my family members as often.

One night when I was trying to fall asleep, I laid under the covers, looked up at the ceiling and said out loud, “I am so alone.” I started to sob and cry uncontrollably. There wasn’t anyone I could call at that hour and I didn’t want to worry Chauncey about what I was going through. This was one of the most loneliest times I felt in a long time. The activities I was doing solitary wasn’t helping me cope with the lack of companionship and what made it worst was having very little roots in Kalamazoo. I didn’t feel connected to this community and I didn’t want to be here. Also, I didn’t know where or how to make new friends. Making friends as an adult seemed so much harder than making friends a kid.

Whenever I get emotionally distraught, something inside me clicks and insists on fixing how I felt by any means possible. So I started pursuing more social activities and attending every Chamber event that was hosted. I joined a small tweetup meeting that led me to start a monthly tweetup group called TweetUp Kalamazoo. Downtown Kalamazoo had a lot of events and many of my co-workers started inviting me to join them. I kept saying yes to every social and networking opportunity because I didn’t want to feel lonely again and wanted to find meaningful friendships that would convince me to stay in Kalamazoo.

I did this for three years and my days changed drastically. I was busy and met a lot of new people, many of which I still call friends today. During this same time frame, Chauncey and I attended marriage counseling to help us understand how to make our relationship work with the circumstances presented to us as well as how to effectively communicate with one another.

After several months of marriage counseling, it really helped us talk through what we wanted from the relationship and discuss what we needed to do to make it work for both of us. Some of the new practices in making our relationship work was taking turns to plan the weekend so that we could each look forward to something fun over the weekend. The big discussion we had was Chauncey finding another job on day shift and it didn’t matter if he took a pay cut. At this time, I was working at Greenleaf Hospitality Group and was earning more money than Chauncey. So I took over majority of the bills in the household and supported Chauncey’s job search.

One of Chauncey’s best friends from his high school, Charles, told him about a job opportunity as a Quality Inspector at his company. It was a different field for Chauncey and the pay was extremely low, but the shift hours were day shift which is all I asked for. Chauncey started working at this new job and part-time at his old job during the weekend on day shifts. He felt bad about not pulling his weight in pay and I said don’t worry about it. We will figure out a way and he was always the main person who took care of our household (i.e. cleaning, cutting the grass, taking the trash out, washing the dishes, etc) . Eventually he quit his old job and only worked Monday through Friday on day shifts. This pivot was really important in our relationship. It helped us find meaningful ways to reconnect and we were able to take vacations together as well travel the world.

Chauncey continued to be promoted at work and found new opportunities within the company that increased his pay as well as job skills. I started to pay for many of the repairs and upgrades on the two houses we owned to make them rental ready. This was Chauncey’s dream to own rental properties and I wanted to make it a reality for him, especially after all the challenges he was undertaking just so we could make our relationship work. This year in August, we will be celebrating our 12th wedding anniversary.

Recently, I remember telling Chauncey that I felt like we were more of a married couple now than we were eight years ago. We were doings things as a couple and finishing each other’s sentences (or sandwiches as he would call it). It felt like a true partnership in love and life. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in life and I am so thankful for him fighting for us. If he didn’t suggest marriage counseling or persuaded me not to leave the house, our lives would have been so different today. Now, we are working hard at communicating with one another and making sure we are honoring what we promise each other to be better for one another. I am a better person today because of Chauncey.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Gossip

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by J K. and the word is “Gossip”. Thank you J for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

In Standard 6 (or 6th Grade equivalent in America) primary school, my mom enrolled me in math tuition — additional tutoring outside of school — with one of the primary school teachers who was running a side hustle to earn extra money by proving tuition. In my tuition class, there were two other boys — Ken and Joe. They were the same age as I wasn’t and we went to the same school but we were in different classes. Within a few months, I started to do better in math and learned ahead of what was being taught in class.

Our math tuition teacher was the designated teacher for one of the Standard 6 classes and she was also pregnant. When her baby was due, the students in her class had to be reassigned to other classes to maintain consistency in following the syllabus. The couldn’t afford to hire a temporary teacher to cover the rest of her time out of school. Ken ended up in my class with several of his friends and sat on the opposite side of the classroom. I started to hear a lot of gossip amongst the Malay girls in our class about some boy who just joined our class has a crush on a girl in our class and how he hasn’t had the guts to tell her that he liked her. Being nosy, I asked them who it is and are they planning on helping this boy. They laughed and one of the Malay girls moved their chair closer to me, whispering into my ear that the girl is me and the boy is Ken. I blushed and was embarrassed that a boy liked me, especially a boy that I saw only at math tuition classes.

