false starts / new ground

In a little less than 10 hours we will have effectively reigned in the new year. We will have had a little more to drink than we should and make resolutions that we won’t keep. We will put our arms on one another and sing a round of Auld Lang Syne, reflecting on the year that was and how this year, for better or worse, will be a different year.

How will this year will be different? Who do you aspire to be? What new things do you aspire to accomplish?

I ask this because I’m not sure what to wish or hope for myself. The superstitious side of me used to welcome these even-numbered years because these seemed, well, not odd. Until 2008 came to shred that theory to pieces by proving to be the single hardest year of my life. I also used to welcome the Chinese zodiac, perhaps thinking that my fortuitous year would bode much fairer to its “rat” kind. Until I realized it was also the same year as 2008. (Maybe those are the years I should avoid? By, you know, living in a forest or something.)

One can neatly sum up my past five years as a series of “false starts.” Since I’ve graduated college, I’ve been at four jobs, in and out of three relationships, and in three different living situations. That’s hardly something I’d like to advertise to any prospective employer or wife. If you were to ask me where I see myself in five years, I would tell you that I’ll have either won the Nobel Peace Price or found residence next to a guy named Leroy on Skid Row. Looking at my recent track record, I wouldn’t rule out either one. The point is: I stopped trying to predict life a long time ago.

Yet for all its ups and downs and crazy turns, life has never for once left me complacent. It has never stopped asking of me, never stopped prodding me to grow, learn, examine and redefine all that I have tried to so neatly assemble. I have a lot more dirt, and many more scars now than I did five years ago. But I can tell you with great confidence that I learned more about life and the human condition in the school of hard-knocks than I ever did by reading about it at a public institution.

One of those lessons is that failure can be a good thing. In the first two decades of my life things came easy. I never had to apply strenuous effort to excel in academia, sports or friendships. These last five years seemed to make up for them. Never have I failed so much in life. Failure was what I ate for breakfast. Failure was what I smelled like after the gym. Failure was what I pissed in bathroom stalls. (Alright, I exaggerate a bit…I did experience some success too, but it just didn’t compare.) Little did I realize that failure was the very thing I needed to build my character and prevent me from chasing things that aren’t real. It’s the sort of thing that recalibrates your perspective in life: keeping you diligent, humble and thankful. What if I had succeeded in everything I attempted these past five years? I’d probably be an arrogant, self-serving jerk. Granted, a jerk with lots of money, but still a jerk.

In his restraining grace, God gives us failure to help us realize that success isn’t everything. That life isn’t about medals or money or respect. That we need Him. That what you want isn’t what you actually need, and even what you think you want isn’t what you want after you have attained it. The challenge for me then is to live a life that I would not regret 70 years later in my deathbed (Lord willing).

So, what to say about 2012? I think Winston Churchill said it best: “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” It’s about living life for a greater purpose than following a paper trail, about taking risks for the greater good of those around you and to continue trying even when failure is fresh. And if I have attempted these things in the upcoming year, then whether I succeed or fail, 2012 will have been a year well-lived.

Risk hard, love hard, dare to make a legacy. Here’s to another year of living–cheers.

-MY

It’s Never Sunny in Seattle

At least that’s what I’ve heard. So when my plane pulled into the terminal last night amidst a huge torrent of rain, coming down like sheets of liquid bullets shooting sideways, I didn’t think I’d wake up to see this:

Yes…the sun. I hear it rarely makes an appearance up here, but it didn’t even take a day for me to find it. It’s the same sun that shines in LA, that I take for granted all too often, but here it’s peeking through to lend the place some light. It’s like the plants and trees rehearse so that whenever it appears, they are ready to reflect their wondrous colors onto the world:

I’ve only been here less than 24 hours, but I am already in love with this city. The weather, though a bit nippy, is crisp and cool. And the Seattle folks are unlike Angelinos–they are quite nice. They take time to make conversation with you, and in fact, welcome the opportunity to meet strangers. Smiles come on the faces of both the poor and rich, and hello’s are doled out by the dozens. There is a spirited current running through this city…it’s infectious.

