If there is one thing that friends know about me, it’s this formula: Me + sports = disaster. I don’t play them. I don’t really watch them (except some baseball and only at the stadium, with a hot dog and a cold beer). Don’t ask me who is the kicker for the Packers, I have no clue.  When people use sports analogies in business meetings, I smile and pump my fist like I know what they are talking about.  A guy I knew in college talked about a girl giving him the “Heisman” and I had no clue what he meant by that.  (This was pre-Google times of course.)

Now, this doesn’t mean that I am not athletic. I live for the endorphins I get from a good workout.  I’ve run 4 half marathons. Pre-COVID, I hit our gym five, okay usually four, days a week. Since we’ve been homebound, I’ve been working on my yoga practice with online classes and I’m proud to say I can do a headstand and forearm stand.  But these aren’t team sports, where individuals work toward a common goal.  

Why wasn’t I into sports? There had to be a reason.  I looked back to my youth. I did all the physical education I had to in elementary school. I mean, the Square Dancing unit really set me up for success in life.  The fact that I was chubby didn’t do me any favors when it came to the Presidential fitness test Endurance Run challenge, which was really only a one mile run around the playground. I always came in last.

I remember taking ballet lessons. My friends were all signed up for t-ball league so I did that too. Although I was the only one that the coaches had to come to home plate for and lower the tee.  I still remember the chuckles from the parents watching in the bleachers when that happened. Yeah, I’m a short person, which means I was a shrimpy kid.

I did what any grown adult does. I went straight to my mom to ask why I didn’t play any sports.  Her answer:  “Well, if you were any good at them, I would have made you play.” So there you have it.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I come across a letter from Mickey that talks about having enough kids to have a sports team. Of course, this was in the context of having a family. There was never any intention to have training sessions or speed drills in the backyard. But it makes me smile to think about my father did have that sports mindset. And how I might have had one too, had he lived. 

Norms are norms until they aren’t

Growing up in the 80s, my stepfather used to refer to Asian people as Oriental. (Come to think of it, he reminded me of Richard Kind’s character Sam Meyers in the Amazon series Red Oaks, who has an unsettling fixation on Asian women. The series begins in a New Jersey suburb in 1985 and that’s all you need to know. Go watch all four seasons on Amazon Prime NOW.) Our formal dining room was decorated with a Far East motif, including ceramic geishas (I think) and byobu, Japanese folding screens.

Time to get uncomfortable

While doing the research for this project, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find similar references to Asian culture.  In a letter to my mom, my dad brings up his “Oriental” pen pal. Cue my cringe and me exclaiming “How can he be saying this?”  The term “Oriental” describes rugs or a style of medicine, not people.  Back in earlier times, the term was used to describe the eastern part of the world and people who originated from there. (Occident was used to describe the western part of the world, though I’ve never known anyone who’s been called an “Occidental.”)  I found this video extremely informative so please check it out:

https://www.pbs.org/video/why-do-we-say-asian-american-not-oriental-4mohsx/

We can always be better

When I was young, the word “retarded” was used to denigrate someone or something that was deemed to be not normal or just different. Everyone used it, but that’s no excuse. Neither is being a kid – we can always be taught to be better.  I hate the saying “Times were different back then.” It’s a way to dismiss bad or ill-informed behavior without any kind of consequences for being wrong. Shouldn’t there be consequences or is the progression of thinking a form of redemption for everyone?

Another tragic effect from this horrible pandemic has been the harm to Asian American communities; not only through loss of businesses but in a dramatic rise in physical attacks against people.  I was looking to hire someone to help me with my resume and had been talking to several people.  I liked what one guy had to say, but the minute he referenced the pandemic using a racist term, I knew I couldn’t do business with him.  When he followed up with me several weeks later, I told him why he didn’t get the job.   I never heard back from him. Doing that didn’t take much courage, and it was the right thing to do. I’m going to do more of that.

I can’t finish this post without linking to ways to help support the Asian American community. A bigger list can be found here: https://nymag.com/strategist/article/where-to-donate-to-help-asian-communities-2021.html

I’ve been dreading writing this post.

I mentioned previously my Uncle Michael, my father’s best friend.

Michael wasn’t drafted – he had already earned his Associate’s degree and was working during the day and going to Brooklyn College full time in the evenings, studying to be an oenologist.  He worked a bit for Monarch Wine Company, testing wines for sugar and alcohol content.   

FUN FACT:  You may not recognize the name Monarch, but everyone is familiar with Manischewitz wines, which was licensed by Monarch in 1934.  Post Prohibition, Monarch was keen to market wine with a name already recognized and trusted by many Jewish people.  They produced the wine in picturesque Industry City in the Sunset Park neighborhood in Brooklyn.

Michael and my Aunt Roz were married in February 1966. They had practically parallel lives to my mom and Mickey. Both moved to NJ and had two kids, an older son and younger daughter.  Even though my mom was remarried to my stepfather, I always thought of my uncle as kind of my second dad, since he was the closest person after my mom to have known my father.  I thought being around him was what it was like to be with my dad.  I remember going to a Yankee game with him and my mom when I was young – the only professional sports event I had ever attended. I know my dad liked baseball, and for this reason it’s always been my preferred sport to watch, as a way to be close to him somehow. (Also, it is extremely slow and easy to follow.)

Tragically, Michael passed away suddenly on March 6, 1991. It’s been thirty years that he’s been gone and I still remember exactly what I was doing and where I was at the time. I was in high school and in my bedroom at home. My best friend came over to comfort me and I cried so hard.

It was like losing my dad all over again.