The next few days, the Malay girls decided to write a note on my behalf to Ken inquiring if we should exchange phone numbers so that we could talk more. I don’t remember if I consented to this, but it was nice being part of a group girls giggling and being teased. It was a different kind of attention from classmates that I haven’t experience before. So I went along with the note passing from one side of the classroom to the other, where Ken and a bunch of guys were teasing him about getting a note from a girl. We exchanged phone numbers and he started calling me. I was very proficient in English and he was proficient in Cantonese, so we compromised and spoke in Malay on the phone. Whenever he called, I would always say “Apa hal?” (What’s up?) and soon my mother caught on that I was talking to a boy and this became my mother’s nickname for him.

After several calls in the evenings after dinner for what seemed like a month, we decided to start writing letters to one another because he was trying to improve his English composition and thought it might be helpful for him to learn from me. We exchanged mailing addresses and I remember using special stationary for our correspondences. On his 12th birthday, he invited me to his birthday party and I was too shy to show up. I bought him a birthday present because I felt bad for not going to his party and I asked my mother to drive me to his house so that I can drop off the present. It was a fancy ballpoint pen with a case of its own. I remember when I walked up to the gates of his house, his mom came out to greet me and I said I was looking for Ken. She called for him and he came out of the house with a cast on his arm. I didn’t know he had a pretty bad fall while playing badminton and broke his arm because he was didn’t come to school for several days and he didn’t say anything on the phone about it. He was smiling from ear to ear when he saw me and I handed the box to him saying, “Happy Birthday!” He opened the present in front of me and said he will use it every day. I said I had to go, my mother is waiting for me in the car and off I left.

Towards the end of the year, I decided that this was inappropriate for me to continue. I think I knew I didn’t like him romantically and the boy I was crushing on at the time was Joe, the other math tuition classmate. So I wrote my last letter to him saying that I can’t continue this “relationship” because I needed to focus on my studies when we move to secondary school. I think I might have mentioned that I liked Joe and it wouldn’t be fair for me to continue being his “girlfriend”. After that I forgot about the whole thing and secondary school was a new chapter for me. Little did I know, Ken’s two best friends Chong and Yang were assigned to my class in secondary school.

Chong and Yang had found out from Ken that I broke his heart and they were out for revenge on his behalf. In class, they were extremely mean to me by berating me, putting me down at every opportunity and making fun of me when the teacher made a mistake on total points of who had first place in class. Initially the teacher said I had scored first place in class and I went home to tell my mom, she was so proud of me. The next day the teacher apologized and said I was third place and Yang was first. Yang relished that moment and refused to let it go by reminding me everyday in school that I will never be first or smarter than him. This was the beginning of when I started to deteriorate in my academic performance because I didn’t want to be first in class. It didn’t motivate to do better, I just decided to disengage and hopefully someday he will stop pestering me. Eventually when we reached Form 3 (or 9th Grade equivalent), students were reshuffled into new classes based on the points they earned on their final exam in Form 2. Chong and Yang were no longer in my class and that ended the bullying.

During our final year in secondary school, I noticed Ken had a girlfriend from one of the Science stream classes. He was friends with one of my good friends from primary school and I remember asking her if he would consider being friends again. I wasn’t interested in becoming boyfriend-girlfriend or anything like that, I just thought we had something in common at one point and perhaps we could be friends. She shared with me his ICQ account name and I decided to message him directly instead of passing notes like we were 12. I crossed my fingers while I waited for his response. It was a short reply of no. Followed by how he just recently burned all our “love letters” and the pen I gave him for his 12th birthday. He described it as a way of getting over me and he wasn’t interested in revisiting and of those feelings or even considering friendship. I said I understand and said I was sorry for how things ended and left the ICQ conversation.

I remember thinking to myself at the time, why did Ken have such strong feelings for me at 12 and all the way through senior year of secondary school? I didn’t think much of it at the time and it felt like puppy love, just like how my mother described it. I assumed we were young and didn’t understand what love is anyway and I didn’t think I left such a strong impression on him. What I know of love today is so different from when I was 12 or even 17 and I know what I felt then wasn’t physical attraction nor romantic love. It was my own fantasies of trying what being “in love” was like and in the process I hurt someone.

At the end of day, I knew it was the right thing to do at age 12 however I could have done better in my delivery of the message instead of writing a letter. It’s almost as bad as text messaging someone to break up. In reflection of the few relationships I have had over the years, I have been on both sides - the one breaking up with someone or the one being dumped. Either position is terrible and awkward to be in. In the long run, I know the relationships that have ended for me were meant to end. I may not have received it quite that way at the time, but today I know those individuals are in much better places and happily married or single partnered. The best thing anyone could do when relationships end is to continue living your life to the fullest. No one should ever prevent you from pursuing happiness, not even the shadow of them lingering in the dark corners of your mind.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Language

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Chauncey L. and the word is “Language”. Thank you Chauncey for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

I grew up in a country that spoke Manglish, which means a blending of local languages in Malaysia into the English language. Some have described it as English-based creole and influenced by the dominant languages of the country, more specifically Malay, Chinese languages, and Tamil. Even though the official language of Malaysia is Malay, people learn to get by conversationally on Manglish for the most part. It encompasses a lot of “lah” at the end of a word or sentence, such as “you know lah” or “why you like dat lah?”

