Humanity in Remission

     Humanity (the state of being human, not the institution itself) is something that plagues me. Being human makes me lose the will to live. It attacks my soul, it deteriorates my moral condition, it kills all potential of goodness within me. Yes, to be human is to be cursed; it's been fate ever since the incident in the Garden of Eden. To be human is to be selfish at all times, even when you feel you're being selfless. It's being arrogant even though you feel humble. It's being self-righteous and hypocritical, even while you feel that you've gotten it all figure out, you're living life the way you ought to. Humanity is something that will devour you. Much as cancer attacks its host's body and kills it, so, too, does humanity, in an alarmingly literal way. Unlike cancer and other lethal diseases, though, humanity has a treatment that can be quite effective, even more-so than radiation or chemo therapy. 

     When a person has a terminal illness, there are perhaps no sweeter words to be uttered by a doctor than "it's in remission". Remission. It's going away; retreating, diminishing, the very harbinger of death is itself dying away. How wonderful to know that there's hope, that life will get better, maybe even easier. This demon disease that's been gnawing at your insides, devouring your hope and will to go on, it's retreating. Remission.

     I'm here to tell you that my humanity is in remission. Yes, the thing that has plagued my life for 23 years now, making me selfish, hard-hearted, impatient, harsh, hateful, controlling, spiteful, arrogant, self-righteous, and many other hideous things, this disease called humanity is in remission. It's retreating. Going away. Every day, I find myself thinking less of myself and more of others and how I can help them. My empathy and compassion increases steadily. I find myself more willing to take time to understand people, I'm now able to wait much longer without complaining or feeling angry. I find my speech becoming less hateful, less negative, and more positive and loving. I no longer hate anyone, even those I once considered enemies. I have a much easier time surrendering control of every aspect of my life, I no longer feel as though I'm spiraling out of control when things don't go as I expected or planned. I find myself forgiving more readily, and holding grudges less and less. I hesitate to mention anything about pride, because almost by default when one claims humility they display arrogance, although I do find myself more willing to take correction and input about my life from others. Best of all, self-righteousness is fading away. How can I possibly be self-righteous when I have nothing to offer? I am a human, a member of this cursed institution known as "Humanity". There is nothing good in me.

     There is nothing good in me, save for the One who saved me. The treatment I spoke of earlier, the one even more effective than radiation and chemo therapy, the treatment that has sent my humanity into remission; this treatment is the cleansing blood of Christ, which atones for my humanity and takes my sins to the grave. This treatment is the Holy Spirit, which floods my soul and lends peace to my troubled and anxious mind. This treatment is the unending, eternal love of God, which offers me escape from humanity. I have done nothing to deserve this opportunity. Nothing I can or could ever do would qualify me for this. As I said before, I have nothing to bring to the table, I have no good thing to offer that would atone for the cursed sins of my humanity. Before receiving this treatment, I was a hopeless wretch, fast succumbing to this disease, humanity. There was no good thing in me. My soul was destined for Hell. Now that I have this escape, though, now that I'm covered in the blood, flooded with the Holy Spirit, and enveloped in the great love of the One True God, my humanity is in remission, and I'm seeing the results. This is not by anything I have done, this is solely the result of the treatment.

     Relapse. A disheartening term in the medical world, relapse is practically the opposite of remission. Relapse is a falling back into the old problem. Relapse is when the disease gains ground again, rears its ugly head, and causes problems once more. How heartbreaking, to have been making progress, but then experience such a setback, a setback called "relapse". This happens not only to patients with cancer or other illness, but it can happen to struggling with humanity, too. In fact, while not guaranteed for patients with cancer or other illnesses, relapse IS guaranteed for everyone struggling with humanity. Humanity is a state of being, one that cannot be fully transcended until death. Cancer and other terminal illness are just that: illnesses. Potentially lethal, but not always permanent. No, sadly, with humanity, even when it's in remission, even those who receive treatment, all will eventually fall again. All will relapse into sin. Even those with the most successful reaction to the treatment, those people who appear so spiritual and as though they've got their life all together, they are destined to succumb to humanity again. For while we can become Christians from non-believers, we cannot become non-humans from humans.

     Another difference between the remission of humanity and that of cancer and other illnesses, though, is that while remission cannot always be possible for patients with cancer and other illnesses, it is always an option for those struggling with the burden of humanity. God's arms are always open, the Holy Spirit will fill your soul if you ask, and the cleansing blood of Jesus has been spilt on your account and He has risen from the dead, defeating death and humanity itself so you don't have to. Even after experiencing relapse, remission is always possible again.

     My humanity is in remission. It cannot be cured while I'm on this earth. I'm destined to experience relapses many times over. But with remission comes hope. My life isn't perfect. I don't have it all figured out. I'm still a human, so by nature, I'm still a bad person who sins daily and struggles with various inner demons consistently. The only difference is, I'm a human filled with the Holy Spirit to guide me, the blood of Jesus Christ to atone for my sins, and a God that loves me enough to send His son to spill His precious blood and conquer death for my benefit. Yes, my humanity is in remission. And yours can be, too.

Bitter Recipients

     Over a year ago, my younger brother had a heart transplant. So, as you can imagine, we've spent quite a few hours in transplant clinics, specialized doctor's offices, etc. We've met many people along the way, of course; some very kind people, but others quite unsavory in their words and conduct. It's the latter of these two types that I wish to address.

     I understand that it's tough having an organ transplant. Really, I get that. It's very unfortunate that people have to go through all the nonsense that comes along with getting a transplant; doctors visits constantly, unending amounts of medications that can have hideous side effects, pain and suffering, emotional trauma, etc. I don't discount any of that at all. But how on earth someone can have the gall to complain endlessly about their misfortunes in that situation boggles me and at times, vexes me.