Since my buddy Josh had to work, I took the community bus from Lynnwood to Downtown on my own. I went out looking for an adventure, for stories, and I found it not in the buildings or monuments, but in the people. Right as I hopped off the bus, on 5th and Pine, I saw a man on the street holding up a sign that read “help”and “jobless.” Caught in stride, and prompted by the Spirit, I went to strike up a conversation and perhaps offer him some food. I told him I was visiting from LA and asked if perhaps he wouldn’t mind giving me some pointers to the city. He responded sure no problem and told me his name was John. His friend Roger saw us talking and tagged along; we walked down the street for some Subway. We talked about the struggles with the economy and how hard it was to hold down a job. Then we talked about guns and how Roger shot a .45 magnum and how I couldn’t hit a thing with the magnum because the recoil was furious. John told me I needed to steady my wrist with the other hand lest the kickback might snap it. It was a rather enjoyable lunch with my two new friends.

I went on my way to Pike Place, home to the famous Farmers Market, and was able to visit the many vendors there who were selling homemade goods. The people were once again very amicable and probably sold me on some items because of their personalities alone. I could support the faces and names behind them. One woman named Lauri even gave me a map of the city and pointed me to the first original Starbucks down the street:

I got the exclusive gift cards that feature the original Starbucks logo that you cannot find anywhere else. I’m not a big coffee drinker, so it looks like they won’t remain in my hands for long…

Anyways, it’s time to sign off. The rain is about to hit the smooth streets of downtown–the sun was just here on loan–and I’m going to write for a bit before I meet up with another couple at a Thai place for dinner. If you ever get a chance, go visit Seattle–it rocks like Nirvana.

Thanks for reading, and keep warm in body and spirit.

-MY

All the Little Colors

Sometimes I feel like life is moving too slow, though it is at the same time moving too fast. I’m talking about the big moments in life. Finding that special someone, moving out, getting that big promotion, launching that grand project. I feel like it is easy to pass through life waiting on these things to happen without enjoying the mundane and ordinary that make up the majority of our days. The real life where real moments, memories, and character are forged–it is easy to waste away. It is deceptive; the days can seem to drag out long and slow, but when you begin to add them up you get to wondering how you got so far out into the present.

I might have gotten used to thinking that everyday should offer some sort of fireworks spectacular. Something that would set my days apart, either jump-starting or lighting it up with emotion. Some films and novels would have me believe that. What’s so devastating is that most of my days, in fact, are no different from one another. I wake up, go to work for 9 hours, come back and eat dinner, do chores, read and write (and occasionally, exercise) before turning in to sleep. Then, I wake up the next morning and push repeat.

Yet, it is in this routine of life that I am finding what it means to be devoted to the small things, the little details and attention of life that can make the mundane magnificent and even sacred. It is learning to put every bit of heart into every moment you’ve been given. It is learning to look deeper than the surface, to discover what makes this day’s color sepia as opposed to mahogany. (It is easy to see a contrast between blue and red; it takes a whole other set of eyes to split and define shades.)

I remember contributing an article to an old publication several years ago, when I was just starting my post-graduate journey. As a jobless and poor young adult, I talked about how I felt like Moses when he was relegated to spending 40 years of his life in the desert, doing little more than tending sheep and wishing for a 7-Eleven to open up near his house. My focus was on how Moses eventually made it through that desert period and onto the next stage and calling for his life.

It’s almost five years later and I now revisit that story but with a different perspective. A part of me still feels like I’m in that desert (or have returned there). But this time, instead of looking to just get through it, I am now focusing on my life while being in it. I’m sure Moses learned it this way. Though Scripture is mum on the matter, something tells me that he made the most of his time. That as a careful shepherd he came to know each sheep and its unique features, why this one was missing a patch of wool above its ear or why that one always steered left of the herd. In my mind there is no doubt that he cared for each sheep dearly and studied each one intently. He learned how to be a great leader before he was ever called to be one.

We often look for the big moments and events by which we can mark our lives. It may be rightfully so. But what will we make of the other seemingly ordinary days that come before and after the fireworks? I am learning to see the colors beyond the surface, whether or not the smoke has cleared. And the days shall all be wonderful if we are willing to see them that way.

