A Day In The Life…

It’s February 29 today. I don’t really have anything significant to say, but since I only get to do this once every four years, I figure I should just write something. So…why don’t I do this old school style and write about my day, kinda like what we used to write about in our blogs or diaries when we were younger?

- I woke today and made myself some bread with strawberry spread. I listened to a message by Greg Laurie while driving on the way to work. It was about wealth and not falling in love with riches for it is temporal. Good reminder.

- I got a lot of work done in the office today. It’s great to be and feel productive. I shared the BBQ short ribs that I made last night for dinner with my co-workers. They loved it.

- I stopped by Joghurt on the way back to the house to say hi to a guy named Jonny whom I just met two weeks ago. It was his birthday today. Met some cool people and talked to a nice guy who’s getting his masters in philosophy. I love the Biola community.

- Came home and went for a second attempt at a turkey spinach melt. It was just right this time–went a little lighter on the salt with some different seasoning as well. Good meal.

- Watched some ESPN highlights. Knicks won (Lin had 19 pts, 13 rebs, only 1 TO), Lakers won (a team effort led by a masked Kobe), and US beat Italy 1-0 in an int’l friendly. Overall great day of sports for me. (Well, except for that whole UCLA story breaking out…)

- Prepped a sermon that I’ll be delivering to my Lifesong church family this coming Sunday. Very excited and a bit antsy at the same time. Let’s just hope God speaks and moves through me.

- Took a shower. I smell fresh n’ clean now.

…And that’s pretty much my day. It’s funny, I haven’t written an entry like that in years, if not longer. But it felt good, perhaps even a bit therapeutic. This sort of entry reminds me of all the small little wonders that happen every day in our lives. It’s just learning to see the magical and memorable moments in the ordinary that can be the challenge. But when you start to see this way, you slowly realize that every breath given to us by God is nothing short of an outright miracle. Thank you Jesus for these miracles.

Happy Leap Day, everybody!

The Linvisible Man

FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, I have tried to avoid contributing to the Internet hoopla. After all, it seems like every news outlet has been overdosing on Linsanity. His face is plastered on magazine covers; “Lindiculous” memes being spawned by the second; every sports show spent discussing his previous and/or upcoming games. I don’t remember a subject being so overly dissected since…well, Tebowmania.

Alas, I’ve failed. Not so much because my information streams have been “Linundated” or because my parents can’t stop talking about him over dinner. I’ve failed because, whether I was consciously aware of it or not, I am interconnected with his story, whether I like it or not.

With the improbable and sudden ascent of a relatively obscure and overlooked point guard, I have found myself following his every move, rooting for his success on every play, and even cheering for the Knicks. (I never thought I’d write that in a sentence.) Because of his underdog story, winning play and winsome demeanor, Lin is a player that every man would want to root for.

But in the midst of it all, I had to stop and ask myself: what are we exactly rooting for here?

Because of his ethnicity and figurative “rags-to-riches” story, Lin is more than just an athlete. He is a symbol. A statement. He has crossed the sports realm and now figures effectively in political, cultural and mainstream discussions. People who don’t care or know nothing about basketball are suddenly obsessed about the New York Knicks. And why not? He has crossover appeal (no pun intended)–people from various backgrounds can identify with his faith or his ethnic heritage or Ivy League school or current professional team or heroic story.

Yet, it does not escape me how much of a factor the issue of race has played in this movement. I’m getting involved because the movement around his success inherently involves me–it has forced me to examine in greater depths the composition of my Asian American identity.

When It All Falls Down

AN ARTICLE CALLED “PAPER TIGERS” was published in 2011 that explored the thinly-veiled hints of racism and culture that permeate through the fabric of American society. Among other things, the piece argued about prejudice being fueled not only by overt discrimination and stereotyping but by misunderstandings resulting from pointed differences between Asian and American cultures. Yang argues that this is evidenced by the lack of Asian American leadership in the professional hierarchy.