     If you had a transplant of any kind, most likely that was the last resort. You were on your way out. Dying. The chances of actually getting the transplant are always slim; you wait many days, weeks, months, even years, slowly wasting away, with frail hope that something will come through. And then, if that magical day does happen to come, your life changes; you're thrust into a new world of medical jargon and pills and treatments, but you're alive. You get another chance at life, a chance denied to far too many waiting on the transplant registries. How grateful should you be, that you're the lucky one out of thousands, that the heart/lung/other organ fit YOU perfectly, it was meant especially for YOU, so now YOU can live life again. No more dying, hospital stays, no more waiting... You get to be with your family again, they don't have to be so stressed and worried about you. Maybe now since you've got the reassurance of being alive for a while, maybe now you can marry the one you so dearly love; previously while your life was up in the air, it was difficult to commit to someone, knowing that most likely you would die and leave them alone in the world. How lovely for you, how great that you get this second chance at life. Isn't it worth the extra pills and doctors' visits, just to be alive again?

     In the waiting rooms for the transplant clinics and whatnot, I hear a lot of conversation. Some of it is merely overheard, other times it's directed at us. Some people have told my brother such negative and hideous things, like how unfortunate that he has to go through that at such a young age. Of course it's unfortunate! But it's a heck of a lot better than being dead; he can attest to that. I've heard people complain against doctors mercilessly, saying despicable things about the very people that saved their lives. How can you be so vehemently against anyone that helps you so much, anyone that gives you a new chance at life... I don't care if the doctor doesn't have the best bedside manner, they saved your sorry life and you should be grateful to them and not disrespect them.

     Finally, and to me the worst of it all, how dare you complain about the small details like increased medications and difficult doctors, how dare you complain about your poor "quality of life", when someone died to give you that very life you complain about. You're alive because someone is DEAD. Organs don't appear out of nowhere. Somewhere, a family lost their child, a spouse lost their most loved one, a child lost their parent... And because of that, you have the ability to be alive, and, unfortunately, you also have the ability to take that for granted. You think you have it hard? You're alive. You're not grieving the loss of a loved one that donated their organs to people like you. Life is so precious. You should know that, you were dying at one point. At some point, you decided that life was so precious that you applied to be on the transplant registry. Nobody forced you, you could have declined if life was so difficult; you could have lived out your days in the hospital and then died; someone else could have had that heart or lung that you took, but instead you thought life was worth it, and you took it for yourself. That's fine, you're entitled to that. But don't you dare ever utter such words as "I wish I had just died back in the hospital", because for far too many, that's the reality. Waiting, dying, hoping, all for nothing in the end. You were fortunate. You're entitled to your difficulties, but you are not entitled to incessant complaining and gross ingratitude. You don't get to be bitter, because far too many bitterly weep for those lost while waiting, those lost who gave their organs up, far too many people wish they had your luck. Don't be a disgusting human being. Be grateful for the sacrifices made, the doctors skilled hands, the modern advances in science and technology that allow you to be breathing today. Be grateful for your second chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
note: this in no way has anything to do with the attitude of my brother towards his transplant. He and many others I've met are so ultimately thankful to the doctors, donors, and ultimately God, for their second chance at life, and they're living their life in happiness and joy, as second chances are meant to be lived.

On Brian and his Greatness

     My brother is on a very high pedestal, everything he's overcome, everything he's gone through and literally survived... So many people look up to him and respect him. His story has reached people all over the world, and serves as excellent testimony to God's goodness.

     Today my younger brother is 20 years old. 20 years. It's really gone by so quickly, and yet at the same time it feels like an eternity. This year is particularly special in light of everything that went on in Spring of 2012. Last year, it looked like he wouldn't have another birthday. It looked like the end. His heart ruined by viral myocarditis, he didn't have months to live without a heart transplant, which takes about 6+ months usually to get a donor heart. He didn't have that time to wait, it wasn't possible. Then the miracle happened. Just 3 days after being put on the national registry to receive a heart, the call came in. We had a heart for Brian. Long story short, they put the new heart in, and now he's alive and really quite well. I promise you, not a single day goes by that I don't thank God so much for giving my brother back to me. Not a day goes by that I don't tell my brother that I love him. I am so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for his life, and ultimately so blessed to be able to celebrate his 20th birthday with him now.



     My brother is very unique. He's the most humble person I know; just earlier I was having a conversation with him about the whole heart thing. I told him that his story has touched the lives of so many, I told him that I'm so proud of him, and I told him that God is so good to provide us that miracle. He got sort of red, and then mildly told me "It's funny... Everyone always says that I'm a 'miracle child', but I don't feel like that at all... I don't feel special, it doesn't feel like I did anything great." I was just sort of taken aback by this statement; the kid had heart surgery, he's been through SO MUCH... How could he not feel some sense of pride and accomplishment for that? My own heart is overwhelmed with pride for him, how can he not feel some mite of the same for himself? I prodded a bit further. "Why not? How do you not feel like some kind of hero after everything you've gone through? You've overcome so much, kiddo; you're not the victim here, you're the victor!" He knit his eyebrows together in his signature expression, indicating that the wheels are turning in his head. After a moment, he told me "But I DIDN'T do anything... I didn't put the heart in, I didn't donate a heart, I didn't do anything special." Again, I'm astounded. I said "But you survived... You lived, and because of that so many people are inspired, Brian; so many people thank God because of it!" And then he said something very wise, something I should have thought of. "I guess that's the thing. I didn't do anything; God did all the work. I'm not a hero..." and his eyes filled with tears, and so did mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     Throughout everything, my brother remains so incredibly humble. He doesn't want his trials to define him; he's told me that explicitly before. He doesn't want respect and honours for what he's been through. He doesn't want attention; in fact he rather disdains it. He just wants to be a normal kid. And he is. So let me tell you about him, with nothing to do with his trials. Let me tell you who he is, and what makes him tick.