The Slow Blog

My sister found me the perfect site today. It’s called “The World Institute of Slowness” or simply the “Slow Blog.” She said she came across it and actually thought of me first. I don’t know if she’s implying that I’m dumb or that I take too much time when I move.

But after clicking the link and looking through some of the content, I realized it was indeed for me. It talked about life and the necessity to slow some things down in efforts to really get at the heart of life–the quiet pleasures, gradual beauty–that is so often missed amidst the noise and quickness of “life.”

I stumbled upon a quote from one of their earlier entries that really sums up its ideals (and, of course, my “slow” sentiments). It’s from the Dalai Lama:

We have bigger houses but smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time;
We have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgement;
more experts, but more problems;
more medicines, but less healthiness;
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet
the new neighbor.
We build more computers to hold more
information to produce more copies then ever,
but have less communication;
We have become long on quantity,
but short on quality.
These are times of fast foods
but slow digestion;
Tall men but short character;
Steep profits but shallow relationships.
It’s a time when there is much in the window,
but nothing in the room.

It’s a great site that’s worth checking out. That is, of course, only if your quick and ever-demanding schedule allows it.

All is Forgiven

There is a piece from Ernest Hemingway’s Capital of the World short story that speaks of a father who went to Madrid and posted a newspaper advertisement that reads:

“PACO MEET ME AT HOTEL MONTANA NOON TUESDAY ALL IS FORGIVEN PAPA.”

Hemingway goes on to write that Paco is a common name in Spain, and when the father appeared, he discovered 800 young men named Paco who were waiting at the square for their fathers.

Fixing the Broken Parts

My car battery died today. I was trying to head back to the office after lunch today when I tried starting the engine. Click, click, click. The terminal sound of a battery on its last legs.

My co-worker was able to roll by with some jumper cables to help start the car. After I drove the car home, which was only a block away, she was kind enough to give me a ride back to the office (as opposed to making me walk that grueling mile down the street). Being a relative lightweight with cars and mechanics, I checked in with my dad to see what to do about the situation. We both agreed a new battery was needed. After work, my dad and I headed to Walmart.

Usually I have a hard time working on things with my dad. Whether it’s helping him out with computers or paperwork or what have you, I would always somehow end up frustrated. Part of me feels like he should know these things, that I shouldn’t have to teach him. Perhaps it’s a subconscious disappointment from the fact that he’s never really passed down any skill or bonded with me through a particular activity in my early childhood. Maybe I don’t respect him enough or have enough faith in him to carry out a task. (I imagine this is what it’s like to be lying down on a couch speaking to my shrink…)

So you can imagine my surprise when it came to my car. My father went the extra mile to do some research about the battery while I was still at work. Then when I got home, my father popped open the hood and diagnosed the car with me. He knew exactly where to go, what to change, and how to do it right. He showed me what parts to loosen and how to work around the tight spaces underneath the hood. After a dropped wrench and several minutes later, we were able to install the battery and fire up the car. What I had thought would be another test of patience ended up being something worth remembering–it was a good time of bonding with the old man.

I realized something as we finished up that night. I don’t think I give my dad enough credit. I hate how I put so much expectation on how he should be as a man, as my father, as my supposed role model. I hate how I’ve amplified all his past wrongs and how I would imagine him having done things differently. Sure, he’d be the first to admit he wasn’t perfect.

But at the end of the day, my father helped to raise our family with nothing more than a basic education and the American Dream, having to risk his personal safety in South Central and working six days for several years. And he loves me and my sister and my mom the best he can. I know he’s got my back.

It felt good to fix that car. It feels even better to fix a part of me. There’s still a lot of me that needs repair, but I’m thankful for a night like this.

Terrible Twenties

I never thought my twenties would be this hard. I never thought I’d be complaining about a time when I would have the most freedom to do whatever I wanted. A time when I was old enough to go where I wanted to go and rich enough to buy whatever I wanted to buy (not that I make a lot of money…I just don’t have a need for the “finer things” in life). A time when I wasn’t quite responsible for my own wife and children, yet had no obligation to tend to my mother and father (who might actually enjoy having an empty nest after all). The twenties–a decade that screams “It’s all about you! Enjoy it while it lasts.”

