"Good Eye, Klo, Good Eye"

My Surreal LIfe

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 06:36:00 +0000

"Can you ladies help me?" she cried.

She was wearing pajamas, and a felted overcoat, and slipper shoes. Her hair was a mess, she held a plastic bag of squishy stuff in one hand and a pillow in the other. She was crying hysterically. My first thought was that she was homeless. But then I realized that I was standing in a hospital parking lot desperately sucking on a cigarette with a caretaker who was on a break. Maybe she'd broken out of the psyche ward.

She needed a ride to her doctor's office, which was a few blocks away, because the Emergency Room where she'd been waiting for four hours had somehow messed up her in-take and she'd been in a horrible car accident several days before and her son and daughter-in-law had dropped her off and gone back to Big Bear and she had possible fractures to her cervical vertebrae and several hematomas on her legs. What?! Neither of us had access to a car and she didn't like any of our other suggestions. She started walking away and the caretaker and I looked at each other and started feeling terrible. We looked at her limping through the rain and both reluctantly tried to think of what to do. Then we saw her pick up her cell phone and next thing we knew, she told us that her doctor would meet her back at the Emergency waiting room. She just needed help getting there.

So the caretaker and I took her things, each held one arm, and helped her through the pouring rain and into the Emergency Room. I gave her my hand, which she took hungrily, and helped her into a chair. I looked her in the eye and told her that it was going to be okay. I held onto her hand as she told us a garbled story about a car accident on a curvy mountain road and thinking that she was going to die. I noticed a rather large triple diamond wedding ring. She showed us a gigantic swollen knarly mess of an upper thigh and I started to believe her story a little. It didn't matter at that point whether or not her story was true anyway, I believed that she was in pain and needed me to sit there and hold her hand. She kept calling us "angels" and saying that her doctor would be right there.

It really wasn't that long until her doctor wandered in, but each moment seemed so full, it felt like hours. The lady pointed her out and I ran over to get her. The doctor didn't seem so enthused or even very concerned about her. The caretaker and I called out "good luck" and "good bye" and walked back to our little sheltered space beneath the parking garage. We lit up another pair of cigarettes and each took long drags. We chatted as if we were friends. We finished our smokes down to the filters. Then we walked slowly back into the hospital and back to our lives.

Is the universe mysterious or are we just dumb?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 06:36:00 +0000

So it's ridiculous to actually believe that bad things always happens in three's. Besides the fact that it's not possible to prove other than with some anecdotal evidence, in the absolute, it's difficult to really classify things as good or bad. Things just happen and they may seem bad at the time, but ultimately, it's simply what happened.

I've spent a lot of time recently thinking about the way that the world works and considering whether or not there's a plan for us. Not really in a "predetermination" sort of way (I really can't swallow that my life has already been written somewhere like a crappy Indy dark comedy) but simply that the universe is constantly coming together around me in a way that has pushed my life towards a certain path, and that it will continue to do so. I am going to go right out there and say that releasing the control that I've always hoarded for myself has been liberating. And rather than leading to inaction, it's led to me move with more clarity through my life. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that I have things figured out, quite the opposite; it's just that I don't need to figure it all out, it's all coming and my job is just to receive it. To be truly open to opportunity, love and life is a really hard thing. I'm just trying to get out of my own way.

Buddhist nun Pema Chodron writes in The Wisdom of No Escape: and the Path to Loving-Kindness, " Life's work is to wake up, to let things that enter into the circle wake you up rather than put you to sleep. The only way to do this is to open, be curious, and develop some sense of sympathy for everything that comes along, to get to know its nature and let it teach you what it will." Maybe it's the nature of people, but I've found that lessons almost always come with "bad" things. When things are good, when we're comfortable and nestled deep in our cubby holes, there is very little learned. It's only when we venture out into the unknown, the dark place, meet our shadow or stand at the edge of our abyss that we're forced to confront ourselves, and realize that we didn't know a thing at all.