     He has a great love for video games and anime. So many hours have been spent over the years playing Legend of Zelda, Super Smash Bros., Gundam, Dynasty Warriors, Mario Party, Halo, and even Harvest Moon. Many hours have been spent watching Gintama, Sgt. Frog, Bleach, Naruto, One Piece, DragonBall Z, and Hetalia. Lately, evenings are usually spent in my room. He sits on the end of my bed and either plays video games or watches anime on netflix while I work on the computer and the cat chills on the bed. It's just the three of us, Brian, myself, and the cat, usually silent, but all enjoying each others' company. It's this really simple thing, but it's really beautiful to spend time like that. My brother is a huge Nintendo fanboy, and even has a bookbag in the style of an old NES controller.

     Brian loves to go for drives. Not like roadtrip status, but just a simple drive around Chatsworth Reservoir. We get sodas, and I drive him around. Sometimes I drive him to Chinatown/Little Tokyo, where we get ramen and indulge our love of anime and Asian culture. Anywhere we go, though, I hand him the MP3 player, and tell him "you're the DJ, find us something good to listen to", and his face lights up, honoured to be assigned this most important task, and he puts on the stuff he likes to listen to.

     Like most young people, he loves music. His taste is just as varied and eclectically odd as my own, which I suppose makes sense, as his musical tastes have been largely influenced by me, I guess. Sometimes he listens to motown. Other times he listens to K-Pop. And still other times, he listens to hip-hop, rap, 90s boy bands, and even power metal. One thing's for sure, though; that boy loves his music. Almost weekly, he asks me to update the music on his ipod/iphone for him. Heaven forbid if he gets an itunes gift card; I don't hear the end of it until every last cent is spent and all songs have been successfully uploaded onto all his devices.

     My brother simply adores pugs. And kittens. And really all cute animals. He practically melts if we run into a pug while walking someplace, and we always ask the owner if we can pet it. If the owner gives us permission, instead of petting the pug's back like he would do with any other dog, Brian caresses the wrinkly face. After running his hands across the crevasses of its face, he then goes for the tail. He loves the curly tails pugs have. As he's doing all this, all 6 feet of him hunched over giving the pug attention, you'll inevitably hear him going "awwwwwwwww" and sometimes saying "this dog is SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEE" which is sort of heartwarmingly and adorably amusing to see a guy of his stature saying and doing.

     Brian loves to cook. This is somewhat unexpected, and I think this hobby came about during my days of wanting to go to culinary school. He started out with making "additions" to the ever-so-humble pre-packaged ramen. He'd try putting onion and garlic powder in, sometimes he's try scrambled eggs in it, etc. Eventually he branched out, and began making other things, like omelets, rice with toppings, panini, etc. Some of what he makes is quite good, actually. Sometimes it's inedible, though. I try and eat anything he makes me, though, because ultimately, when he makes food for me, it's not so much that I have something to eat, but rather it's to try and impress me and make me proud, and maybe even one-up me if he can cook something even better than I can. 

     My brother is a gentleman, and an all-around good guy. He always opens doors for people (a skill acquired in the past few years, thankfully), he's very polite and respectful to everyone, and he'll go out of his way to help people. I remember one day, he had just gotten home from riding the municipal bus from school (a good 30-minute ride, if not longer). He informed me casually that he was very tired, and his legs hurt him quite a bit. I asked him "what's the matter?" "I stood the whole time on the bus home." "Oh my goodness! there were no seats?" "Well when I first got on, there were seats. But on the first stop, a girl got on, and there was no place to sit, so I got up and let her sit down." "Brian, that was so good of you!" "Well it was the only decent thing to do, right? You always get up on the bus if old people get on, right?" "I'm proud of you, that was very kind of you. Go lay down and rest your legs." Yet another time, he was sent to school with 20 dollars in his pocket, and told to bring the change back to my parents. When he got home, there was no change. "What happened? Did they not give you change for your lunch?" "No, my friend didn't have any money, so I bought him lunch." His spirit of kindness and generosity is very beautiful; I wish more people could be like him.

     There's not too much in this world that he dislikes, really, but the two things that he probably hates the most are cheese and dubstep. I have no idea really why the extreme disdain for cheese, especially because he eats pizza (go figure). But he absolutely WILL NOT TOLERATE cheese on anything else. As for dubstep, it just sort of freaks him out. I had the same reaction when I first heard it, honestly. But he really just won't put up with it; even if just a short part in a song has dubstep in it, he demands to change the channel. Which is fine with me.

     Perhaps the oddest thing about Brian, though, even odder than abhorring cheese, is his absolute love and loyalty for me. We get along excellently now, we really couldn't be closer, but back when we were kids I couldn't stand him. That sounds odd to hear me say now, because I love nobody on the earth more than I love my brother. But when we were kids, different story. He annoyed the living daylights out of me. Following me around, always wanting to be in the middle of everything I was doing, butting in when my friends and I would hang out; he was nothing but a pest to me, and I resented him. I was such a jerk to him, I really was. I'd make fun of him, yell at him, hide his stuff, etc. Really just an awful older sister. The weirdest thing about all that was that he'd never get mad at me, he'd never stop trying to gain my love and attention, he'd never retaliate. He always looked up to me and adored me, even when I hated him. One day, quite literally overnight, something inside me switched over. I can't really explain it, it was truly so abrupt and without precedence. But one day, I just sort of decided/realized "I want to protect this kid. I want to take care of him always, and do my best to make him happy." And I did. The thing I'm really grateful for is that the scars of my awfulness to him during our childhood seem to be a lot worse on my soul than his; he seems oddly unaffected by my hideous behaviour towards him in our youth, and I couldn't be more grateful for that. I don't have many regrets in life, but treating my brother like that is most definitely one of them. What I really love, though, is how his love for me parallels Christ's love for us. 1 John 4:19 says "We love Him, because He first loved us". Even when we were against Him, even when we hated Him and were His enemies, God loved us. In no other circumstance have I better seen such love displayed and paralleled as with my brother. Even when I hated him, he still loved me, he still craved my attention. Just as I'm not worthy of God's love, neither am I worthy of Brian's. But I so gratefully and humbly accept both, and it's my greatest desire to do my best to serve God, and glorify Him through my love and service to my precious brother.