Is Linsanity further buttress for this argument? When asked about Lin’s sudden emergence in the league, Kobe Bryant offered this insight: “Players don’t usually come out of nowhere. If you go back and take a look, his skill level was probably there but no one ever noticed.” If this is true–and I would concur–then the issue begs the question: how does someone with his resume and skill set go unnoticed?

One of the undercurrents of Lin’s heroic journey to stardom is how he has had to battle against racial stereotypes and prejudice. For starters, an underlying stereotype persists that Asian Americans are not athletically gifted, and that their realm of strength lies elsewhere in academia or art. How many Division I schools passed on him or judged his talent prematurely because of this belief?

Unfortunately, racism is still alive. It can be subtle and yet so pervasive. Just last week, after the Knicks’ first loss with Lin as a starter, ESPN posted a headline that read “Chink in the Armor.” This tells me that we, as a nation, still do not get it. (I’ll probably receive some comments about being “oversensitive,” which will only prove my point.) It shows me that many people still believe “Asian” is an ethnic term synonymous with punchlines, ridicule and scorn.

Not long ago, America had a golden opportunity to openly address racism. During the 2008 Presidential election, Americans had the chance to prove that race wouldn’t be a factor. They could vote for a president, not on the basis of skin color, but rather on how well he or she would do the job. How the masses responded showed me that we didn’t get it then either. We had people who voted against Obama simply because he was Black; conversely, we had people who voted for Obama solely for that very reason. To do either one is to commit prejudice by escalating race to a higher degree of judgment apart from one’s abilities.

(Don’t get me wrong. I love the fact that we have a Black president. I would love it more if we had a president who, regardless of race, would be able to get the job done. America–we’ve come a long way, and yet we still got a long way to go.)

The great thing about sports is that it serves as a unique platform in which on-field or on-court performances speak for themselves. There is less subjectivity, and thus, less bias. Granted that Lin is given the opportunity to play–which is a battle in and of itself–he is able to prove his value as a player as measured by wins and personal statistics. No matter what you believe, you cannot deny 7 wins in 9 starts, with averages of 25 points and 9 assists as a starter.

In the 1936 Olympics, Jesse Owens emphatically rejected Hitler’s notion of Aryan superiority by winning 4 gold medals. In 2012, Jeremy Lin is unequivocally declaring that yes, Asian people can play ball just like the rest of them.

From Nowhere, A Face

WHAT IS THE SIGNIFICANCE of this current movement? The residual, far-reaching effects of Lin’s success cannot yet be determined. People will have to reassess this special moment years or decades from now to determine with greater certainty. For now, it is safe to say that Lin has galvanized an entire people group that has been longing to stand out amidst a crowd in which its voice has been muffled.

In her book Asian American Dreams: The Emergence of an American People, Helen Zia describes the lack of Asian presence in her childhood during the 1950s: “There was no place for me in the debates over national issues like the war or racial equality. People like me [Asian Americans] were absent from everything that was considered to be ‘American’–from TV, movies, newspapers, history, and everyday discussions that took place in the school yard.” Now, more than 60 years later, Asian Americans are still struggling to make a pronounced mark in the media.

Lin’s rise to the forefront of American consciousness, therefore, has achieved what Asian Americans in this storied nation has been lacking for so long: a face. For better or worse, Lin is the embodiment of all our hopes, dreams, strengths and weaknesses. In a world full of stereotypes, he is working to debunk some and rewrite others. Lin is the most tangible Asian American symbol we’ve had to date.

What’s more, Lin has caused us to hold a mirror to our identities (to borrow from Bill Plaschke) and forced us to examine race in greater ways than we ever did before. The consciousness of my ethnicity has never felt more dissected than now. As a second generation Chinese American, I had to look in the mirror and ask myself some hard questions: Do I need Jeremy Lin to validate my ethnicity? Should I feel an extra sense of cultural pride or confidence? Do I need his success in a business run by a rich White minority with a product featuring predominantly Blacks and Whites to tell me that I can likewise make it in this world?