One, two, three, always in a row. Maybe it's because we're looking for it, or because it's the natural rhythm of the universe, or because we've smoked too much crack, but it sure feels like when you've experienced two difficult situations, there's a third to come. Otherwise, you're just waiting for the other shoe to drop (damn it, I actually said that to someone the other day).

I think it's just because three is all I can take, because if there were more, I'd keel over with the weight of it. I'd have to crawl underneath the covers and actually never come out again. But for now, I feel pretty safe, I think the universe knows that I've confronted more dark spaces in the last little while than I have in a very very long time. I've teetered on the brink and not fallen in. Thank you, lesson learned.

Truth and Honesty

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 08:25:00 +0000

I watch a damn lot of crime drama. You name it, I probably watch it. And on many of them, somebody will say, "You know how to pass a lie detector test? You tell the truth." Ha ha.

But what if the truth is something elusive, something that you don't even really know for sure? How do you pass a lie detector test then? I've been asking this of myself a lot of late and well, it sucks. I'm not a lier, have never been a lier. As a kid, we had small punishments for mis-behavior but the only thing that we ever got spanked for was for lying. Honesty was a really big thing in my household. Congrats Mom and Dad, I think it took.

But I think that a lot of the time, people don't even know that they're being dishonest, particularly with themselves. Looking at ourselves honestly is really difficult, maybe because we all want to think that we're special, that we're goddamn snow flakes, but in the end, what we want isn't that different. We want love, security, comfort. We are all individuals but we're also just drops of water in the ocean, all floating around together trying to make sense of things. To understand that we're all human, limited and imperfect is hard to swallow. To know that we're not much better than the next guy really sucks. For the most part, we're all decent human beings, trying the best we can.

And what if the truth hurts us and the people we love? What do we do then? I want to believe that all of our happiness is connected, that by making ourselves happy, we'll make others happy and vice versa. But what if those two thing can't coexist? What do you do then? Do we sacrifice ourselves? Do we dare ask to be happy? They say that the truth sets you free, but it sure can feel like a prison; isolating, instilling fear and putting you on the edge of a cliff.

Beware what you ask for because the truth can be liberating, but it can also be a Pandora's box. All kinds of stuff you didn't know existed just comes flying out and you can't stuff it back in. There's no unscrambling scrambled eggs.

So I find myself pushed out of an airplane, with a parachute that may or may not work. I find myself flying through the air feeling the wind rushing past my face so fast I can't even think. The earth is so far away that I can hardly tell that I'm rushing towards it. I'm just hoping that I remember to pull the string when the time right. Because everyone who's ever jumped out of a plane knows that it's not the falling out of the sky that can hurt you, it's suddenly having to stop and finding your feet on the ground again.

Service with a Smile

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 02:33:00 +0000

Everyone's a critic. First it was Citysearch, and now it's Yelp. Everyone's got something to say and we all believe that our opinion matters. If you've spent any time reading Yelp reviews, you'll know that they are frequently contradictory. No matter how many stars a restaurant has, there will be someone who hated it, thought it was "over-rated," got a crappy server, crappy food, crappy parking, whatever. Yes, I have heard very convincing arguments about aggregate surveys and how there is probably some truth to the ratings if 500 people thought it was good and only 10 thought it was bad. But does that mean that those 10 people were just wrong about their experience? That they really actually had a good time but just "thought" they had a bad time?

In my years in the restaurant industry, I've come to realize that every dining experience is a meeting of multiple parties. You both bring with you a lot of history and baggage. There are infinite reasons why people eat out. They're on a hot date, a blind date, they're celebrating, they're too tired to cook, the want to be seen, they just want to be removed for their life for a couple of hours, or maybe they just really want some fried chicken. Restaurants, too, have a lot of different inspirations. Some restaurants are open for prestige, for glory, for passion, or for money. There are places that offer a lifeline for its immigrant owners, there is almost always a culture of feeding and nourishing. So given that both parties come into the experience with the most simple of contracts (I want to eat, you want to feed me), what goes right and what goes wrong?