     My brother is on a very high pedestal. I so very much look up to him, he's my hero, he's my earthly treasure. Nobody on this planet am I more proud of, nobody on the earth do I love more than I do my dear little brother. The world is looking up at him, yet he still looks up to me. And that is honestly the most humbling thing I've ever experienced in my life. Why he thinks I'm so wonderful, why he ever thought that to begin with when we were kids, it's truly beyond my comprehension; it defies all human logic. And I suppose that's really rare and beautiful. I am just so very humbled by him, though. In hospital settings, while he's having his blood drawn, he'll introduce the nurse to me, and tell her about how great I am, what I do with my life, etc. Not about himself, not "oww this hurts", not about anything else when I'm there. It's immediately "Oh, this is my sister, Kris!" And it's as though for him, he's just had the immeasurable honour of introducing the queen of the universe. And for me, I embarrassedly smile, say "how do you do" or some such appropriate greeting, and then glance at my brother's sweet, beaming face, and wonder why. My brother adores me, and I adore him. But I think his adoration for me is far more than mine can ever be for him, believe it or not. As silly as this analogy may be, it's honestly quite relevant to how I feel about the situation of him being on a pedestal while simultaneously putting me on a pedestal. You know that scene in "The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King" during the coronation of Aragorn? Well, Aragorn has just been crowned king, and is walking through the crowd. He gets to where the 4 hobbits are standing. (For those unfamiliar, the hobbits are arguably the main heroes of the whole story, and they go through most of the hardships, at least physically, especially Frodo). The 4 hobbits bow low to the now-king Aragorn, but Aragorn tells them "No, you bow to no one." And the hobbits slowly stand back up, and Aragorn bows to them, and the entire population on the terrace bows to them as well. Brian is the hobbits. The TRUE hero of the story. The one who had it the worst, the one who miraculously survived, the one who accomplished the task, and yet the one who is still inexplicably so humble. I am Aragorn (this part of the analogy doesn't fit quite so well, because I'm nothing special or so important as a king, but bear with me). The hobbits looked up to Aragorn, even from the beginning they knew he was different; similarly Brian has humbly looked up to me from the beginning. While my brother would be so quick to praise me to other people (equivalent to bowing to Aragorn), I wish so much to have people see the true greatness, which is in BRIAN himself and not me (equivalent to Aragorn telling them "you bow to no one").

     I really just want the world to see how wonderful he is. He's such a beautiful person, he honestly is, but he's so humble and so quiet about his own life. So, in my absolute and unabashed pride in him, I will be his advocate. My great love for him is a testament not only to how wonderful my brother is, but also how good our God is. First, God's love for us is so good and pure. Even when we hated God, He loved us. (even when I was the worst sister in the world, Brian sought me out and adored me as his big sister) We don't deserve God's love, but through His saving grace, we are free to accept it. (I couldn't accept my brother's love without forgiveness. I had to make things right with him [which was ridiculously simple, because he held no grudges] before I could even think about accepting his beautiful love). God has been so ultimately good to my family; to be able to celebrate Brian's 20th birthday is a blessing that none of us expected or even deserved. God gave us the miracle of my brother's life, but more importantly He gave us the miracle of the death and resurrection of His own son. God's great love for us was indeed SO great, that He would give His son as a way for us to claim His love. Whether my brother likes it or not, his story is one of inspiration; it's a story meant to be told, and not hidden away. And while my brother is still amazing, he's right; he's not the hero of the story here. It was all God.

     I'll end this with one of my most precious memories from last year. It was October, he had been re-hospitalized due to bizarrely high CPK levels. I was staying at the hospital with him, per his request, and it was my honour to oblige. It was about 2am, the room was completely dark. He quietly asked me "kristin, let's listen to some music on the ipad so I can sleep" I told him "sweetie, it's 2am, the lady is trying to sleep in the room next door... We can't listen to music tonight." Silence for a little while. "Kristin?" "Yes babycakes?" "........will you sing me a lullaby?" Silence again. I don't sing... I didn't know any lullabies, I didn't know what to do. The chair I was sleeping in faced the window looking out over the city. I looked out into the dark city, took a deep breath, and softly began singing "Hey Jude" to him. I was scared, to me it sounded awful, how on earth would he be able to sleep through that?! Then after a while, I quietly sang "Yesterday" to him. Surprisingly, my singing skills had not improved at all, and this was a trainwreck as well. When I began to attempt singing "Strawberry Fields Forever", I looked back at him. He was sleeping, gently snoring. What touched my heart, though, was what I could just barely see: his face, dimly lit by the monitors and scans plugged into him, resting peacefully, with the sweetest, most angelic smile as he slept that you could ever hope to see. I can't sing. At all. But to him, the songs I sang him were perfect, soothing and sweet. And later that next day, I would be told enthusiastically by him "you should try out for American Idol".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     Brian, my dear, darling brother, happiest of birthdays to you! I really just want you to know that I am so so so beyond blessed and honoured and privileged to be your big sister. I want you to know that I truly do love you more than anything on the planet, and I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I'm so so proud of you, Brian. You've done so much more than I ever could, truly. I hope I can be as amazingly great of a big sister to you as you've been amazingly great as a little brother to me. God has used you in such incredible ways, my dear, and through you has taught me so many valuable life lessons. You're my inspiration, for everything I'm going to do; it's you, kiddo. It's all you.  I love you to the moon and back, and can't wait to celebrate your 80th, 90th, and even 100th birthdays with you! (I know we can make it! :D) Brian, my babycakes, I adore you, and everything our great God has done through you and for you.
ALL my love,
~Kristin

    

Ladybug Man

    As most businesses do, the place where I used to work had a lot of "usual" customers; people that would come in every day, or every week, and recognized the employees and had very casual acquaintanceships with them.