If I answer yes, then I am implicitly stating that my identity as an Asian American was not complete or sufficient on its own, that I somehow internalized the stereotypes and beliefs perpetrated against Asians even as I externally fought against them. Yes, we are all guilty of carrying and perpetuating stereotypes–this is what Linsanity is making us realize. As much as I hate to admit it, even I pick the Black kid over the Asian to play on my team.

With all this being said, I understand that this is a learning process for all of us. I am currently living with four White guys in a predominantly White and Latino/Hispanic region. Though I am well-aware of my ethnicity in this house, I’ve never been disparaged or felt lesser because of it (all jokes aside). There have been occasional misunderstandings, but overall we embrace our differences. I love these guys like brothers, and I know what we share is a greater spiritual bond that extends beyond race and color. Being in this house with these guys reminds me of everything that is great about America.

As minorities, Asian Americans must never forget the sacrifice of our ancestors to get us to this place. They battled and waged wars against hate and discrimination in ways we couldn’t even imagine. However, we also must not forget how our White, Black and Latino brothers and sisters have worked hard to help get us here, too. None of us is perfect–all the more, then, we must strive to educate, lift and help one another.

I still believe in King’s dream. There will be a day when the content of character wins out. There will be a day when more players like Lin shine, and people won’t think twice about his ethnicity. We are still a long ways away from that. But for now, I hope we can all sit back and enjoy the Linsanity a little bit longer.

Short Essay on Poverty

A HOMELESS MAN stood on the corner of a busy freeway exit. Leaning on his crutches, with a wheelchair not far behind him, he was holding a flimsy cardboard sign that read “Please help” in black bubble letters. I was stopped long enough to notice him–I was on my way to a dumpling house. As my car inched up the traffic, I was able to see the discoloration of the man’s skin, and more, that he was standing without his left leg.

Moved by the scene, and perhaps by the New Year spirit, people started extending dollar bills from their lowered car windows. The man took the bills from the sedan, then slowly made his way to the blue pick-up truck. As he reached for the money, he extended his arm a little too far and lost his balance. His crutches slid under him and the man came crashing to the ground.  The cars sat there, like motor statues, motionless. While he struggled to get himself off from the ground, the light turned green, but the money was still extended from the window. The pick-up wasn’t going anywhere; no one was heartless enough to honk at the car that was offering money to a man with no leg. I just sat there, taking in the awkward and uncomfortable scene before me, uncertain of what to do. In my head, I was a little child screaming, “Please, just make it go away.”

By the time the man got up–after a very long two minutes–and took the money, the light had turned red again. Only three cars had gone. Now, as the second car in traffic, I was sitting front and center to look at the man who didn’t have enough dignity to look anywhere but down. His eyes were staring at something and nothing. I had already decided to help the man, but I was treating my family that day, so I dug past the twenties for loose ones. Careful to avoid a reenactment of the scene, I got out of the car and walked over to hand the bills to him. “Thank you,” he said sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. I know I helped out, but something didn’t feel right. I got back in, closed the door, and stepped on the gas.

I entered the restaurant and saw my joyous family dining at the center table. I sat down to a table set with bowls of noodles and plates full of fried rice and dumplings. The meal was good–great, really–but all I could think about was that man with one leg who fell down reaching for a couple dollars. He must have felt small. And I didn’t feel like I solved anything; I didn’t feel like I did enough. Worse, I didn’t know if there was anything more I could have done.

It was nothing a few dollars or a meal could fix. His was the great problem of poverty. That scene was the representation, the teacher, of all I ever knew and had known about the issue. And there was not a damned thing I could do about it.

All this while I was sipping my cup of tea, downing my last dumpling. My family was rightfully enjoying themselves. I tried hard to hold it together at the table, and somehow I did.

But there was no solace for a soul that was weeping.

*****

THE PROBLEM ISN’T simply that poverty exists. It’s that we see it all around us and yet care to do nothing about it. Or worse, many of us don’t even know how to properly define it.