There are always a lot of unspoken and unconscious expectations, on both sides. As a restauranteur, I can say that any good restaurant works really hard to set the stage for a good experience. There's a lot of care in getting the best ingredients, making an appealing menu (that's both challenging and reflective of the chef and appealing to the diner), choosing an appropriate wine list, training servers, educating ourselves on etiquette, thinking about appropriate presentation, etc. A lot of work is being done in preparation for people to come and eat, something that they've done thousands of times, and will probably do again soon- like in the next 12 hours.

This is not to say that it's not the restaurant's fault if you have a bad meal and we've done all this work. The work is only a part of the equation. There's also all the unpredictable things on our side: purveyors who send the wrong ingredients, someone calls in sick, someone has a hang over, someone's dog died, your server had a bad day, is having a fight with their boyfriend, was called in when they were supposed to be going to a concert, etc. We're all generally just trying to do our best (yes, there are just crappy servers and crappy food too). And even if we're operating under the best possible circumstances, things always go wrong. It's why some of us love the industry, nothing is predictable. You're just fighting to make it a good night.

Then there's what the diner brings with them. Their expectations are a huge part of it. They're there for a meal, but often they have a dozen reasons why they are where they are. Maybe the wife just had twins and is going insane. A romantic night out is going to keep from her shaking the baby. There are miserable couples, there are "in love" couples, there are incredibly awkward couples and I haven't even mentioned families (oh god, the holidays are approaching!). All these people have an idea of what they're expecting (or dreading) that's been brewing in them from way before they even thought of the meal or entered the restaurant.

This is how we meet.

It's not difficult to see how regardless of the preparation, of all the good intentions in the world, everyone is not always going to have a good time. I can honestly say that I want everyone who comes into the restaurant to leave happy. But sometimes people don't really want to have a good time, their misery is too much to take and they want to spread it around and they pay you to take it. And yes, sometimes one of us is having a bad day and don't want to oblige you. It's not perfect, but that's the way it is. It's the nonverbal contract. It happens every time you step foot into a restaurant.

For me, I will continue to try my best to make the people who come into the restaurant happy. I will live with the fact that sometimes they think I'm a "cold Asian hostess with a shrill voice." (Thanks, Yelp!) I will try my very best to meet them where they are, despite my inability to control the circumstances that put us both there. I do this because I believe in nourishing people, in knowing my regular's quirks and favorite tables, in feeding people and giving them an experience that has the potential to make their day better than it was before they stepped in the door. I believe in meeting people where they are and hoping that they will do the same.

The Traveler

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:53:00 +0000

Do We Ever Outgrow Highschool?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 07:56:00 +0000

Feeling like you don't fit in, worrying about what people think about you, trying to find your niche...these are all feelings that are normally thought of as highschool-age dilemmas. Vivian Paley, a kindergarten teacher at the University of Chicago Laboratory School and prodigious author on children and learning did a study showing that by the age of four, kids already separate themselves into a hierarchy of those who fit in, the ones who are included in games, who have the parties that people want to go to, etc. and those who don't fit in, the ones who can't play hand-ball with the other kids, lie to their parents about not wanting to go to parties, etc. Four.

I'd like to think that we grow out of this juvenile behavior. After all, I've definitely seen "nerd" become Gods in college when they find the right place to be. They go from awkward kids who study a lot to suddenly being the cream of the crop. Girls flock to their superior intellect, think their nerdiness is cute, see a secure future ahead, whatever. But is this just an illusion? Do we ever really grow out of the feeling that we're not quite cool enough, that other people are not-so-silently judging us and deciding that we aren't going to be invited to the party with the jumping castle or a real arcade version of Street Fighter? (Yes, I actually had one at my 16th birthday party.)

And doesn't this just continue on at work? No matter what kind of job you have, from the hippiest non-profit to the most corporate of law firms, it seems to me that hierarchies still exist- it's just the criteria that changes. And I wonder sometimes if even that much changes. There's still the undefinable "coolness" attribute. No matter where you go, there are always the "cool kids."