     I'll never forget, there was one customer in particular who would always come in while I was working. I guess he learned which car was mine (he was incredibly intelligent) and would only come in while I was working. He would also only be rung up for his purchases by me; he would wait specifically for me to ring him up.

     He was always dressed the same; button-down short sleeve shirt tucked into khaki pants. His face reminded me vaguely of William Hung; he had a sort of perpetual small smile on his face, and also had similar hair. Every time he would come in, he wore the same attire. I think he was an engineer, he said. He was very smart, and could figure out the total of his purchase before I even rang it up by calculating the taxes and CRV rates. Maybe that's an easy feat and I just don't know it because I'm terrible at math. I don't know, but it was sort of impressive, in a creepy are-you-a-robot kind of way.

     In the beginning when he first started coming in, conversation was kept to a minimum, if not altogether nonexistent. He would mumble to himself as he added up the total, making his robotic calculations. He would smile and hand me the total in exact change, take his receipt and things and leave. As time progressed, though, I guess he became intrigued with me. He started coming in more often, and became more personable, asking me how my day was and simple things like that during his transaction. He was very strange, almost disconnected with reality.

     Things became really odd when he would come in, and sort of hide behind the aisles and just watch me while I worked at the register. It was almost like a child playing peek-a-boo; he would conceal himself behind the aisle and then peer around the corner, and when I made eye contact quickly duck back.

     One time, he came in, and just simply got his things and came to the counter, without playing his usual odd game of hide and seek. He put his things on the counter and I proceeded to ring them up. I noticed him digging around in his pocket; I just assumed that he was fishing around for the exact change that he would inevitably pay with. I looked up at him, told him the total, which I'm sure he already knew. He hadn't been mumbling to himself, though; he hadn't been calculating anything this time... He was even more disconnected from reality than usual. Finally, he produced something from his pocket that I would never ever forget...

    He looked me right in the eyes, smiled his odd little smile, and, while maintaining eye contact with me, raised his closed fist slowly to my eye level, and then opened his hand... On the tips of his fingers was a tiny red ladybug. As if it sensed some cue from the pulsing blood in his fingertips, the ladybug immediately took flight and flew off into the store. I just stood there staring at it, watching it leave the bizarre scene. The man never stopped staring at my face the entire time. Finally, I snapped back into reality, slowly and confusedly looked back into the man's eyes, searching for some explanation of the surreal and bizarre even that had just transpired. The man said in the strangest voice I've ever heard "make a wish..." and his mouth curled slightly into an even odder smile than usual.

     Slightly jarred, I told him what his total was. He payed with a credit card that day. He had never done that before. I handed him the receipt, he took his things without saying a word, and he left.

     I never saw him again after the ladybug incident. I'm not sure where he went, or what happened to him. Maybe he evolved into some kind of monster, parallel to his evolution as a customer, getting odder and odder until one day he broke the scale of oddity, his sanity flying off into the world in the form of a humble ladybug. 

Encounters With My Own Kind

     Today, I went to the beach. It's the middle of January; most kids are back in school, everyone's gone back to work, and it's a little known fact that beaches are, in actuality, even nicer in the wintertime than the more prominently assumed summer. So, despite everyone here in Los Angeles complaining about the "big freeze" as some are calling the unusually low temperatures, I decided to go to the beach today.

     I had no problem finding parking; the place was empty. Parked the car, dragged the beach blanket that's twice bigger than I am out onto the sand rather close to the shoreline, and set up camp. I laid down, closed my eyes, and began absorbing vitamin D and proceeded to meditate/drift off to sleep as the sun warmed my face, the cries of the gulls and snowy plovers created my lullaby, and the rhythm of the waves crashing to the shore soon matched that of my heartbeat.

     I was like that for quite some time, without incident. As I said, there was no one really around too much. Maybe 100feet away, an old man was fishing in the surf, trying to catch the little surf perch. The lifeguard leaned against the old wooden rail with the blue paint chipping off, looking out on the horizon; perhaps wondering what the future held in store for him, maybe questioning his life choices, maybe searching, looking across the waves, thinking fondly of his long lost love in another country, far across the ocean. Or he could have been thinking "Should I get Taco Bell or El Pollo Loco after my shift...". It's nearly impossible to tell what kinds of things one ponders while one is wearing sunglasses.

     So there I was. Sleeping on the big blanket. Secure in the knowledge that the enigmatic lifeguard was near, and the old fisherman was off catching dinner for himself; otherwise, alone. I enjoyed that, being alone. It was nice. So it went like that for at least an hour.

     At this point, I had drifted to sleep. The wind playing with the tendrils of my hair, the warm glow of the sun on my face, it put me to sleep. So I was there, sleeping. I heard a faint sound behind me, the sound of a few people shuffling through the sand. I figured to myself  "Oh, a family has arrived. They're setting up camp behind me. That's fine." and went back to my sleepish state. I could hear snippets of whatever it was they were saying; sounded like they were speaking French. Interesting. I never looked back to see what they looked like; it really didn't occur to me to do that, for some reason. They were there, and it didn't bother me, so I went back to my meditational-sleep mode. Their voices were carried by the wind, carried far down the beach, away from my sun-warmed ears.