Another word that similarly describes Manglish is Singlish, commonly used in Singapore with other Chinese language influences and many would say the two are essentially the same, but don’t say that when you are in Singapore. I even had a t-shirt from Singapore, when I was 16, outlining its cultural features through iconography that included “lah” as one of its unique attributes.

English is a second language in Malaysia. Malaysian English is similar and related to British English due to our complicated history of being colonized by the British for 131 years before Malaysia gained its independence in 1957. Learning English for me was easy because we spoke English at home and my mother was a teacher who taught English, Geography and many other subjects. I was encouraged to read a lot of English written books and literature as well as watching a lot of English speaking shows. My grasp of the English language flourished more when I went to college in Kalamazoo. I always thought that my mastery of English was excellent when I was in secondary school, only to find out later that there are much stronger English speakers and writers in Malaysia.

When I arrived in Kalamazoo, I remember a senior from the international student orientation group said I have a very thick Malaysian accent. I couldn’t tell the difference because I couldn’t hear my own voice being different. I understood other English speakers in America, however I felt they couldn’t understand me and some of the words I use. In my senior year of college, I joined a community theatre group to learn how to hone in on acting and public speaking. While running lines with one of the graduate assistants supporting the actors, she said I pronounce the number “three” in a strange way that is very unique to most Malaysian. More specifically, the way I was pronouncing it was “tree” without the emphasis on the “h” in the word “three”. She is a Black American woman who specialized in performing arts and had met several Malaysians before me who spoke quite the same way. I took her comment to heart and started modifying how I said the number three — making sure I emphasized the “h” moving forward.

During this same time in senior year, I started dating Chauncey and to this day he remembers when I use to have a very thick accent when he met me for the first time when I was a sophomore. While dating, he would often ask me to explain words I use when asking for something. For example, I asked him if we need serviettes for our picnic lunch in the park. He said to me, “What are serviettes?”. In that moment I translated it to “napkins” because I remember hearing a McDonald’s employee referring to it that way and then he finally understood what I was asking for. It took me awhile to find word replacements for: lift, boot, singlet, movie theatre, trolley and many more.

Over the years, Chauncey learned what I meant so it became easier to communicate when we were together however out in public, especially while working, I had to use the proper American terminology. I remember my job at the Chamber I was directing a guest who needed access to an elevator and I said, “Please head down the hallway and you will find the lift to your right.” They looked at me puzzled and said they were not looking for a forklift but rather an elevator. I caught myself and repeated to the guest saying, “Yes, my apologies. Please head down the hallway and the elevator will be to your right.” Slightly frustrate and flustered, I offered to just walk him down the hallway and show him exactly where the elevator was.

For the last 17 years I have lived in Kalamazoo, I have worked really hard on my word choices and how I speak. I don’t remember when this happened, but one day I didn’t have an accent anymore and people mistook me for someone who was raised in America because I spoke like an American. When I speak to friends and family in Malaysia, I noticed they were trying to adapt to how I was speaking and I thought to myself, “Well that’s strange, why are they trying to talk with an American accent?” I can’t control my accent. I try my best to drop in a “lah” or two to show that I still understood Manglish and could speak it whenever I communicate with friends and family in Malaysia.

Sometimes it sounds like I am foreigner in Malaysia trying too hard to speak Manglish and it becomes quite laughable. What I forget often is the sentence structure is different for Manglish, so adding a “lah” here and there doesn’t really change how I sound — it just makes me sound silly and forced. Chauncey calls it code switching. He said sometimes it comes back naturally to me when I’m talking to my mother, but I can’t hear it when I do switch. Maybe next time we will capture a recording of this in action.

[sarahlwlee]

31 Stories in 31 Days: Playful

What is this? As part of celebrating Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month (May), I am writing a story a day about my experiences as a Chinese Malaysian immigrant in America. My friends and family have provided numerous one-word prompts to help me create these stories. Today’s word prompt was contributed by Kathy B. and the word is “Playful”. Thank you Kathy for your contribution and thank you everyone who stopped by to read my story today.

I became an aunt when I was 11 years old. My first experience of being an aunt was babysitting Kristy, my sister’s first born daughter, with my mother and brother when she was a baby. I remember when my sister was pregnant, my sister allowed me to touch her tummy when Kristy kicked or what seemed like a punch to the stomach wall from the inside. Before we knew the gender of baby, we use to call Kristy “Peppermint”. When my sister had her first ultrasound of the baby (if memory serves me well), Kristy was the size of a peppermint leaf and so she was nicknamed Peppermint all through my sister’s pregnancy.