So, why are my twenties so hard? Why are there so many days like this, when I would feel utterly lonely, entirely spent from a third of my day at work, restless with whatever evening I have left to spare? Why are there so many days that I feel like I’ve wasted? That I wish I could take back? Why do I feel like I have so much catching up to do? What am I even trying to catch up to, or with?

Perhaps I feel like being in my twenties should entitle me to automatic-fun days every day of this decade–and the problem is that I’m not. Perhaps a part of me feels a little slighted, a bit indignant. I know and hear about people living like there’s no tomorrow–boozing it up, sexing it up, not giving a care about anything beyond their five senses. These people waited all their lives for the twenties. They’ll even try to extend it into the thirties if they can help it. They’re having fun. They’re reaping the benefits of their fleeting youth. I get it.

But I don’t get it at the same time. Because if it were that simple then I don’t know why I’m still miserable whenever I am out “where the people are” or when I see a friend get hammered. I haven’t fully bought into the seductive lie that it’s about me–and I can’t. This small part deep inside of me–perhaps more, who knows–knows that there’s got to be more to my life than this. But I guess I haven’t fully turned my ear from it either.

In spite of it all, there is something inside me that tells me to hold on, especially on days like this. It tells me to keep waiting. To keep praying. To keep giving. To keep counting my blessings. To keep walking, even when I feel like sitting down and raising my flag. It tells me that even when it doesn’t feel like it, I am still living it right.

I am reminded that there is a cost for everything in life. The greater the prize, the bigger the cost. Sacrifices are demanded. Athletes give up certain foods and habits to train their bodies to compete. It’s no different from writing a good story. The best stories always take the most time, creativity, and effort to complete.

I suppose then it is no different with life. The lives worth living, and the obituaries worth reading, are the ones that tell of the sacrifices made to give, reach, teach, and love. Stories like these are being written everyday, and they are the ones that will be remembered forever. But they are often overlooked or go unnoticed, and maybe that’s what makes it so hard to buy. But I should know better by now–didn’t they always tell me not to judge a book by its cover?

I believe I will get through this one day. I hope one day I will look back to these times, when my neurosis was on full drive and misery as my only company, and appreciate them for what they were worth, and how they made the ending that much greater.

Make Them Count

“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” – Abraham Lincoln

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately. Not that I am morbid or depressed or suicidal by any means, but I think I have kept death close enough at bay that it has afforded me the perspective to enjoy the days that I have. Though it may sound cliche, tomorrow truly isn’t guaranteed. Today is all we got.

A friend sent me a video interview of a young lady (who, by the way, happens to be my neighbor across the street; I used to be friends with her younger brother) who lost her husband to cancer at the early age of 28. Hearing about her story was both sobering and encouraging, because though he didn’t have much time left, he made the most of each and every day. Every sunrise was special. Every meal of which he partook was truly grace. There was nothing taken for granted, and he lived every remaining moment to the fullest.

We might have not have cancer or a life-threatening disease, but aren’t we all terminally ill? Whether it’s in six months or sixty years, we are all destined to die sooner or later. What if we all lived our today’s to the fullest? What if we all resolved to make the most of every hour, to have that mindset to do the things we would one day reminisce about on our deathbeds?

What I’m most afraid of is that I would one day find myself at the end of my life, looking back and thinking what did I do with it? I don’t want to lose sight of the things that count, the moments defined in the quiet or seemingly small things, the memories shared with loved ones. I don’t want to chase the things that pass with the wind. (I hate to keep relating things to film, but it’s kind of like the final scene in American Beauty where Kevin Spacey’s character–right before he dies–looks back at his life and has an epiphany about the things that really mattered.)

This is the wisdom and wealth I have been asking for from God. In return, He has granted me the perspective that allows me to enjoy every meal, appreciate every interaction, and cherish every moment that I get to do what I love to do. Truly, in this I am rich, and I could not ask for more.

If you are blessed to go to rest tonight and rise again tomorrow, make sure to stamp carpe diem on the day you’ve been given.

Bill and May

I wasn’t in a particularly good mood that evening. I don’t remember what it was exactly, just that being back at my parents’ house was getting to me. I am independent and fully capable of being on my own, but I don’t think they got the memo.