     A little while later, I was roused from my sleep when first, I heard many excited exclamations (in French) about something or other. Then, the tell-tale shuff-shuff-shuffling of people walking in sand. I just assumed they would be walking to the shoreline to dip their toes in the surf; I closed my eyes again. Well, the shuff-shuff-shuffling came to a halt, right at the edge of my blanket. What on earth could these people want... I very sleepily looked up to see what the matter was. What I saw was quite amusing to me.

seersucker boxers. picture this material, but in SPEEDO form.

     Three people. Apparently the people speaking French behind me were what appeared to be a mother and her two sons. Mother appeared to be maybe 50, but looked fabulous for her age, and was rocking a little black bikini. Two sons, one about 30, the other mid-twenties. Both sons were wearing seersucker speedos; one white and pale blue, the other white and some sort of reddish colour. The younger one, in the blue seersucker speedo, he was wearing some kind of straw hat fedora. I mused that this fashion must be big over in "The Motherland", because it was certainly odd garb to be wearing here. The younger one, the one in blue; he stepped forward a bit, and asked "parlez vous francais?"

     It took me a minute. I was still pretty much in sleep-mode, a bit groggy. And now I've got three French people asking me if I speak French. What on earth could they want... And why are they dressed like that...

     My well-thought out and supremely groggy response to his query? "Lo siento, solamente hablo español e inglés...." 

Blank stares all the way round. 

     Blue seersucker speedo boy seemed to be the spokesman for the group. He paused a moment, then said "English?" To which I only slightly more normally replied to with "Sure!".

     The three looked at each other and smiled, apparently greatly relieved to have established some form of communication. The mother rattled off something to the boys in French, which blue seersucker speedo son relayed to me, in very broken english. All three motioned emphatically toward the shoreline, indicating with pointed fingers a certain area of the ocean. Blue seersucker speedo said, with absolutely no confidence, "Ahhh... They are... whales?"

     I looked out to where they were indicating. A pod of dolphins was feeding not 20feet off the shoreline. I looked back up at the boy "Whales? Um no, those are dolphins... There's a pod of dolphins that feeds right off this shoreline every day. They're dolphins." The boy nodded his head, indicating that he understood at least some of what I said, then translated back to his mom and brother. A chorus of enlightened "ahhhhhhhh"s arose from the group. I smiled at them. They were greatly intrigued by the dolphin pod. After a minute or so of us all looking at the dolphins, I asked them, "So are y'all from France?" Mom and older brother nodded, and said "oui". Younger brother in blue seersucker speedo looked at me and asked "you? You are ahhh... from where?" I replied simply "Los Angeles". Again, the chorus of ahhhhhhhhhhh's arose. "Los Angeles" needs no translating into any language; a fact I'm rather proud of. 

     The mother then began speaking to the younger brother, quite rapidly. The younger brother seemed reluctant to comply with whatever it was she wanted him to ask me. The lovely little mother seemed very insistent upon having her question answered, though. The younger brother in the blue seersucker speedo and straw fedora turned slowly back around to face me. He looked apologetically in my eyes, and said "We would want to know... ahhh... You are French?" 

     This took me a while to understand. I thought it was just some more butchered English; a question that made sense to them but probably not to me. I repeated what I last said, "Ummm... I'm from Los Angeles... LA? Born there.". Confused looks on the boys' faces. The mother became more insistent; the younger boy turned again and asked "No, she wants know if you are french... Mother? Father? French?"  Oh... I understood now, I thought. "Oh! You want to know if I'm French?" The chorus of "oui!" rose up emphatically. I paused for a second, pondering the strangeness of it all. I replied "...Yes, I am French. I'm French Portuguese. How did you guess?" Blue seersucker speedo boy turned around and translated all that to mom. A flurry of fluid French words, motions made around the eyes, then the "turn around" signal was made, indicating that he should turn around and tell me. "She say you have French eyes and..." here he motioned to his cheekbones, apparently not knowing the English term for it. I filled in for him "cheeks? cheekbones?" "OUI!" I smiled at them, they were so very happy to be having a conversation, it seemed. At this point, red seersucker speedo boy stepped forward and spoke for the first time to me. "You appear very French... The eyes, the how you said? cheekbones! very French. We thought it so when first we saw you." 
This was intriguing, although not the first time someone has correctly identified my nationality. I replied with "Oh yeah? Thank you!" (not sure if it was INTENDED as a compliment, but I'm not sure what else to say in these situations). More French from mom. Both boys' faces reddened, both denied her request for translation. She insisted on having what she wanted said translated, so red seersucker speedo boy turned around and very reluctantly, very shyly said "our mother wishes to tell you you are most beautiful, and very French.". At this point, the three of us youngsters all turned red. The mom had a good laugh; we apparently must have looked funny, acting so awkward as we did. I turned directly to the mom, smiled, and said "oh, merci beaucoup..." They all applauded my attempt at french. I just sort of laughed it off and took a mock-bow. 
Then I guess they had asked all of the questions they had for me, complimented me to their satisfaction, and they decided to go back to their towels. I bid them "Have a great day, take care, now!", smiled, and waved. They smiled and waved to me, and blue seersucker speedo boy said "you take care now...!" in an obvious copy of what I had just said. 

     After the shuff-shuff-shuffling faded off into the distance along with the French conversations transpiring between the three, I smiled, closed my eyes and went back into sleep-mode. "you are most beautiful... very French..." those phrases echoed through my mind. What a sweet and well-intending mom. The poor boys, though. They had a bit of a hard time of it. Not only did they have to speak in broken English to me (which they were very self-conscious of), but the things they were having to translate were very awkward, indeed. I laughed slightly, and went back to sleep. 

     In this weird experience, I had some kind of bizarre kindred connection with my fellow French people. They accepted me as French, even though I'm from LA. That was really very nice of them, I will treasure their words and willingness to accept an American as their own always.