So what's a girl to do? I've never really wanted to be cool, I am even less interested in that now. But when people consciously or unconsciously develop a sense of exclusivity, it's natural to respond. It's how hierarchy works, they step on top of you in order to let you know that there is a bottom. Do I change my behavior, the way I dress, throw a couple of dinner parties? I don't think so.

So far, the only thing that makes sense to me is to enjoy the view from wherever I am. It's actually liberating to just understand that I am who I'm supposed to be. I'm going to treat people with respect and equanimity. I'm going to be a dork and a nerd.

I think it's the next "in" thing anyway. Just look at the kids on Glee.

What''s Life without Eating?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 06:19:00 +0000

My cousin and her boyfriend were recently over for a dinner. She's getting a Ph.D. in Chinese medicine and always entertains us with stories about her program. She told us about a woman in the Bay Area who has such strong chi that she supposedly doesn't eat. She only sucks on one seed a day and drinks one cup of tea. In Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yogananda, there's also a story about a woman who learned how to live without eating. Okay, so it sounds totally crazy. And I'm pretty open-minded to crazy.

What did ensue, however, was a lively discussion about what the world would be like if food wasn't necessary. What if we were all able to live from absorbing the energy that surrounds us. What changes would ensue? In the short term? In the long term?

I've been thinking about this and since my world is based on food and eating, and personally, I think that the world would fall apart. So much of our culture (and by "our" I mean most of the world's known cultures) is based on food and eating, the world as we know it would disappear and instead of visions of enlightened beings, I envision dried up, vapid, annoying people without any lust for life.

Not only do we spend an immense amount of time growing and producing food, a good part of our daily lives are spent buying, preparing and storing food. Billions of people are employed in food production. And culturally, food is a way of giving, of loving and often the center of family rituals. Politically, nations rise and fall from their ability to feed their own people, of their ability to sell their goods. What would be the same?

There is an argument to say for free time. Think of how much free time we'd have to do other things if we didn't have to eat. How much less time would we spend on worrying about eating too much, eating things that will eventually kill us, or even eating too little?

Would China be even more aggressive if it wouldn't have to worry about feeling more than a billion people? Would countries that are immobilized by famine actually be able to spend time building infrastructure that would enable them to become m ore active members of geopolitics?

I suppose I'd have a lot more time on my hands since I would be unemployed.

In the end though, all I can think about is how terrible the world would be without pizza, dim sum, fresh baked cookies, or coffee ice cream. I like sharing amazing meals with friends. I like cooking for the people I love. I love to eat the food that the amazingly talented chef boyfriend cooks for me. Personally, if I were choosing a super power, the last one I'd go with would be absorbing energy from the freaking universe so that I wouldn't have to eat.

Breakfast of Champions

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 04:36:00 +0000

Strawberries from the Farmer's Market and Vanilla Ice Cream.

Yes, I Am Scared of Redheads

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 02:28:00 +0000

Approximately 2% of the world population has red hair. It's a result of 2 copies of a recessive gene on chromosome 16 resulting in a change in the MC1R protein.

I, apparently, am not the only one who is scared of redheads. There is some evidence that red hair and green eyes were thought to be the sign of a witch, werewolf or vampire in the Middle Ages. In the UK, "gingerphobia" or "gingerism" has been compared to racism and a family there was forced to move twice after continually being harassed for being red headed. There's even anti-red head crime as a 20-year-old red head was stabbed in the back for being a redhead. There's an articlefrom BBC News if you're interested (the English are serious about their red head-hating). While I do have an irrational fear of redheads and have since childhood, I did not know that I was being a bigotted bitch and contributing to such a nefarious cult of redhead haters. There is even an anonymous redhead hater group you can join online. I mean, it's become somewhat of a joke among my friends and while we speculate that I must've been beaten up by a red-headed bully as a kid, I really didn't know where it came from. I have my quirks and I figured that my discomfort around redheads was just one of them.

