Sunshine Coast, BC to Mile 0, Highway 101

I was taken on a road trip to the appropriately monikered Sunshine Coast as ‘payback’ for our extended NM/TX road trip last April. Cora was surprised I had seen so little of British Columbia as I usually dedicate my Vancouver stay to Chen Tai Chi 2.5 hours a day 6 days a week. Two car ferries plus in between winding driving eventually led us to Lund, the northern-most point (and last harbor) of Highway 101 that extends south to Chile. As we returned from dinner, we sighted a black bear scampering away a few feet from our airBnB. In Lund, we rode the water taxi to Savary Island completely surrounded by beautiful sandy beaches and temperate clear waters (one of few such islands) but clearly unwelcoming to day tourists: ‘no public toilets’ and ‘only walk on the beach, not into neighborhoods’. The beach was littered with clams and Japanese oysters, some still live, and the highlight was observing the marvelous mudflat snails leaving a roadmap of their slow-paced trails.

We joined up with Cora’s friends and timed our hike precisely to Skookumchuck Narrows South Point to coincide with the tide-induced waves as the feeders converge in this natural funnel. The giant cedars and firs reached the sky and lush moss and fern formed a carpet were cathedral worthy and mushrooms (lobster) accented the pews of logs. The usual endpoint is to watch kayakers ride the waves in reverse, staying in place instead of going with the flow. In the distance, we spotted a school of 20 or so porpoises feeding frenetically and jumping playfully! We learned that this was a rare sighting – none of our local hosts or other hikers had ever seen them there. A second group migrated to the tidal waves just in front of us and began surfing and jumping – what a thrilling sighting.

We moved to the friend’s house some 50 feet above French Cove which borders on Smuggler’s Cove Provincial Park. As the name implies, not only contraband liquor but disemployed Chinese railroad workers were transported to the US. Of course, it is a well-protected, bucolic cove today with abundant beaver activity. The hike along the Cove and the Georgia Straits shoreline was rocky ending upon boulders, the air fresh and humidified, the water clear and cold, and nearby islands sprinkled along the coastline. Trudging carefully down to the water’s edge, we took kayaks out of the Cove to nearby islands. Some 50 harbor seals were basking in the late afternoon sun, braying and diving. A heron, a gaggle of cormorants, and a red-billed oyster catcher were active on another island. Our host told us the story of taking his granddaughter out for the first time in the exact spot, when a huge orca swam right beneath her. I could do without that heart-stopping encounter.

An unforgettable sojourn to BC’s Sunshine Coast.

Ben with White Coats at the White House

Ben was at the White House with colleagues who are working on gun violence prevention on June 7th, National Gun Violence Prevention Day.

Teri reappears

Teri reappeared, fleetingly on film and in print last week, I believe to say ‘hi, remember me?’.

She was ‘captured’ on film at a protest in NYC in 1971 by Corky Lee, the photojournalist. Lois, Becky, Teri, and Corky were active and frequented Chinatown-focused protests. Becky alerted me to the documentary (Photographic Justice) on Corky’s life showing on PBS during May, Asian American heritage month. After recognizing Becky in one frame, I began to look fastidiously whether Teri might be also be pictured … and lo and behold, there she was barely visible a few frames later. Wow! Serendipity interceded as her face in the left side could easily have been missed in the few seconds the photo flashed by. It was meant to B.

Teri and family were first-generation immigrants, she born in Chongqing, the wartime (WWII) capital of China. At 10 months of age, the family (four sibs and one cousin) escaped to Macao, then moved to Hong Kong, then to Taipei, finally at age 7 to NYC, with the ‘uniting family’ help of her eldest half-sister Eleanor. She started public school without a word of English to her name. They lived on the 5th floor (no elevator) on Madison St in Chinatown, the bathtub in the middle of the kitchen serving as kitchen counter when not in use. Besides the repeated moves, comedown from a servant-run household, now reliant on her mother piecework jewelry, they survived, and even temporarily housed other friends in similar need.