Mistake

     When I was younger and just began working in the world, often times I'd stumble over my words, speak too softly, mumble, speak too fast, or just flat out say things that made no sense to normal people. This got me into trouble quite a few times with customers when I was first starting out working retail.

     The store that I worked at had a very strict no-pets-allowed policy that we were told rather emphatically to enforce. We sold food, and coffee and whatnots, so legally, we couldn't have animals in the store, except for service dogs. I always did a pretty decent job of enforcing that policy. Someone would walk into the store with a little dog (where I worked was a high-end neighborhood; most of our customers were the wealthy hollywood-wannabe types, with little dogs in their gucci bags and things like that), and I would politely but firmly tell them "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't have animals in the store... It's a legal issue with the state." and either they'd get really mad at me and I'd have to call the manager, or they'd simply comply and go away with their dog. Now, as I mentioned, the people that would typically try and bring little dogs into the store were the wealthy-types. Or they were the "natural" types of people, the ones that carry their children in slings around their bodies and only eat organic, gluten-free food and refuse to purchase anything produced in China. Back when I was working, there was a funny trend; there were these silly little harnesses that people could wear around their bodies, like the ones to carry babies, but instead, you could carry around your dog or cat. Many, many people tried to enter the store with these devices, carrying their little dogs (and once, a cat, I kid you  not), and I'd have to give them the speech about the legal issues and blah blah blah. This was a very, very common occurrence back then. I'm not entirely sure if that's still a popular thing that still goes on these days, but back then it was an epidemic.

     One night, I was working the register (most interesting things happened when I was at the register), and this lady comes into the store with one of those harnesses strapped to her chest. The store was pretty much dead, as usual (this was when the economy first really tanked), so I was the only one at the front of the place. So the lady comes strolling in with one of those harnesses with what appeared to be a black pug residing within. I tell her "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't allow animals in here... The state won't allow it because we sell food products..." She looked at me very oddly, and said "Alright..." and continued walking into the store. I could tell this was gonna be a tricky battle, she seemed stubborn; she had a lot of gall to just keep on marching into the store like that after I so politely-yet-firmly explained our policy to her! Thinking that maybe she didn't hear me, I told her again. "I'm really sorry, ma'am, but we really can't have animals in here... We'll get into a lot of trouble if we let it happen, I'm sorry but I'll have to ask you to leave your dog in the car." This time, a bewildered look from the lady. Silence. She grabbed a cart while still making eye contact with me in what was probably one of the most uncomfortable silent moments in my career. She began wheeling it into the store. This was getting out of hand; at this point she wasn't merely breaking the rules, she was disrespecting ME, after I had worked so hard to be respectful to her whilst explaining the store policies! And that look she was giving me, that wasn't going to fly.

     "Ma'am, please... I don't want any trouble, but we simply cannot allow dogs in here! If this continues I'm afraid I'll have to bring the manager..." I was still polite, of course, but getting ever firmer in my pleas and explanations. Now, things got really scary. The lady, who was previously about 20+ feet away from the counter walked over to me. She asked me "What on earth are you on about?!" Just as I was about to explain the policies for the 4th time, I took a good look at her silly harness.

    The thing I thought to be a black pug turned out to be a black infant. Human. She had a small human in that harness. Granted, this was the most hideous child I'd ever laid eyes on; something was the matter with its face, it was very wrinkled and quite grotesque. I found out later that she had got the child from Africa; a legitimate African orphan with a myriad of various problems, one of which was apparently having the appearance of a pug or very small shar-pei dog.

     I looked up at her face; she was really quite angry looking, and I can't honestly blame her, I'd made an idiot of myself, and quite literally called her precious child a dog, and told her to take "it" out of the store. I had no idea how I was gonna get out of this one. I began with a feeble attempt: "Oh, my stars, I'm so sorry... I really thought your baby was a dog, you see there's this funny trend where people wear similar harnesses as yours, but instead of carrying babies they carry dogs and cats, and well the store has quite a strict policy on these things... can't have animals running around, because of legal issues with the state; we'd be absolutely shut down, and none of us would want that, right? Right... Well there's really no problem, since this isn't a dog, it's a real live human baby, so please feel free to shop around, I'm terribly sorry for all this, I thought it was a black pug..." And so it went, run-on sentence after run-on sentence. My face grew redder and redder throughout this train-wreck of an apology, while her face grew more and more confused, and then eventually amused. She could tell that I was genuinely in distress over this hideous mistake, that I truly felt awful, and like a class-A idiot.

     Her face slowly broke out into a smile, a kind, gentle, understanding smile. Not a "I hate you, you called my precious human baby a dog and told me to go leave it in the car" evil grin, but a sweet, reassuring smile. She then said "Oh, that's alright, sunshine. We all make mistakes. I do suppose it would make sense, if you say that so many people come in wearing dogs around themselves as though they were humans! It's only our nature to assume these things. You should commend yourself for your dedication to keeping up company standards, though.". This did nothing, I still felt like scum. "Ma'am, I want to tell you that I am SO. SORRY for insinuating that your baby was a dog. My eyesight is not that great, and from afar, well..." To which her reply?