This is not a baby- it's the devil.

But I suddenly remembered something. As a child growing up in Hong Kong, instead of the boogie man, you were sometimes threatened with the "redheaded, green-eyed" monster. Like, "you better eat your dinner (do your homework, practice your piano, etc.) little Jenny, or the redhead, green-eyed monster is coming to take you away." I'm serious.

My first instinct is to say that it must have come from an anti-colonial sentiment based on the presence of European colonizers in China and Hong Kong. Europeans were frequently referred to as "ghosts" and the history of European colonization in Hong Kong and China is certainly long and blood-stained. But... people in Hong Kong kind of loved their colonizers by the time I was around. In terms of popular image, the late 70's and early 80's was a great time for Europeans in Hong Kong. Hong Kong natives took real pride in their cosmopolitanism, their ability to blend European fashion with Chinese aesthetics. They loved French food and soccer. At every turn there was denigration of mainland China and their misguided communist beliefs. Was this hatred a throwback from earlier times? Was it actually racism of the Irish transferred to the Chinese from their British colonizers?

Nonetheless, I am very uncomfortable around certain redheads. Generally, they're one's who are very fair-skinned, have the bright red hair, freckles and yes, green eyes (I am a terrible person). Luckily, my fear of red heads doesn't actually disrupt my daily life nor do I go out of my way to harass them when we come into contact. I don't cross the street so as not to be close to them (frequently, anyway) and I'm sure that if I got to know a redhead, I would happily claim them as my token redheaded friend.

What I came to understand, however, is that I never realized that just like every other racist, sexist asshole I've heard in interviews who say "It's just not right, having a Black man be the President," or "It's just nature, women take care of babies," I didn't take the time to investigate this fear I had. I didn't think about it or consider that my redhead hating could affect other people, or that my decisions could be based on something as artificial as the color of someone's hair.

I guess what I learned is that fear, instilled at an early age sometimes goes beyond reason. And it's our job, as free-thinking adults, to overcome these fears through rational thinking and tolerance. Discomfort isn't always a bad thing, it's actually a sign of growth. I realized that sometimes, you overcome your fear and realize that witches are people too.

Over Sharing

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 05:13:00 +0000

A friend of mine writes an intensively personal blog and I'm always amazed at how much he's willing to share over the internet. After all, anyone can read it. It seems so vulnerable to me, the sharing of personal stories and sometimes he writes gut wrenching bits that wow me. You can check it out. His name is j.beaman.

On the subject of "over sharing," J. talks about how the sharing of personal baggage actually makes it liveable. It made me think of certain post-structural theorist who say the same thing. In Excitable Speech, Judith Butler attacks the sticky issue of hate speech and how it's complicated by power (BTW, this is probably her most "readable" work. You don't actually have to have a background in post-structural theory to understand what the f*ck she's talking about). Gayatri Spivak also discusses it a lot in relationship to post-colonialism (I've never read anything by Spivak that was easy, but that's just me). Essentially, they posit that speech does carry with it a lot power, but through use and intelligently dissecting words and language, it's possible to either re-appropriate or to untangle the words from their power source. For example, the term "Black" has been reclaimed by the African American community to reflect their history and even show a connection towards a global identity. In the U.S., it's no longer a pejorative (or politcally incorrect) to use the term "black" when referring to a person of African descent. This is actually one of the foundations of post-structualism, but I digress.

What I really wanted to say was that I think for many of us, this happens naturally. We share stories that hurt us a little with people around us (someone was rude, your boss gave you a hard time, etc.) and it makes us feel a little better. We generally hug bigger secrets to ourselves because it leaves a big gapping hole in our chest to pull it out. We share these things only with the "inner circle" because it seems safer. They are less likely to turn it against us or are more likely to recognize the significance that these stories had in our lives, changing us profoundly. And in sharing, I suppose it actually makes the wound a little more manageable. I believe that talking can be a method of healing.