Their family’s border crossing from China to Macao in 1950 was harrowing. Her father had left separately to avoid raising suspicion of their intended escape. On the pretext of visiting a relative, her mother took her five children (Teri the infant) and one cousin by herself. Taking cash was illegal, so her mother sewed American bills into the children’s padded jackets. At THE critical moment, the border guard opened Teri’s can of powdered milk where her mother had stashed a large roll of cash underneath. She then told the guard that her husband knew a senior officer in the Chinese customs bureau. The guard then closed the can and let them cross over to freedom. She never knew whether he actually saw the money or not, but assumed that he was dissuaded from taking action by her ‘connections’. Thus, catastrophic life-changing consequences were avoided by her mother's quick thinking.

Teri was raised as a Catholic and received a scholarship to attend Cathedral High School in NYC. Her main extracurricular activities were centered around Church and volunteering with developmentally-delayed kids. At age 18, she wanted to become a nun fully committed to the Church, and, after her penultimate interviews, she was rejected. No reason given. In my view, she was too independent and rebellious for the cloistered life. I thank the interviewers for their wisdom! Her parents forbade her to date or marry ‘outside’ the ethnicity with the threat of disownment. She would simply … quietly date whomever she pleased. In college, she began to participate in social action and protests related to Chinatown and the Vietnam War. From early on, she had a strong sense of mission, of greater purpose, and proactively supporting causes she believed in.

Teri worked two jobs to support me through medical school allowing us to become financially fully independent of our parents, and, I ended up with a mere 2K of educational debt. She completed two Montessori certifications, ushered Rachel and Ben in live, molded her work schedule to accommodate their needs, whether teaching or working at a children’s bookstore.

As they became more independent, she joined the Columbus International Program, we hosted participants from China, Japan, Russia, Ghana, Cameroon, Mexico, Germany, Norway one month at a time – eventually elected president. Since she missed her progressive Asian American friends from NYC, she began the Asian Womyn’s Book Club. Note the spelling – she didn’t want to be an ‘appendage’ of men. I asked her once if she was a ‘feminist’, which she clearly was, she said simply, I’m a ‘humanist’. She took the kids on Meals-on-Wheels, Christmas gifting and food pantries forays – continuing by herself. She served on the ministerial search committee (Unitarian), volunteered for Barack, put Planned Parenthood stickers on our bumper … you get the full picture.

This brings us back to the glimpse of Teri, in a photograph I’ve never seen, at a protest as 21-year-old on the cusp of our future life together. The same spirit of being involved and standing up for what she felt was right never left her. Yet where the spirit originated, from her immigrant experiences, the Church, her core self, I'm not certain ... The image reminds me of who she was always was, before me and after me.

Teri, Corky Lee and his photographic record of Asian America

I had a long phone conversation today with Teri’s close friend Becky from NJ who had been a fellow activist in NYC over 50 years ago. She unfortunately lost her husband to cancer two years ago.

Always up to date on all things Asian American, Becky told me that a new PBS documentary was showing now during Asian American Heritage Month entitled Photographic Justice: The Corky Lee Story. It is a moving account of Corky’s 50-year ‘hobby’ documenting Asian American history and injustices (housing, anti-Asian racism) in NYC. He was omnipresent – a word that rings completely apt – at all important Asian American events whether they be cultural, social or political in nature, whether Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Korean … documenting, documenting, documenting.

Corky’s most iconic image is a 2014 re-creation of the meeting of East and West railroads at Promontory Point, Utah in 1869. Somehow, not a single Chinese laborer (some 12,000) appeared in the historic celebratory photograph of the transcontinental linking. Nearly 150 years later, to restore the proper historical perspective, he gathered Chinese-American descendants of those railroad builders and photographed them at the same point – an image indelibly stored at the Smithsonian. But that was only one of his 800,000 images, mostly of Asian Americans.

A self-taught photographer, Corky was called the ‘Asian American photographer laureate’ and his work was recently recognized with a series of shows of his community-based, justice-focused photographic record. Still active to the last, he probably contracted COVID during another documentary effort of a protest of anti-Asian hate crimes while masked, and succumbed in January 2021. Corky’s obituary appeared in the New Yorker Magazine. This documentary chronicles his Chinatown roots, his tireless and humble approach to photography, and his courageous and principled soul.