     "Oh, no, don't stress over it! It's an unexpected sight, I get a lot of questions about little Dalili here. People are naturally curious about how a white woman [with dreadlocks] would come by such a dark-skinned child. Well, I adopted little Dalili from ::such and such:: orphanage in ::such and such African country:: a year ago". She then explained to me all the various conditions her Dalili had; it was really sad, but I knew the baby was in good and loving hands with this eccentric white lady. (The lady was one of those naturalists; she had long white dreadlocks, and she only purchased organic foods from me, and was apparently an avid believer in the wear-your-baby-in-a-sling sort of parenting). For quite some time later on during her transaction, after she had shopped around and gotten her goods, we talked about adoption, and orphans, and she regaled me with her tales of her work overseas, helping the starving children in Africa, and how it had so impacted her and changed her life, that she decided to adopt an orphan baby. Of course the subject of my own domestic adoption came up, in which she was very interested. As the transaction ended, she encouraged me to adopt foreign, if ever I decide to have kids. She said it was the most rewarding thing she's ever done, was to take care of Dalili and get her back to health. She laughed ever so slightly, and stared down at Dalili's face, almost scrutinizingly. She then looked back up to me, smiled, and said "You're right; I can see the pug now" and had a good, jolly laugh on it. I joined her in laughter, and apologized yet again for my stupidity. The naturalistic woman said "hey, no worries sunshine. Life happens, yeah? We're all laughing now and that's all that matters. You meant well; you have a very kind soul". Then she smiled her kind and genuine smile, and we said goodbye,

     I never saw Kate or Dalili again. But I certainly will never forget the debacle I had gotten myself into. I was so endlessly grateful that it ended in the way it did, and not with me being yelled at for my insolence and possible racism. Through my stupidity, I had inadvertently made a friend. Further proof to me that all things work out for the best in the end. 

Deceived

     There was this one time when I was working retail. Well, there were many "this one time"s... but anyways. One time I was working the register, and this lady comes up to purchase whatever it was she was purchasing (I can't remember everything, you know). She was, to me anyway, quite obviously pregnant. Huge belly protruding, had that certain walk/swagger that pregnant women take on in the later months, seemed tired and worn out, hair done up messily in a do-rag type thing; all the usual signs. It was a quiet day, so it was just her and myself at the register. I decided to make small talk. It was a long transaction, because whatever it was she was buying, she was buying a lot of it. I asked her all the usual questions; if she found everything alright, how's your day, etc. Then I did a rather stupid thing. In some lapse of complete judgement, I asked her the dumbest question you can ever ask any stranger. Ever. I asked her "So, is it a boy or a girl? Or do you know?" and indicated towards her stomach.

     The look on this lady's face is something I'll never quite forget. Horror. Humiliation. Resentment. Anger. All of it, all rolled into one look on one face. Her reply after a few seconds of making this awful face?

"I'm not pregnant".

     Now, I sort of wish I could have seen MY face at this point, because I'm quite sure that it was ten times more expressive than the hideous expression this lady had just made. I was horrified. Instantly, I felt a wave of shock and a jolt of humiliation and remorse shoot straight to my heart. I just about wanted to melt under the counter. How could I have been so STUPID?! Well, she really did look pregnant, but still; that's not something you ask a STRANGER. Ever. And now I was gonna pay for it.

     At this stage in the game, I finally managed to regain some mite of composure, enough to stammer "I'm so sorry, ma'am... Are you sure?"

     Another winning line from the world's dumbest cashier. I was pretty close to reaching for my boxcutter to just commit seppuku right there on the spot; anything to escape this disgraceful situation I'd gotten myself into.  After I'd uttered that last line of brilliancy, I immediately realized that yet again, this was not something you say to anyone. Not strangers, not family, not friends, nobody. My hand flew to cover my mouth in embarrassment; what on earth had I gotten myself into here?! How could I be so continually idiotic? I tried again.

   "Oh, my stars... I'm so sorry, that's not what I meant at all... ::sigh:: I'm so so sorry, this is really just not going well for me, now is it..." I could feel my cheeks burning with the humiliation and sorrow for what I had just done to this poor, unassuming and non-pregnant woman.

     A few seconds went by. I was terrified; I thought she was going to cry. I thought I was going to cry. We stood there, me looking at her apologetically, her looking at me so hurt, so dejectedly...

     Then she burst out laughing. That's right, absolutely burst out laughing. Not a simple chuckle, not a small giggle; a big, beautiful, sassy, magnificently musical laugh that can only be produced by those people with excellent senses of humour and a great love of all things funny.

     Again, I wish I could have seen my face at this point. Confusion, most likely, and probably concern. I honestly thought that I had insulted her so badly that she had snapped, cracked; the poor woman had probably just absolutely snapped after battling obesity for 30+ years, probably had a childhood full of bullying for it, and here some cashier asks if she's pregnant? Yeah, i would crack, too. Instead of the usual crying or screaming kind of cracked, though, she was laughing.

     After this went on for some time, I very timidly asked her if everything was alright. Tears were now streaming down her face from laughing so hard. She slapped her hand onto my shoulder quite familiarly, and said to me:

     "Oh girl, I just messin' with ya! Of COURSE I'm pregnant! Due next week! BUT YOU SHOULDA SEEN THE LOOK ON YOUR FACE!". Another fit of laughter. Wheels were furiously turning in my head, in an attempt to process what had just transpired. Not...fat... Is...pregnant...

     It finally clicked, I had been tricked pretty hard by this sassy lady. She was the sweetest soul, though. Excellent sense of humour. I give her mad props for that; she truly got me good. Warm as a ray of sunshine, she just kept on laughing, and I eventually joined her. I told her "My gosh, you got me GOOD. I was so scared!" To which she replied "Oh sugar, I'm sorry I scared you and did that to you, but I just can't resist a good opportunity like that! Once in a lifetime, y'know?" To which I said "No, no, it's quite alright; I had it coming, asking a dumb question like that!". The transaction eventually ended, tears streaming down both our faces from the crazy laughing fit. I handed her the receipt, she thanked me so much with all the good old fashioned southern hospitality in the world.

     As she walked out the door, she turned back, grinned real big and jovially said to me "It's gon' be a boy; his name will be Joshua Ray!" I smiled bigger than I had in a long time, and said "Congratulations! It's a beautiful name! You take care of yourself, ok?" "Sho' thing, sugar, you do the same!"

     We both waved, and she left. When she was gone, I slumped back against the counter, and just sighed. Dodged a bullet there, Chibz. Then I fell into another fit of laughter about the whole incident, which still happens when I think back on it, even now.