I sat in my room, trying to cool off. I was rummaging through a desk drawer when I stumbled upon an old collection of photos. I shuffled through the pile, until I landed on a nugget. I examined it for minutes. Then I just sat there, smiling.

Before I knew it I had forgotten why I was even bothered at all.

*****

This is not my mom and dad. I am familiar with those characters, but they don’t exist here. This picture tells me a different story.

Instead, I am met with the handsome faces of two wide-eyed adults. Bill and May were madly in love. Their wedding brought them to a backyard pool. I suppose love has led many a fool to sillier places. It doesn’t matter where they are, only that they belong to each other. The bride is beautiful–the groom, proud, and perhaps in quiet disbelief. “She really is mine.” Young, innocent. Their smiles are fixed with unbridled joy. This is the day that will mark another beginning.

Mind you, they had a past. Jie Mei Tong was a brilliant student, at the top of her class. Her father was a doctor, her mother an accountant at the nearby hospital. Man Piu Yan was a headstrong, blue-collar hustler surviving the streets. His father made a living in photography, back when cameras were boxes that stood on wooden legs. They were getting by in life; I suppose they weren’t too different from you and me.

Then the Communists came. They came to oppress them, erase them–turn them into another number. The government sought to take away their right to have a say for themselves. This was the future in Communist China. Become puppets for rice or march to the beat of your own requiem? Slavery was not an option. Freedom wasn’t everything–it was the only thing.

Hello America.

Now it is “Bill” and “May.” Individuals that came from another part of the world, thousands of miles away. Somehow they met, somewhere in the middle, in the divine compromise of the Big Apple. To some, New York is just another dot on a map. But this is where they met and fell in love. To them it means the world.

*****

And now it’s got me thinking. Maybe this is the story I have missed. I am quite familiar with the other story, the one about nagging parents. But this story reminds me that before acting as parents, they were husband and wife. And before living as husband and wife, they were beautiful young adults full of promise and hope. This was their script before Mom and Dad replaced them.

Years would pass and the children grow up. Did my sister and I belittle their love? Are we just two selfish little monsters, as babes demanding their constant attention to now wanting them out of our hair as grown-ups? When I get frustrated or impatient with them, I tell myself to remember their story. We are not perfect, but I hope we have made their sacrifice worth it.

Wrinkles now trace the tracks of their smiles. I wonder how would they react if they saw this picture. Would it speak of irony or of a promise fulfilled? After twenty-seven years and counting, I would like to think the latter.

Maybe I won’t ever understand or appreciate this, living and growing up in America. But if Freedom is the trophy, Love makes for one hell of a consolation prize.

*****

Pictures have the power to speak truth into your life. Sometimes they can even breathe life back into your years, and remind you how precious is the time you’ve been given. In those moments, when you listen close enough, they whisper, not to say that you should be counting your minutes, but to make every one of your minutes count.

Here I am met with the handsome faces of two wide-eyed adults. Bill and May were crazy in love. Their wedding brought them to a backyard pool. I suppose love has led many a fool to sillier places. It doesn’t matter where they are, only that they belong to each other. The bride is beautiful–the groom, proud, and perhaps in quiet disbelief. “She really is mine.” Young, innocent. Their smiles are fixed with unbridled joy. This is the day that will mark another beginning.

The Reborn Identity

My most recent project has me working on a collection of personal reflection essays. The progress has been kind of at a standstill since I started a new job in October, and who knows when I’ll finish at this point, but it’s been a very cathartic and enlightening experience. Here’s one of the essays for you to enjoy.

—–

The Reborn Identity

THE WORLD IS OBSESSED with identity. You don’t even have to leave your room to know it. It seems like everything is marked. There are tags on our bracelets, computers, televisions, and shirts. They all stand for certain brands, visions, or beliefs. How those tags read tell a lot about who you are and how you invest your resources.

Some of us look to these tags for comfort. Reading an Italian designer on the back of our shirts convinces us that we’ve done right for ourselves. Perhaps we smoke certain brands of cigarettes to feel like cowboys or camels. Or drive a certain car to feel like James Bond. This is true of products, and it is true of the schools we attend, places we dine, and athletic clubs we follow. Identities are being formed every second, through both the seemingly trite and deep things, whether we know it or not. It is inherent in our nature to look for belonging in something. So we find people who are alike and buy things that are pretty and obsess about careers in order to feel alive. It helps give definition to the inkblot known as life.