A couple of years later, John was born, my sister’s second child. He had a complicated birth but with swift action of doctors and great care he was born a healthy baby boy. Each year as both Kristy and John grew up, they would visit grandma’s and grandpa’s house, which is the Sri Petaling house. This was when I was most playful with niece and nephew. Whenever they came over to the house to be babysat, we would take them to the playground near my secondary school which featured the latest playground set made of metal and plastic with colorful features. The playground closer to the Sri Petaling house was made of wood, metal chains and pipes with a single coat of dark brown paint, which didn’t last long and started to peel as well as rust. I remember my father painting the playground set because he wanted all the kids in the neighborhood to have something nicer and a safer set for me to play when I was a kid.

As Kristy and John grew bigger, we advanced from outdoor playgrounds to McDonald’s indoor playground, where we grabbed lunch and Kristy would run and play. I remember teaching Kristy how to eat fries with an ice cream sundae by dipping your fries in the ice cream. Personally, I was a fan of dipping nuggets in an ice cream sundae and tried to convince the kids when they were little that this was the best way to experience nuggets and fries. I am guessing this didn’t stick with them. When I asked them recently when we were reconnecting on a video call, they only remembered fries and ice cream.

In addition to teaching them bad eating habits, we use to make silly videos together with my old digital camera and take a lot of very random photos. During this same video call, I decided to show them some of the videos as well as photos. It was so silly and funny, almost cringe-worthy at some points but it made us laugh. At the time I was dating someone else and I had a ton of stuff toys from my ex-boyfriend, which I affectionately called them my children. So Kristy, John and I played make believe with these stuff toys as my imaginary kids and recorded many videos.

When Kristy was about six or seven years old, Jerry was born, my brother’s first born son. I didn’t spend as much time playing with Jerry as I was going to college and I didn’t spend a lot of time at home. The most notable memory I have of Jerry when we had family gatherings at the Sri Petaling house was his utter dislike of the soft turf grass in the garden. Every time I tried to put him down on the grass he would lift his little feet up refusing to set foot on the grass. Kristy said it was probably his feet feeling ticklish from touching the grass. I couldn’t tell if he was ticklish or he didn’t like the texture of the grass, but this happened often enough that it became memorable. Jerry spent a lot of time with my parents whenever I was away at classes or hanging out with my friends. Often I can tell when any of the kids were in the house because toys will be all over the floor in the living room and sometimes the kids were in my room because they were looking for me to play with and some item in my room would have been moved by the kids.

Recently, when we were talking on the video call we were testing the features of Zoom for my father’s wake service. We took the opportunity to catch up, poke fun at one another and reminisce old memories together about grandpa as well as about each other. I realized I missed so much about my nieces and nephews lives while I was gone for almost 17 years from Malaysia.

Kristy and John are now pursuing their master’s degree in the United Kingdom with an emphasis on Teaching English as a Second Language. They blew me away with their keen observation on what they are evaluating for their thesis proposal. My brother’s daughter, Sherry, I barely know much about her because I had left the country. I learned that Kristy played the role that I had played for her as an older caring and playful family member.

When Chauncey and I visited Malaysia last year in May, we stayed at my brother’s house which gave us the opportunity to get to know Jerry and Sherry a little more than “Hi” and “Bye”. I learned Sherry studies really hard to excel in school and was planning on taking the Grade 8 piano exam. Jerry is absolutely passionate about cars and can tell you a lot about how a car should operate. Both of them just astounds me as young smart people.

I can’t wait to see what’s next for Jerry, Sherry, Kristy and John. I am not their parents but I am a very proud aunt of their accomplishments so far and what they will undertake in the future. In a way it’s great to see the next generation carrying some of the important admirable traits of our family, such as kindness and care for others as well their humorous teasing of one another. I am sure there are many more traits, this is what I have been able to garner in our few short video calls.

Sometimes I wonder if we will always keep in touch this way or if someday we will lose touch with one another? I dare not fathom the thought of losing touch and maybe that’s enough to ensure we won’t give up on trying to stay connected. The choice of living in a different country has had a lot of impact on maintaining a close family relationship, however my entire being has been hard wired to accept these choices. Maybe it feels hard wired or rather its a defense mechanism to survive because I have had a lot of time to come to terms with those choices.

Every time I visit Malaysia, I try to stay as open as possible to conversations with my family and try not to box someone into a memory or time frame of reference that may or may not be representative of them today. I always have to remind myself that I have changed too even though there are parts of me that are still very much the same. Perhaps I need more faith in my family and God to maintain or even grow what we have.