Story Wonders: Finding the Courage to March and Write

I didn’t want to write about this because I am afraid. I am afraid that people I know and care about will think less of me because I went to the Women’s March last Saturday. I’m afraid they’ll be angry or disapprove.

But every time I started to think about what to write this week, the march is the only thing that wanted to be written.

I posted before about how crushed I felt after the election. It is beyond my understanding that a man so clearly abusive to women could defeat the first woman candidate for president.

I know. These are fighting words.

As Brene Brown said: “I don’t know Donald Trump so the most respectful thing I can do is take him at his word. And, when it comes to women, immigrants, African-Americans, Latinos, and our Muslim sisters and brothers, his words have been threatening and dehumanizing. I march to say that’s not acceptable or American. That is not the heart of the country I love.”

While this, honestly, got me moving that morning, something about marching against someone doesn’t sit well for me. My friend Diane helped with this.

First, she listened as I tried to tell my six year old why we were marching. I started by saying that we were not happy with the man who had won the election has said and done. My friend reframed it for both my little guy and me.

She said, “I like to think of it more as standing up for what we do want.”

Another woman had this to say:

I agree with Diane, Mother Theresa, and so many others. My best self did not go to protest Trump. I went to say what matters to me most. That was the spirit I felt in Olympia, Washington, and what I saw in the crowds of pink hats from around the world.

The feeling of being there at my smaller 10,000 person march full of peaceful men, women, and children reminded me of a step back into time. I saw folks I am sure were there in the sixties. I saw young people. I saw people in crazy outfits. I saw angry signs and ones fun of humor.

When I think on what I experienced there and what I saw in the pictures around the world, I couldn’t help but remember the Whos chanting with every once of sound they had to be heard so Sour Kangaroo would not throw them in a boiling vat.

We know the election is finished, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t still here and paying attention. It doesn’t mean we don’t need each other more than ever.

Of course, I loved the marching band’s way of putting music to the words. (Didn’t the Whos have a tuba?) I would love to know who they are, so I could play next time!

Of everything I saw that day, I think my favorite was the Diane’s daughter Rena in her Captain America outfit with a a sign that said ‘Be a hero. Stand up for ALL Americans.” She even had a shield. Cars stopped to honk, smile and wave for her several times. (I wish you could see her better in my photo!)

Something about Captain America and what we tried to do with the march expressed that need to say what we meant.

I’m still scared to publish this, by the way, but maybe, Mr. Gaiman has a sliver of good news for me.

Maybe, I’m stating to get it right because writing this sure feels more like ‘walking down the street naked, exposing too much.’ More exposing than even marching on a clear cold day for something I believe.

 

Story Wonders: Who Remembers You?

“Hi there!” the woman said, and I knew I remembered her. Or I knew I should remember her.

My son and I stood staring at her at the YMCA near those tiny lockers with the punch codes. I peered a little more closely, hoping I could pull something from the back of my brain, and then I shook my head.

“No. I can’t think of who you are. Where do I know you from?”

“Aikido! I’m Lorelei. My sister and I took it with you and my dad in Tacoma.”

The light, I am so happy to report, went off in my head then. I did know her and have a fuzzy memory of her face once more.

I asked how she recognized me after all this time.

“I never forget a face,” she said. So it would seem. I took my last Aikido class before my oldest son was born some time in 1998 which means that she recognized me almost twenty years later.

But after seeing Lorelei, I did give the ukemi another try in the secrecy of my own living room. I’m pleased to report that I can still go backwards and forwards on the right side. The left side is another story. I also cannot recommend trying a flourish with pointed toes. That, it turns out, wasn’t what the Aikido founders had in mind when rolling away from an attack.

At least I can recall some things.

In case you think I was turning gymnastic style somersaults, here’s instruction on how to get started with a roll. Learning these made me feel as uncoordinated as that Disney hippo on a balance beam. I spent a lot of time very close to the floor getting acquainted with every wrinkle in the mat.

And here is another guy who has his ukemi down. I was never built up to that mid-air flip, but I loved that feeling of falling and not getting hurt. Last night I remembered I still do.

 Extra note: Lorelei’s memory isn’t perfect, either. 

‘Killer with a K!’ she said. 

It was Karrie. My nickname was Karrie with a K. (Killer! Ha!)

Story Wonders: How to (Not) Find a Grave

When I read about local history for my books, I sometimes find surprising information about people who once lived here and the places I now see everyday.

Not long ago, I was reading Furusato by Ronald E. Magden, a book lent to me by my friend and pastor Karen Yokota Love. Magden writes engaging accounts of the Japanese immigrants, and I became intrigued with the story of one second generation man who lived in this area.

James Yamamoto had always wanted to become a doctor but had to drop out of school to take care of the family when his father died.

He worked hard at farming in Firwood, running a gas station, and even selling sewing machines. Later he joined local community organizers to improve the lives of his family and those around him.

Then one night, he stopped on the Sumner highway to change a tire. In an instant, he was struck by another motorist and died shortly afterwards at the age of 28.

When I read of Yamamoto, I felt an instant connection. My mother lives on that road. I walk it frequently, and the traffic swishes by on the narrow road with no sidewalks and plenty of mud. I could see that dark night in October of 1931 and imagine the fog that made it so easy for the trucker to miss seeing him until it was too late.

And then I read he was buried in the cemetery on that same road.

That’s when I started trying to look him up and found his marker through Find a Grave.

I decided to find Yamamoto’s resting place myself on one of my many visits to my mother’s. The first time I took my son and the Barli the Dachshund only to find the cemetery staff were out for the Christmas holiday. The second time, the note on the office door said the staff was attending a graveside service.

I have also braved the cold to search the older part of the cemetery alone with no luck.

And today is the day I promised myself I would post this small tale, so here I will put in a photo (by permission) from Find a Grave and perhaps later I will update it for you when I find Mr. Yamamoto on a walk.

I think about him still. I wonder what more that energetic man would have done with the Japanese American Citizens League and how he would have faced the internment had he lived a longer life. 

And I sure do look out for trucks on that busy Sumner highway.

Wishing you safe walks and unexpected connections-

 

Story Wonders: Japanese Thread Balls

For this new year, I will be sharing the wonders I find when writing my stories. Even when my own words fall short, I find joy in my discoveries about the world around me. 

I am still shopping around for a new blog look, but, in the meantime, I wanted to get started with a colorful weaving I found.

Temari

Centuries ago, mothers in China and Japan began constructing balls for their children out of left over clothing. From strips of kimonos these balls evolved into today’s intricate Japanese thread patterns called Temari.

Check these out!

Photograph by NanaAkua
Website | Facebook | Flickr

Often, the weaver places an object inside the ball to give it special meaning for the child. It might be a coin or some other small token that represents something special to the person.

I made my own simple ball a while back out of material I had in my crafting cupboard. Videos are all around and, once again, it’s amazing what you can do with YouTube. I am always impressed by people like Barbara Suess who take what they love and use the Internet to connect that love to others.

 

And here are more photos of those Temari. I found the photos below on Flickr taken by NanaAkua as well as an excellent article by Twisted Sifter on the the photographer’s amazing artist grandma. (These are only about a thousand times better than my first attempt.)

Wishing you a joyful new year with your own story wonders,