This need for labels is perhaps one of the reasons why I’ve always felt insecure about my own identity. It’s like I need a medal or hand-written certificate for every good thing I have ever done to make sure it is valid, that it wasn’t just imagined. This practice works well when every flick of the dice seems to turn up sevens. The job is good, girlfriend’s a trophy, and you’re kissing babies at church like you’re the mayor. But of course, problems arise during the numerous times you don’t win in life. I didn’t make varsity, so I doubt my athleticism every time I step on court. I didn’t nail my speech, so that’s the last time I do public speaking. And I didn’t date the prom queen, so I suppose I’ll end up with a horse.

Growing up with this type of insecurity was crippling. In my mind I would build another person—a more successful, handsome, respectable me—and set my standards against him. What Would that Martin Do? He would be calm and collected, always knowing what to say and how to say it. “I’ll have my martini in a champagne goblet, shaken, not stirred,” he’d say, as the party glances over in cool curiosity. People would trust him as a friend, follow him as a leader. The ladies would love him like he was LL Cool J.

But the only problem was that Martin didn’t exist. What I was left with instead was a naive and angsty teenager, and he was not what I wanted. It was disappointing because Real Life Me could never measure up to Imaginary Me. Good was never good enough because Imaginary Me was always better.

* * *

On more than one occasion I have had to deal with “identity theft.” It can happen when you give away private information about yourself, such as your social security number or mother’s maiden name to random strangers. That might land you a bill for a Swedish massage chair that you never actually bought and a very bad credit report. I’m sure it’s not a pleasant experience.

But I’m not talking about that sort of identity theft. I’m talking about another way, something much more creative, which is to have parents who decide to name you after someone famous.

I don’t think my parents are fully to blame–they probably never had a clue about the guy–but when they slapped me with the name “Martin,” they were in effect pegging me to a fifty-something year old chef from Hong Kong who had a successful cooking show. I discovered the truth one day after school when I was watching a PBS special. The show was called Yan Can Cook, and it featured an animated middle-aged man gripping a knife over a chopping board full of green onions. The man looked stereotypically Chinese, which is to say that he had squinty eyes and a flat nose, and was donning an apron. What’s worse, he had a stereotypically funny Chinese accent.

It’s the same accent I hear when my mother is speaking to me. It’s the type where you turn all the R’s into L’s, and place the emphasis on all the wrong syllables. I always assumed it was a speaking issue since certain sounds didn’t exist in a native language. But I had never imagined this rhetorical disease infecting the writing forum. My mother proved me wrong. Once she had written a recipe for a friend who liked one of her egg and shrimp dishes, and it read like the bubonic plague.

“Son, could you look this over please?” she said in Cantonese. “It’s for Mrs. Hasegawa.”

My mother handed me the piece of paper with the instructions she had written up. It was typed in Times New Roman font, neatly lined with numbers and all. Unfortunately, that was the only thing she got right.

“Bit the egg?” I read aloud.

“Yes, bit the egg,” she repeated.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, bit. You know—” and my mother proceeded in a frenzied motion with her arms. She meant “beat.” This was only the first line.

I continued reading. “Hit the pan?”

“Yes, hit the pan,” she reaffirmed.

I took the pan and mimicked the action as her words had indicated. I assumed it was some mystic Chinese ritual that would infuse the cooking with supernatural powers. Maybe that’s why her cooking never failed to deliver—it was blessed.

“No, no! Silly! HIT the pan!” she cried. She turned to the stove, worked the knob, and set it alight.

“Mom, you mean beat the egg and heat the pan?” I asked.

“Yes!”

My lungs nearly collapsed from laughter.

“Ai-yah! You know I’m not too good with English!” she cried.

I don’t quite remember how the last lines read, except that it involved the peeling of “shimp,” which was apparently a truncated Chinese version of shrimp. For her sake, I was glad she had asked me to look over her recipe. Then again, part of me would have secretly enjoyed to see Mrs. Hasegawa hitting pans in some sort of rain dance cooking ritual.