Teri was a good friend of Corky’s as they both went to Queens College and Corky founded the Asian American students’ club there. After Corky graduated, he asked Lois, Teri’s close college classmate, to take over the lead. The three often attended the same demonstrations in Chinatown. After Teri and I met in 1971, we spent time together in NYC at Asian American gatherings and she introduced me to Corky, when he was already beginning his photographic journey.

In the documentary, in the still image at 9:32, Becky appears in the middle with her glasses. I was stunned to see Teri in the still image at 9:42 in the left lower corner, at a demonstration in 1971.

Teri's small part in Corky’s indelible historical record!

I just learned that that picture appeared in the May 19th NY Times Sunday Book Review .

Unexpectedly traipsing in my father’s footsteps

Completely consumed by his research and maximizing ‘field work’, our ‘father-son’ outings consisted of innumerable museums in contrast to my peers who shared paternal fishing, camping, boy scouts, and playing ball. At age of 10, I rebelled and refused to set foot in the Boston Fine Arts Museum one more time (every Sunday) … they allowed me to stand across the street alone to watch my preferred football. Early on, with such overexposure, I became inoculated against museums. Perhaps an unsurprising oppositional start for an art historian’s son.

As the vaccination wore thin, I took one course in Chinese art history taught by my father’s former student Yoshi Shimizu, and fleetingly considered such a path. On our travels, Teri and I enjoyed visiting the Chicago Art Institute, the Met, the Freer, MoMA, Asian Art Museum, East Wing, Tate Modern, the Palace Museum … as tourists. Whenever we returned to my parents’ home, I would see a new painting, inquire and engage my father about the artist. Chinese art and artists were one constant he would freely share with me. I began to appreciate the gestalt of knowing artists, their background, their techniques, their development behind that painting.

I distinctly remember one day when Teri thanked my father profusely for bringing such beauty into our lives! This thoughtful gesture made me realize that I had taken the encircling artwork for granted. As my father devolved into dementia, I became the steward, donating paintings to museums (as he directed), properly storing the remaining collection, and sorting and donating his papers to Taiwan National University (as he wished). This labor gradually progressed from necessity to deep respect and even love. I asked him to teach me, alas his mind had slipped too far, despite momentary accurate recollections. In the end, my father’s prescient appreciation of abstract ink and relentless efforts to promote the artists forged a legacy that ineffably binds us. Never too late.

My friend Don, an artist, 6 or 7 years ago, told me prophetically that I would become involved with art. I just laughed at the thought. I wish my father and Don could witness this unexpected passion and its ensuing paths. Where have they led?

I have become a regular at Asia Week in NYC visiting galleries and museums in search of contemporary ink art, even adding to my father’s collection. This interest segued into aquaintances, even friendships, with Chinese art historians and curators (including my father’s now retiring former students), art dealers, collectors, and, most importantly, artists. To be invited into their studios has enabled my deeper appreciation of their artistic evolution of which one painting represents but a single timepoint. Together with Margaret Chang (Hung Hsien), my art godmother, we visited the Freer Gallery (Smithsonian) storage to view the Bada Shanren collection of Chan (original Chinese zen) paintings and Chao Mengfu’s ‘Sheep and Goat’ on which my father wrote a monograph. What a reprise to view a late Yuan (1200’s) painting from inches, just as he once did. Recognizing Margaret Chang’s neglected legacy as the only woman in the avant garde 5th Moon group (Taiwan 1960s and 1970s), I began to take an oral history from her 2-3 hours a week during COVID. This led to my first invited art talk to the UW-Milwaukee art history department on Margaret’s artistic career. This in turn fueled my efforts towards initiating a belated solo, retrospective show of her life’s work. With the help of three curators, this is taking place in April 2025!

And when you come to visit my new townhouse in Colorado, you will see a gallery (also Tai Chi studio) paying homage to my father's impact on contemporary Chinese ink paintings.

This art full-circle has connected me to my father, my Chinese culture, my Asian-American identity, and to a budding aesthetic self replete with immense learning, mindful enjoyment and profound meaning.