As I've gotten older, I've definitely gotten better at telling people about how my 16 year old boyfriend beat the crap out of me. I've done my work though, I've written countless journal entries, I've performed about it in theatre classes, I have an undergraduate degree in Women's Studies. But there is nothing like the look on people faces when I tell them about the time he grabbed me by the hair and slammed my face into the armrest between us in his car. And I would be less than honest if I didn't recognize that there's something narcissistic about the shock value. This is where the problem of "over sharing" comes in. You open the door and things aren't always pretty on the other side.

There's a certain amount of deserved attention when personal tragedies come out. But it's complicated, this business of sharing. You don't necessarily want sympathy, because their sympathy (or the need for there to be sympathy) makes it seem like you were pathetic at some point and no one in their right mind really wants to be pathetic. But then again, you were pathetic, that's what makes it a personal tragedy.

The first definition for "pathetic" in the New Oxford Dictionary is: arousing pity, esp. through vulnerability or sadness : she looked so pathetic that I bent down to comfort her."

And then you say things like "Oh no, it's fine, I'm over it." You say that so the tension between you and whoever you're telling is relieved and everyone feels a little better. Because if you're not "over it," then everyone will be awkwardly wondering what's supposed to be said. And I suppose that the sharing generally does feel a little like popping a pimple, a little release of pressure. Of something a little rotten coming out. And the more you do it, the less it hurts. It can be ugly business, this sharing.

Admittedly, it's generally very different for men and women. We come from a culture where sharing between men is faux pas. But even if it's more acceptable for women to share, there's still a sense of weakness that you can't escape. However unreasonable, however much therapy you'd gotten to understand that it was beyond your control, however much your life has gotten past that point, you still feel shitty, man or woman.

It can be a lot to put onto other people.

But I agree with J.. Sometimes you share because you have to; because you hope that one day you can tell the story and it won't bring with it a bunch of contradictory, inappropriate, overly psychoanalyzed, or just plain icky emotions. Or maybe you tell it because it's yours to tell. And sometimes, that feels good too.

Where Are You From?

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 05:54:00 +0000

Where are you from?

It seems like such a benign question. It's one of those questions you ask during the first uncomfortable minutes of small talk when you're trying to seem friendly but not nosey. "The weather's been [insert adjective] lately, huh?" "How do you know [insert friend/acquaintance/host of event]?" or "What do you do?" (although I think that this last one goes into dangerous territory requiring nuanced delivery as to not seem douchy or like you're trying to figure out how important they are). But "Where are you from?" is a loaded question when you're an Asian American woman. At best, it's some benign middle-aged couple who has an interest in traveling and Oriental art. On the other end of the spectrum, it's some rice chasing frat boy who has visions of school girl outfits. I'm not the first to talk about this phenomenon. Lela Lee came on the scene in 1998 with her short film "angry little asian girl, first day of school" and her blog and comic continue to be popular. Anna from Sepia Mutiny has a great post about her run-in's with other immigrants who "WAYF" her and how she bristles at the question. As for me, I think that having been in the restaurant industry for more than a decade adds a slightly different slant (pun intended) to WAYF situations.

Once, while I was a server at a trendy Pan-Asian restaurant I got the "Where are you from?" followed by "What is your name?"

"Karen."

"No, I mean your real name."

I did a double take. They were somewhere in the middle of the mal-intent spectrum. They were a group of middle-aged white folk, the men were slightly balding, their belts squeezing their middles upwards so that the crater of their belly buttons were slightly visible through their shirts. The women had their traveling clothes on, button down shirts in pastel colors, hair glued into place with aerosol hairspray.

Now, we're in an awkward situation. I could act like a human being and say "Karen" again firmly, but they're going to see how offended and appalled I am, and either be really uncomfortable for the rest of their dinner or decide that I'm rude and tip me nothing. Now, I want to own up to something here. I have another name, a Chinese name. It's on my birth certificate along with Karen. But the insinuation that "Karen" wasn't my real name, to assume that it was some sort of fictitious character made up to allow me to "blend in" with English speakers was appalling. I wasn't shaking my ass on a pole and telling them my name is "Cherry Blossom," why is "Karen" so unbelievable as a name? I couldn't force myself to give them what they wanted.