We tend to judge poverty based on the material. The man on the street doesn’t have food or clothes or money, so he must be poor. In one sense, that is true. However, the man who lends him a dollar or buys him a meal might come from a superior material standing but could be equally poor, if not more so, as the man whom he is serving–in the emotional or spiritual sense. As Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert outline in their book When Helping Hurts, poverty is not merely a material thing:

Poverty is the result of relationships that do not work, that are not just, that are not for life, that are not harmonious or enjoyable. Poverty is the absence of shalom in all its meanings [. . .] Every human being is suffering from a poverty of spiritual intimacy, a poverty of being, a poverty of community, and a poverty of stewardship.

This insight reveals the deeper roots of poverty that seem to reach further than material assets. In essence, poverty includes external riches but is also largely a state of mind or being. Until we understand that poverty is an extension beyond mere dollars and cents, we will only address the symptoms rather than the root and possibly cause more harm than good.

In my case, I had no problem giving the man a couple dollars. But what I could not give him was his dignity, his feeling and sense of self-worth. I couldn’t articulate it then, but my experience was confirmed as I read further in the book:

Research from around the world has found that shame–a ‘poverty of being’–is a major part of the brokenness that low-income people experience in their relationship with themselves. Instead of seeing themselves as being created in the image of God, low-income people often feel they are inferior to others.

Even if I had enough money to sponsor him–food, housing and all–for the rest of his life, as long as he is “receiving” from me, he will always feel like charity. He will be struggling with an inferiority complex, feeling like a second-rate citizen because he does not have a means of supporting and providing for himself. (More than income is lost in unemployment.) I thought I had helped the man, and in a way I did, but I also internalized the very shame my help had elicited.

One of the solutions to be inferred is that any assistance to the material poor needs to help address their relational/societal brokenness as well as their economic woes. To use the old adage, by teaching the poor how to fish instead of fishing for them, you will effectively have given them both a new identity (relational) and their own means of sustenance (material).  This concept is nothing new–organizations like Kiva have been doing this for awhile now with their own microfinancing strategy.

The key difference–however, and what I didn’t understand before–lies in the person who lends help. It begins with our understanding of our own spiritual poverty. We have our own issues, our own brokenness that connects us to the rest of humanity–no better, no worse. Our only hope comes from a proper relational restoration with God and others. Until then, we will always be lacking in some sense.

When we acknowledge our own spiritual or emotional poverty–and how easily our own material fortunes can change–we can identify with our communities much better. Thus, when we give money (which is still important, by the way) or help first-hand in another country, we are no longer serving with a god-complex. We are not coming with an attitude of subtle condescension to the poor. We are giving, but as we do we are also proclaiming that we are beggars in desperate need of grace.

*****

OCCUPY WALL STREET has done much to popularize the slogan “We are the 99 percent”. Men and women, young and old, people from all spheres of life are posting stories about their situations. Certainly, there are some serious issues that have been brought to light. Some of it is due to political corruption, some also because of our own financial negligence. This is a problem that is quite entangled with various others (e.g., outsourcing, overpopulation and lack of political structures to keep and expand domestic work opportunities, for starters) and I’m not sure where to start.

But my mind is fixed mainly on the other 3 billion or so people on this planet who are are living on less than $2 a day. People who are worried about things like clean running water and how to provide for their next meal. By God’s grace I have never had to worry about sanitary conditions and where to get my next meal. I’m looking at my room right now and it’s filled with more hats, shoes, and button-up shirts than are necessary. I am the one percent, and if you are reading this in the United States of America, then most likely you are too.

The idea isn’t to make any of us feel guilty or ashamed to be materially rich. Rather, it’s to open our eyes to our own condition–both the many blessings as well as areas of want–and to the condition of those around us in our neighborhoods, cities and beyond. Frankly, I’m not sure the problem of poverty will ever end. After all, Jesus said we will always have the poor with us. But that never stopped him from feeding the hungry, healing the sick, defending the orphans and widows. And neither should it stop us.