Who woulda thoughta?

Last year, this spring

Well, I missed my X-mas, New Year’s, Chinese New Year’s, Leap Day and Eclipse Day deadlines for my annual 2023 summary. Here we are one-third into 2024, so a short summary of both. Still alive.

In many respects, a somatic year to forget. Four major health hurdles, including COVID inopportunely contracted in Canada that lead to quarantining and delayed return to the US. These obstacles necessitated multiple Emergency visits, three surgical procedures and two with long-term implications. Certainly humbling, both physically and cerebrally. Naturally, these challenges induced serious musings about my mortality and legacy.

Of course, many good things happened in between.

I was surprisingly asked to give nine invited talks in Portland, SF, Columbus (X2), Austin, San Diego, and Milwaukee, which I suspect will decline precipitously forthwith (including one on cannabinoid hyperemesis syndrome – pot reveals it violent vomiting self!). As a result, I visited the Japanese garden in Portland, saw one of Margaret Chang’s painting (see below) at Portland Art Museum storage, learned from headache neurologists, had dinner with niece Jeanine, attended the annual Koslov's Thanksgiving extravaganza, gathered MCW colleagues and Milwaukee friends, and watched my mentee's high school girls BB phenom.

And despite four cancelled trips, my peripatetic path persisted. Tony, Martha and I chased cherry blossoms in Japan, which came two weeks early, yet managed to capture its full bloom at Oshinohakkai at the base of Mt. Fuji. With g’kidz Jack and Naomi, Glacier yielded the most spectacular reconnoiter with the King of the Mountain goats. My annual Vancouver Chen Tai Chi boot camp 2½ hours a day. And X-mas in Vail with Rachel’s family, downhill for them, flatland for me.

2024 has been rebooted, so far, so good. Marianne and Mark (off/on) came from Hilo for a sabbatical at Colorado U. (physics/education). During her 2½ month stay, we had stimulating discussions on race and identity (does anti-Asian racism exist in HI?), educational strategies in STEM, and the universe (black holes). Then, with Cora and Kathryn from Vancouver, we embarked on a 3,000 mile art road trip to west Texas, chasing minimalists Agnes Martin, Donald Judd (in Marfa), Mark Rothko (Chapel), Georgia O’Keeffe (Santa Fe, Abiquiu, Ghost Ranch), and Ruth Asawa (Houston) – with many other museums in between. To this group, I added artists Xu Bing (Houston exhibition), Ren Light Pan (shown in Dallas) and Margaret Chang (Houston). Carlsbad Caverns. A thrilling montage betwixt nature, natural inspiration (Georgia O’Keeffe clouds), minimalism, abstract expressionism … Viewing the artists’ studios as well as the breadth and evolution of their art provided a much more profound appreciation of their entire vision than viewing an individual work in a museum as is the usual case.

One major milestone for Margaret Chang (Hong Xian) an artist whom my father and mother were close to, collecting her work, writing catalog introductions and traveling together. I have also become close to her and avuncular husband TC, traveling together to view art (play tennis) together. Margaret was the only woman in the mid-century avant garde abstract ink painting 5th Moon Group in Taiwan but has sadly been forgotten. What makes her unique amongst her abstract ink peers is that she retains the fine brushwork learned from Pu Xinyu (emperor’s first cousin and top classical painting teacher in TW) while expressing her unique landscapes of the mind full of Zen ('negative') space and flowing motion. Despite having no curatorial clout, I have been pushing for a solo retrospective of her career and as of two weeks ago, it is now official. With a consortium of curators from Denver (Art Museum), San Diego (independent) and Houston (Asia Society), her retrospective will take place in Houston, April 2025! This long overdue exhibition is at last happening!

Outlive by Peter Attia MD and me

I just finished Outlive by Peter Attia MD that remains on the NYT nonfiction bestseller list. It is THE best book I’ve read on healthy aging, to increase not just lifespan but healthspan – the hopefully healthy prolongation of life. I’m not going to recap in detail but he does a superlative job of discussing the deep but intertwined roots of metabolic/obesity, heart disease, cancer and neurogenerative diseases and lifestyle approaches to addressing them through exercise, stability and balance, nutritional biochemistry (diet), sleep, and emotional health.