Mind you, not all accents are hideous. Brits and Aussies are ten times more charming when they speak (granted when they are not intoxicated). But it is hard to win a date over when your order for Chinese takeout results in “flied lice.” These accents only perpetuate stereotypes, and it can be the sort of thing that sets us back generations.

Martin the famous chef was sharpening his knife. He was on the video camera teaching us the proper techniques on how to chop vegetables. “And nao it is time fo yoo to chop dee un-yuns.” Fortunately, the show aired on PBS, which is a channel I don’t believe any hard-working blue-collar American or their children had ever watched. Perhaps the program aired only in convalescent homes. I’m not quite sure but somehow this boy escaped.

After all, it would’ve been cruel and unusual punishment to hear kids taunting you with “Martin, could you please chop dee un-yuns” for the rest of your elementary school life.

* * *

A high school friend once told me about a girl who actually thought I was the Martin Yan. She told the girl that she knew Martin Yan, but the girl thought she meant the guy who bones chickens and chops dee un-yuns. I was bewildered. I mistakenly believed I had buried him away in elementary school.

“She wants a picture with you and an autograph!”

“But the guy’s like fifty!” I said. “How am I anything close to the real thing?”

It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I wonder what it would have been like to swap identities with a man who made a living off of food and funny accents. To pull off a fake Chinese accent and masquerade as the chef–it wouldn’t have been right, at least not the right Martin Yan, but I could have played the part. I would have stood out, and my days would no longer be punctuated by unending question marks. I might have even scored a date or two. But then she’d probably want me to cook something, and I’d end up burning down her house.

* * *

Aside from the occasional “are-you-related-to” questions from college professors, I have mostly come out of this thing unscathed. I suppose it could be worse. I could have been named Benedict like the traitor, or be stuck with a Chinese monosyllabic repeating double name like Xing Xing.

But who am I? The high school me couldn’t tell you if he had tried. I wasn’t known for my cooking, or for anything really—I was just a skinny, run-of-the-mill, first-generation Chinese-American boy who wore his cousins’ hand-me-downs and occasionally made straight A’s. I wasn’t anything special; I didn’t have anything to offer. I challenged the world to a staring contest but it never blinked.

And that’s what bugged me, my lack of identity. I was a nobody lost in a deep ocean with six billion other people, struggling to stand out and find purpose in an increasingly whatever world.

* * *

The summer going into my senior year of high school, I felt as though God was reaching out to give my life a new definition. He was offering me the sort of thing that would not only break labels but chains. I had been spending my summer days camping out in the gospels, reading about Jesus and his disciples. That’s when I heard him.

He was telling me I needed to be reborn.

It wasn’t audible or anything, but it was clear what he was asking for. I had been on stage for altar calls and I did the whole Sunday morning church bit, but this went beyond buildings and services. Jesus was saying that unless I allowed him to redefine everything about me, he would have nothing to do with me. He wanted it all—my struggles, desires, talents, and insecurities. He wanted to give me a new identity. Most of all he wanted me to be a part of his family.

I was now faced with the cross. The scandal of the cross is that someone as perfect and blameless as Jesus would play identity-swap with thieves. When Jesus hung on the cross he was effectively saying, “Here’s my name, my social security number, and my credit card. Charge everything—all your debts and losses—onto my account. Now take my perfect credit report and claim it as yours.” You don’t do that sort of thing, giving unlimited credit to people who have spending issues. But this is what he meant, when he promised the thief hanging next to him that they’d be together in paradise. And this is what he promised me.

That’s when it hit me. The crucifixion is the greatest act of thievery to have ever occurred in history. Jesus traded places with scoundrels and gave crowns to crooks. How is that fair? It didn’t make perfect sense to me on that day. But it was enough for a guilty thief to say I’m in.

* * *

As the days unfold I see the kingdom coming nearer. One day I will walk through the gates of heaven and they will all take one look at me and say, “Welcome home, Martin Yan, who is not the famous chef but the insecure Jesus lover. We’ve heard a lot about you. Come on in, the Father’s waiting.”

They won’t be asking for ID. On that day it will be as clear as dee un-yuns.