I'd like to say that I straightened my spine and asked them what the fuck their real names were, how the fuck their Winnebago handled and gave them some tips for getting rid of those extra 60 pounds, but I didn't. I smiled and with my best " I'm not a scary foreigner but just an LA Valley girl" voice and said, "Oh no, it's really just Karen."

I'm not saying that WAYF situations are always malicious or even insulting. They are mostly awkward and confusing, blended throughout with misunderstanding and feet in mouths. There's usually a little ignorance, but no purposeful inflection of pain. However, there is usually an imbalance of power (and I'm not even talking about the incendiary issue of American racial politics). I mean, when your boss, or teacher, or boyfriend's parents WAYF's you, there's power involved. You are limited in your response both by civility and by real consequences. This is true for every single customer that walks into the restaurant where you work. It's just part of the business. Not everyone gets to be satisfied with the interaction. There won't be any learning of racial sensitivity.

I've been asked "Where are you from?" dozens of times. You'd think that I'd be used to it, that I wouldn't bristle with resentment and drip indignation. Sometimes, I feel like I have grown kinder and more understanding. I even answered with sincerity when a man accosted me in Rainbow Grocery yesterday asking for advice on stir-frying. But there's this movie I play in my head, of my small fist connecting with sculpted jaw, of lips bouncing and jerking across teeth as spit flies out of mouth. I'm smiling and there is applause. I play this scene in my head whenever I remember the Marina scum frat boy who actually touched my face and asked "Where do I get a hot Asian babe like you?"

Good Eye, Klo, Good Eye

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Lo) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 00:33:00 +0000

I manage a restaurant. And there was this line cook, who worked briefly with us, who said very solemnly to me once, "Good eye, Klo, good eye."

We had, by this point, figured out that he was a compulsive liar, knew very little about cooking (he'd asked one of the day cooks for a scallion cutting seminar), and made for staff meal, awful and sometimes inedible salads (think tablespoons of ground cinnamon dumped into delicate, fresh lettuce leaves). On this particular day, he was mangling molten chocolate cakes as he was cutting them out of the ramekins and while some were passable, some were not. The one I was looking at appeared as though it had not only been massacred with buckshot but a small land mine had also gone off to maim its face, leaving it sad, bleeding and asking for change in front of the O'Farrell Street Garage.

"I can't serve this cake," I said.
"Oh, what's wrong with it?"
"Look at it."

He looks at it, and he looks at me. And I'm starring at him, hoping that I won't have to actually explain that when people pay $8.00 for a dessert, they actually want it to not only taste good, but also look nice. There's an uncomfortable pause. Then, for a moment, I think he may actually be embarrassed that he put it in the window in the first place. I'm looking at him beseechingly, hoping that a glimmer of understanding will pass between us. Instead, he looks at me like I'm a genius and says, "Good Eye, Klo, Good Eye," and took it away to be replated.

Of course, this has been a continuing joke in the restaurant since he left (and really even while he was around). I've been told by a surprising number of people that I have a "good eye" both in jest and in earnest and I never know how to take it. Because it can mean a couple of different things. It can mean "You are very observant, pay attention to detail and diligent at your job." Or it can mean "You are a micro-managing, obsessive-compulsive psycho who should think about something other than what angle this fork is facing." I suppose both are true sometimes and I'm learning to live with that.

On some level, I actually do think that I have a good eye; not for things like interior design, which I am hopelessly bad at, or arranging flowers, which I really feel that I should be good at, but am not (I actually make the supermarket flowers look even worse than when they lived in plastic wrapping). What I realize is that my ridiculously long stint in higher education and my prim, proper and overly organized Chinese mother has given me tools to look around me and notice things. Now whether or not these things are interesting to anyone other than me is definitely questionable. I guess we'll see.