What I really wanted to share are direct quotes from his last chapter on Emotional Health that resonated with and spoke directly to me.

Why live longer?

‘I was doing everything to live longer, despite being completely miserable emotionally.… The words of my therapist: “why would you want to live longer if you were so unhappy?’

Childhood trauma and downstream consequences

Childhood trauma generally falls into five categories: 1) abuse, 2) neglect, 3) abandonment, 4) enmeshment, and 5) witnessing tragic events. Little trauma is more challenging to address because we are more inclined to dismiss it.’

The most important thing about childhood trauma is not the event itself, but the way the child adapts to it. Children are remarkably resilient, and older children become adaptive children. The problems begin with these adaptive children, grow up to become maladaptive, dysfunctional adults. This dysfunction is represented by four branches of the trauma tree: 1) addiction (alcohol even to socially acceptable things such as work, exercise and perfectionism, 2) codependency, 3) habituated survival strategies practice (propensity to rage), and 4) attachment disorders with difficulty forming meaningful relationships.

Describing himself, “90% of male rage is helplessness masquerading as frustration. End of quote.

As his own therapist Terrance Real had had written in I Don’t Want to Talk About it: “Family pathology roles from generation to generation like a fire in the woods, taking down everything in its path until one person, in one generation, has the courage to turn and face the flames. That person brings peace to his ancestors and spares the children that follow.“

How do I want to be remembered?

In David Brooks book The Road to Character, he makes the key distinction between “résumé virtues”, meeting the accomplishments that we list on our CV, our degrees and our fellowships and jobs, versus “eulogy virtues,” the things that our friends and family will say about us when we are gone. And it shook me.” “For my entire life I, I had been accumulating mostly résumé virtues. I have plenty of those, but I had also recently attended a funeral for a woman about my age who died of cancer, and I was struck by how lovingly and movingly her family has spoken about her – with hardly a mention of her impressive, professional or educational success. What mattered to them was the person she had been and the things she had done for others, most of all her children. Would anyone be speaking that way about me when it was my turn in the casket? I doubted it. And I decided that that had to change.”

My own worst enemy

“It was as if I had my own personal Bobby Knight, the Indiana University basketball coach, who is famed for his red-faced sideline meltdowns (and who ultimately lost his job because of them), living inside my head. Whenever I made a mistake or felt I perform poorly, even in tiny ways, my old personal Coach Knight jumped up from the bench to scream at me ‘don’t you know how to grill a F**ING steak?”

“All that I had become – good and bad – was in response to what I have experienced. It wasn’t simply the big-T traumas, either; we are covered many, many more little-t traumas, hidden in the cracks, that had affected me even more profoundly. I haven’t felt protected or safe. My trust had been broken by the people who were close to me. I felt abandoned. All of that had manifested itself as my own self-loathing as an adult; I had become my own worst enemy. And I haven’t deserved any of it. This was the key insight. That little, sweet boy, did not deserve any of it. And he was still with me.”

Buddha: “your worst enemy cannot harm you as much as your own unguarded thoughts.”

Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

Hope

“As I settled into the next phase of my recovery, I begin to notice something I have never experienced before: I found more joy in being than in doing. For the first time in my life, I felt I could be a good father. I could be a good husband I could be a good person. After all, this is the whole point of living, and the whole point of outliving.”

Paulo Coehlo: “Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything, maybe it’s about unbecoming everything’s that isn’t really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.”

My personal footnote. Peter Attia’s final chapter was not what I had expected to end the book on the science of longevity, but it hit home. It explained with self clarity that my driven, workaholic, achievement-oriented career-long approach originated deep within my educated, yet dysfunctional family upbringing and subsequent little-t traumas, related to physical appearance and race. And except for the grace and wisdom of Steve, my best friend, and Mémée and Ray, my mentors, and most of all Teri, and the help of counselors, I would not have emerged as the better person I have become today.