It was sometime around my freshman year of college when I got the call. I still remember it to this day.
Cute as a button and small as a purse, Ginger was a scampering, yipping puff of hair. She was a tiny black Pomeranian, which is classified as a toy dog breed because they're small like children's toys.
Our cousins gave her to us, back when she could fit in a mug. They called her Cookie, because she loved cookies. My Mom carried her home in her purse.
We deserve our fate. It's our collective fault that we've created so much pollution.
Call me a pessimist, but I don't see much hope in our world's corporations and governments. I don't believe they'll take enough significant action in time to make a difference. It would take a complete societal overhaul to save us now.
Yeh-Yeh is what you call your grandfather, your father's father, in Cantonese. Ngeen-Ngeen is what you call your grandmother, your father's mother.
As his eyes rose to the sun-brazen sky, he thought to himself: "Yup, today is a good day to make amends."
The old man staggered down the steps of his porch. Each worn board creaked out a different tale. He stomped onto the sand and puffed dirt into the sky. His cane pressed into the ground and left behind a solitary mark.
Mr. Tan didn't believe in wallpaper. Nope. It was as if his motto was: "Wallpaper is for wussies." For Mr. Tan, he decorated his wall in DVDs.
Literally, his entire wall was lined with DVDs of all kinds. Every action-packed, tear-jerking, side-splitting blockbuster was there, including a handful (and by handful, I mean thirty or forty) of sentimental personal favorites.
Dear Mr. Nguyen,
I wish I could have met you. From what Kim has told me, you sounded like a truly impressive and honorable man.
Did you see your family at your funeral this weekend? So many people were crying. They love you so much.
The BOOM of the impact must have been deafening. Yim, my cousin's wife, ran out of the World Trade Center lobby and into the courtyard. The shock waves shook the entire building and debris fell to the earth.
She looked up and glass fell into her face. Several shards cut her cornea. She covered her face and ran from the building.
Sometimes people tell me that I should forget it and move on with life. Well, I don't want to forget it.
I have pictures of the World Trade Center's Memorial up on my desk at work. It's two bright shining lights stand tall among the Heavens, like two majestic sentinels watching over the countless brave heroes that lost their lives there.
"I love you Daddy," says the message scribbled above the face of a gentle-looking man. A pot of flowers sits below the picture.
Next to it is a mural from a church. Dozens upon dozens of messages adorn it. "God Bless America." "United We Stand." "Our thoughts are with you, New York."
I was 3,000 miles away when it happened. So I can't truly understand how my fellow New Yorkers felt, can I?
My friends tell me how they're constantly nervous, anxious, and depressed to the point of crying. They tell me of the languishing dust and stagnant smell of the dead. They tell me about the relentless rumors of bomb scares and (unfortunately now somewhat justified) bioterrorist attacks.
They tell me all that, and how am I to really understand all the way here in California?
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA