EBONY AND IVORY - Live together in perfect harmony

Racism. –  A Personal truth that cannot be unspoken anymore.

There is guilt, social injustice, fear, anger, stress, and broken relationships, whenever we enter into conversations based on ethnicity.   Shining example of supposed conversations of “what color would Archie be when he’s born.”

 

I am no expert on racism, I am neither black nor white; but of the yellowish spectrum; somewhere between golden yellow to canary yellow.  I do have Caucasian blood swimming through my Asian veins.  Highly controversial in 1880’s, when my great grandfather on my mother's side, was the color of Hitler’s preferred fellow German, fell in love with a Burmese Mon beauty, while commissioned to dredge the river-beds of Siam. 

 

They produced my Grandmama Lek, one of the first bio-racial beauty of that era.  A devout Catholic, Grandmama Lek spread her beauty to a total of nine children, four daughters and five sons.  My mother being the eldest, grabbed the dominant DNA.  Her melanin composition leant towards the Canary bird color.   Caucasian cranial and nasal bone structure with precise jaw line that held exceptional teeth framework which placed her smile to perfection. Her Asian genes went to her small frame, beautiful hands, and feet.   

 

The dominant conversation as I was growing up was my mother’s beautiful skin color. Left unsaid was how to protect us from the sun,  against different shades of our household staff particularly the gardener, whose daily work alongside ultraviolet rays signified cultural class differences.   All the while forgetting that Grandmama had a green thumb.   If not in the house, Grandmama was always discovered in the garden planting or talking to her plants. She would praise her abundant lime tree, then turned around loudly admonishing her slow-growing chilies; chatting to them as if they were human. She had a great sense of humor.  I always found her amusing. Her days out in the sun far exceeded our gardener, yet she remained white. 

 

The human logic is a fascinating element of behavior.  It stems from early childhood that surfaces to deeper levels of judgement in adulthood.  How unconsciously we view black (as negative) vs white (as positive). How discrimination weaves its way around color association. 

I took to bed with me, for comfort, a teddy bear, named Teddy and a Golliwog named Sammy. Even the names represented the era - Teddy represented something loving and cuddly and safe, while Sammy was the funny gatekeeper, his black shadow to scare off night-time predators.  

 

Growing up in London I was fed the typical British breakfast of pork sausages, bacon, black-pudding, eggs, and beans.  For those unaware, black-pudding is a type of blood-sausage, the outer skin being black.  It was always left untouched, too scary, and uninviting to swallow. Reintroduced again at a later stage in life, it was the most delicious part of the breakfast combo.

 

Taking piano lessons as a child, I disliked the Ebony keys because it was a stretch for my little fingers in music beats, in time to return to the Ivory keys.  Admonished by the music teacher, that all keys must be played to make melody, the young mind was left with the typical association of what was preferred. 

 

Only sixteen, a handsome Sri Lankan male contender harboring a flirtatious adventure with me….his dark tone was purple-black.  The first close-up unveiling the dark creases of his neck unfolded, small beads of perspiration on tight black skin were unlike the globs of sweaty English boys to which I was accustomed. And I'm ashamed to say that I recoiled because of the color.  

 

Muhamed Ali, the world’s greatest boxer on one of his BBC TV interviews with Michael Parkinson in 1974 expressed the way we have been forced fed, from nursery rhymes to representations of beauty. What is bitingly true are these words that represent how we are taught to think.

           

 

Tarzan was the King of  the jungle in Africa – but he was white

            Angel food cake was the white cake.                                       

Devil’s food cake was the chocolate cake.

If I threaten you, it’s blackmail.

The black cat was the bad luck.

 

 

America known for its racism through its history of black slaves brought over from Africa, unwilling and unrewarded, played a major role in laying the economic foundations of the United States. It took many a brave souls like Martin Luther King Jr, Malcolm X and many more activists to restructure the civil rights movements to eventually elect a Black President for two terms in 2009 to 2017 living in The White House.  

 

Thailand has its own peculiar racism:  The term Farang in Thai means a Western foreigner from a white ethnicity, exempt from any disparaging intent,.The term ‘Khaek’, means a guest, or more often as a derogatory description for an Indian or Arab.  In 1950’s Indians from humble beginnings were selling fabric, bicycling from house to house  As Thais, the second and third generation of ‘Khaek’s” reached their pinnacles of success through acquiring land, building skyscrapers for rent and now own many businesses from famous restaurants to shipping. Not integrated into Thai society, the Indian sector’s choice of a civil-servant career was never an option   The term ‘I-mude’, an insulting moniker  of  “you dark”

 

We thought we had arrived with sophistication and thoughtfulness until the Markle effect – “the unconscious bias.”  Etiquette demands politically correct usage, to show our education and mindfulness and thoughtfulness to our fellow humans

 

If you want color specifics, here is my version:

 

The canary-yellow woman, married a white-man, produced Mediterranean olive children. 

My question is what happens in the next 20 years when applying for the required  passport of whichever nationality, how many boxes are required to have  on the form in order to tick the correct ethnicity in today's mixed world?   

 

My grandchildren, have a unique ethnic combination of White Australian, Canary Chinese Singaporean, White Yorkshireman and Siamese yellow;  which box would they have to tick?

 

 

 

                CMYK

 

 

 

 

 

THE OLD VS THE NEW

 

Balance your views, evaluate your principles, elevate your standards to match the times. Be mindful in choosing what is agreeable.  The uncomfortable line that cuts through and divides you in one camp or another; seek to bridge the gap because you can’t live in the past and the future encompasses re-learning.

 

Be a voyeur to my wobbly balancing act and have a chuckle at my attempt to be current.

 

Adept at making any awkward silence disappear, I'm of the old school variety of meeting new people through physical contact; face to face, handshakes, (how strong or weak your grasp) or namaste (how low does your head bow to your hands) will give me a quick assessment of my new acquaintance. Now half way up the ladder, I have developed new skills of decoding text, of humor or anger, solving abbreviations, detecting curt undertones, precision instructions or just the simple ‘I love you’ as an ending of conversation, or a continuation of bedroom love.

 

In ancient times, (only 20 years ago), letters took 14 days to receive and reply, 10 years on, email etiquette is a 24hr turnaround, and today, texting requires immediate response.  Just two decades ago, life was slower, therefore fewer mistakes, and solid friendships formed through collected moments of time, allowed less flawed judgements.  

 

Things have changed drastically in the world of NOW.   With social media where you can connect with people you have never met yet begin to know them in the space of a week, as if you knew them from childhood.  Sarcasm is most challenging text to convey; forcefulness of words is silenced. Kindness reflected in soft tones of empathy requires poetic skills; and a mere “Hello” must be mis-spelt to convey “Helloooooo anyone home?”  and sadly a deep sexy “hello”, only audible in the imagination of the receiver.   

 

Change for anyone – young or old is only reflected in how effortlessly it is achieved. Before any judgement, I must investigate my own behavior.   Up until a couple of years, I had every social media available; Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Podcasts, Linked-In, YouTube, and Twitter.  I followed local and global influencers, minor stars, major celebs, even US Presidents whose every thought process went on Twitter.  I commented harshly when I saw injustice, gushed at perceived selfless act of kindness. Opened myself to friends and strangers that I was on top of the game; knew every potential latest idea, discussed avidly, and won my point because I was ahead of those that did not have their face stuck to their phone every second of everyday.

 

Until one day I was struck by a tragic event, a jolt thunderstruck lightening flashed and realized how exposed my daily life was to the world of social media. It could have been judged incorrectly by the well-crafted pictures and comments.  Putting myself in a realm of ‘the perfect life’ that a possible psychopathic killer, or a Talibhan terrorist, or the rapist next door, or more likely a hacker who knew my every movement, was poised ready to steal my life.  Immediate reaction left me with just Facebook, my only media outlet as I deleted all others so that I could follow local and world accounts uncensored, as I live under dictatorial rule, masking as democracy.  Push came to shove; VPN would be my saving grace, even that has its limitations.

  

 

The emergence of the economy and social values after WWII when I popped into the world mid 1950’s loosened the parental stress of giving birth in bunkers but tighten the belt of new rules when death was replaced by world peace. By the time I became a parent in the early 1980s, all those strict measures I suffered had no place in society. My life had gone through the hippie movement, the cloud of marijuana smoke that permeated my bedroom, and the sexual freedom gave way to female emancipation.   

 

The magnitude of social values changed yet again with the advent of the internet, and parental guidance shifted when I became a grandparent in 2020.    YouTube and its vast information of how to bring up children; became the yardstick for parents from toddler screams to teenage defiance.  Ipads used as a measure to keep children occupied with cartoons when attention span turn into ADHD

 

Sound satisfaction at flipping the pages while reading an exciting novel, is now replaced by e-book’s silent pressing forward.   Once everyone’s secret shameful habit of dog-earring a page has now become a bookmarker.  Now the revolution of Audible keeps your reading material up to date with the choice of an American twang or British delivery while you are at the gym or stuck in traffic without having to physically scroll the pages.

 

Eye flirtation, a woman’s secret weapon of seduction supposedly increases sexual tension, precursor to the act itself, converts to the sexless act of swiping left or right on Tinder - unlikely to set blood flow where it is most needed. Nothing more powerful than whiffs of scent, eye contact and slight touch to electrify the energy of a human body, the need for procreation.

 

Not wanting to be cast aside as irrelevant, snatches of conversations regarding Andrew Tate, described as world’s  influencer was intriguing enough to listen to TV presenter Piers Morgan rip him apart.  Deliberate fast talking, irate and angry, sporting an intentional gangster appeal; I liked some of his viewpoint and realized the rise of female emancipation (mommy issues as well) crushed him along the way. Accused of being a misogynist, he is putting his values clear and honest at how men should be the leader and not allow their sons to pursue the soft option.  His words:

 

“De-masculinization of men in the west is a genuine plague, we are suffering

the traditional role that men have the duty to protect.”

“If you take a man and give him a life, shield him from problems, that he never needed to face, I guarantee you, he is terrible at being a man.”

 

Released after 6 months jail in Romania August 2023 for alleged sex trafficking and pornography, Andrew Tate, followed by millions globally is today’s man wanting yesterday’s values.

 

The world at fast-track has engineered a multitask society. Just watch a skilled driver maneuver through traffic.  Normally changing lanes requires eye-flick-up at the rear-view mirror with side glances ensuring safety. Fast-track world emits a sexy GPS voice-navigation through the smart phone, precariously clipped onto a holder, strategically blocking the air-conditioning vent, indicating you are in the wrong lane to turn right; enter stress level one. The contactless ticket to take the expressway indicates empty wallet, enter stress level two.  Immediately your right feet change from fast pedal to brake pedal; your eyes move to catch your boss calling as his name loops on screen, stress level jumps and as your playlist No. 2 blasts out metal rock, stress level at its highest.  Add insult to injury, your Apple watch pings as your blood pressure hits the alarm mark.  

 

 

In my version of fast-track of multi-tasking, I have learnt to read an e-book while watching news on YouTube at the same time scrolling through Facebook, surprisingly retaining 90%   It is nothing to boast about, more of my own FOMO.  Although there was a time in my life that multitasking was an inborn trait.   Boasting now but going back 40 years ago, I was straddling my daughter sucking on my breast milk while flipping fried eggs in the pan for my husband at the same time playing boo to my 2-year-old son strapped in his high-chair patiently waiting for the porridge to cool down.  

 

And then catching hubby’s eyes peeking through the top of the morning paper (made from recycled matter and wood pulp - the real stuff that crackles when turning pages) with amusement, at the same time checking his watch if he would have enough time to gobble up those eggs and be on his way to work or, typical of the male species, squeezing 10 minutes that would put him on top of the world, win the business game of the day and perhaps another child in the making. More likely that captured moment in a growing loving family of the silent eye contact, could not convey ‘Shall we?’ in text format.  It would need masses of emoji’s and fail miserably in its attempt.

 

On that note, may the fast and the furious win the game.  Just every now and again look out for those loving eyes that peer through the top of a Kindle, masking as a newspaper; it’s worth a million light years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LIFE

 Life is but a particle of dust suspended in a sunbeam.  *Carl Sagan

 

Some treat it with reverence, most neglect to care.  Programmed to procreate, the practice makes it unquestionably enjoyable. The product, a replica of a better self is the trophy.  A masterful way to reduce our failings, is by giving a second chance to redo it again with our trophy offspring. 

 

And then we mess up. 

 

Any kind of control over another human, in perfecting our failings, results in a complete break-down.   Often repeated throughout history, oppression only perpetuates chaos, causes deep suffering sometimes resulting in the oppressed becoming the oppressor and so the cycle continues. 

 

Pick any continent from the blue planet seen from the galaxy; the green terrain of forest jungle pitted against stretches of dry empty desert interspersed with huge areas of sapphire-blue demarcations has infinite beauty.  The envy from other galaxy passerby’s, plus mankind’s pride of belonging, gives no indications of borders, race, linguistics, nations, religions. Yet humanity can easily be destroyed by nationalism, ideology, and skin color. These are our hidden personality traits.

  

“We’re born into a losing struggle”. * Christopher Hitchens

For many people born less fortunate, they are born into an even worse losing struggle.

 

I often wondered why we were created with horrendous flaws, only to realize that our only salvation was to be controlled by an imagined higher order, setting rules and guidelines to follow, in order to be an exemplary human.  It bears a huge question mark on what misogynous creator, that without the rules, homo sapiens are reduced to being a voracious animal, killing, taking over territory, oppressing the lower orders, and then satisfying their appetites on the spoils of war?   

 

Time has changed nothing:  

Intellectual evolution fell short.

Inventions propagated laziness.

 

And yet we beg for democracy. Justified in anger that controllers deny equality. Not realizing that we are born unequal with varying degrees of imperfections.  Leaders become grazed by body and soul wounds, in fighting over strength or deceit in order to win. 

 

Five thousand years of Ancient history of Egyptian, Roman and Greek empires are read and philosophized for successes and failures of the past in order to lead future modern civilization, paralleled with several science inventions in the last 200 years to a better life. It has unfortunately not led us far; we still fight, use dirty tricks to destroy evidence of deceit, falsify and lie until it becomes a natural personality trait, that requires a psychologist or body language expert to detect.  

 

The list of achievements to balance our failures has many "yets". Geniuses are born to propel us into space, yet still on the first gear of speed. Artificial intelligence on the brink of daily usage yet questionable on it attributes. Mountaineering to the highest point on earth and submarining to the bottom of the ocean are  applauded for pioneer and human strength yet the legacy remains with many frozen climbers left as statues; and those imploded at the ocean bottom.  We have excelled in the human evolution to extend our lifespan with advanced medical knowledge, yet remain careless to treating it with reverence.     

 

 

And we still lie, cheat, kill, destroy, and invade.  Nothing more than the dust suspended in a sunbeam.      

 

       IF THIS IS YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH

 

 

 

 

THE PULSE OF WHO YOU ARE

 

The Pulse of Who you Are.

 

 

The phenomenon of globalization has impacted on civilization with a new race where one person can possess four different mixes, a combination from both bi-racial parents. While chromosomes blend, the now diluted dominant genes tend to divide itself equally, producing a new strain, ethnically indeterminant with characteristics that form a spectacular cocktail of personalities.  As the person emerges, lost in finding the home to their inner pulse, anxious of other’s perception of themselves: the urgency of belonging surfaces, depending which country they are residing when questions are asked.   Skidding to the front arises a protected amour, answering to an innocent question, “Where is home for you?”. 

 

“I’m a global citizen,”    Clearly the arrogant projection protects the vulnerable hidden façade.  In just 4 words, it establishes that home is everywhere, clocking airmiles, multi-lingual, with worldwide connections, the implication of a privileged life. A quick fix to hide behind the insecurity of not belonging proceeds to pick from a multi-identity hat, to save the moment.

 

To belong is a human core of tribalism, unfortunately this new ethnicity, small in number to employ ethnic group loyalty.   Double bi-racial is judged internally, almost always lead to superiority and can contribute to social division and conflict.

 

Then there is the exquisite blend of East meets West, an upcountry bi-racial man where his pointed nose, fair hairy skin, basketball height, stands out amongst his Asian village compatriots, where this small ethnic group loyalty are few  “Where is home for you?” 

 

“From this seaside village,” says he humbly, yet unsure. The inner pulse of insecurity, uncomfortable embarrassment projects the absentee father’s folly years ago.  The impossibility of pretense gives way to agents knocking on the door, promising stardom on the next upcoming TV production. Purely a stroke of luck from the father’s genes of stunning combination with his Asian mother with little acting talent. That can be arranged assures the agent.   His village horizon broadens as he moves to the city hopefully erasing the inner rejection left by one man’s self-gratification, and using the enviable gene pool to save his dignity by inventing himself on screen.

 

Tackling the LGBTQ or the non-gender movement, or the gender transition; “the pulse of who you are”  is not about gender definition, maybe they are the true definition of Global Citizen.  It has been thought that they embody two different souls.  

 

As it is true the sense of belonging is with all of us.  Cave dwellers had to distinguish between clansmen as survival depended on staying alive.  So who would casually choose a lifestyle inflicted by nature given the likelihood of such rejection and hatred.

 

Long ago in a hospital in Honolulu where my newly born bi-racial son flew an eight-hour flight from Guam to undergo a heart repair at two weeks old, shared an ICU room with another baby having undergone one of the many operations to fix and repair what is medically known as Ambiguous Genitalia.  It is a rare condition in which the baby’s external genitals do not appear to be clearly male or female.

 

In my anxiety of parental decisions for the survival of my son, born with a dysfunctional heart valve, a far bigger issue in my comparison. You die without a heart was my reasoning, you don't die without genitalia.   How ignorant and uninformed I was at that immature age, scared to the core of losing my son.  Yet Susan and I comforted each other as mothers do, while anxiously waiting  in the recovery room after the operation, the true burden of motherhood, etched on our face.  Forty-two years later, my son, happily married to his Thai wife, pursuing a great career, I often think of what has become of the un-named baby, now also forty-two to ask, “Where is home for him/her?”

 

Ask yourself “The pulse of who you are” at this very moment. It is a challenge to explore your darkest spirit and your luminous soul.  I took a moment to do similar, stripped off all vanity and can say I am comfortable with my truth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOD

And the Lesser Mortals

 

This might and probably will step on all faith believers of the almighty.   My humble apologies to all readers, the next few pages are thoughts collected from years of rubbing shoulders with good and evil, looking for spiritual guidance, sometimes receiving it by way of praying and withheld by explanations on karma, reincarnation, whichever fits that particular incident. Unfollow my blog if I have over-stepped on those sacred boundaries, and by way of explanation, it is a privilege that my life’s journey allowed such freedom to enter and exit beliefs as I moved countries.

 

Theravada Buddhism and Christianity were a daily feature, building the foundation of the first seven years of my childhood. At home, the Buddha room had many forms of Buddha relics in all positions, leaning, standing, sitting. Small urns held grandfather’s and grandmothers’ ashes; their powerful spirit forever ruled over us.   The location was London, England.

 

The school I attended worshipped Protestant Christianity.  Morning rituals at school were reciting the Lord's prayer and reading and interpreting the scriptures.  It was only natural to compare the two faiths.  First, the two Gods were male. Their prophets, again men, were instructors to strictly uphold governing rules.  Nuns had not arrived in my life at that point.  Both faiths used candles and lighted incense sticks, holy water from some region of the world and deity replicas placed for worshipping. Daily prayers aided by the incense smoke connects the earthly world to the universal power, often competing with the kitchen’s culinary aroma.

 

One faith seemingly more devout than the other.  I often wondered if the two Gods ever drank heavenly beer together, up there, somewhere.  It was only a matter of time I couldn’t help but saw the funny side of faith, and later its strength.   I learnt Nammo ta-sa, having mumbled while father prayed   Clasping hands was prayers when you wanted something to work in your favor.  So, I figured if one God didn't help the other one would. Their prophets wore different uniforms, one wore floor-length black cloak the other wore saffron yellow robes. The yellow robe  could not touch women, must remain celibate, for desire, prevents the goal of reaching Nirvana.  The black cloak was able to marry, the result of Henry VIII’s defiance of Catholicism’s no divorce rule – two opposing beliefs on sex and procreation; which one held the balance in my adolescent mind? 

 

Entering teenage years, we crossed continent, and I attended a Catholic school, The Convent of Jesus and Mary. Early morning Catechism class taught by strict nuns, finally women entered the game,  and started the ritual of holy water blessing, dotting an imaginary cross over our heads in the land of ……… 

 

Allah.

 

 I had discovered a third God, the God of Islam. The Location was Karachi, Pakistan.

 

The bible was read every day. But on Friday afternoons, schools and offices closed so that the whole nation stopped to pray Allahu Akbar from Mosques, heard throughout the city via loudspeakers.   From the Buddha room, Nammo-ta-sa could not quite compete that audio level.  The ten commandments plus Buddha’s five precepts, was turning my rebellious volume higher.  Tempted to adjust my record player to the Beatle’s latest hit single, “I wanna hold your hand” to drown it all out, then decided, fighting three gods could prove disastrous. 

 

Allah must have heard my dilemma and sent a friend to enlighten me in the form of a classmate, Benazir Bhutto, a politician’s daughter, later became Pakistan’s first woman Prime Minister.  She came from a Sunni family with an Iranian mother who was a Muslim Shia.   We were both 12; intellectually ahead of everyone, she was always bored.  By choosing me, a visitor to her country, no threat to rejection, she unloaded what was pushed down her throat in educating me about Islam.  I listened intently only because in my confused mind; if the Christian God were saying no to my prayers and Buddha was adamant that it is my Karma, then maybe I have a chance with Allah.  They pray five times a day against my father’s three.  

 

Allah is the one true God of Islam, worshipped by all Muslims.   Followers of the prophet Muhammad accepted Allah’s teachings by calling themselves Sunnis.  The opposing side wanted Muhammad’s successor to be in direct bloodline, so they differentiated themselves as Shiite’s.  I only realized Benazir saw herself as a Shiite through her mother, but to be popular with the people she pretended she was her father, Zulfikar Bhutto’s daughter, a Sunni.  Because of Benazir’s assassination in Islamabad, Pakistan in 2007 by a suicide bomber, I fight on her behalf when remarks come from anti-Islam sentiments of their government’s propaganda, putting the  blame on Islamic fundamentalist;  I helped the uneducated to see the theories Benazir hammered home to me when our schoolmates were playing ‘pass the parcel’ waiting for the birthday cake to appear so she could go home.   

 

Benazir always reminded me,  “Prophets are not God, they are men in uniform, to bow to, and pray to, differentiating them from other mortals”.  Absorbing all this knowledge at 14, quirky I was not. It was a by-product of adjusting to each country move.  To be amongst different faiths, allowed me to join, learn, follow, but not commit, was a gift beyond gifts.  

 

Not allowed to be left on my own in Karachi, Tehran brought a new awareness to my 15^th year on this earth. The trips were short but too long to be out of school, so a retired tutor, Professor Darius was hired, his nephew Parviz, was his designated chauffeur.  While waiting for the lessons to finish, the Aryan Indo-European Parviz saw a gap, and successfully secured my undivided attention.

 

The professor’s teachings increasingly became dull, while Parviz’s compelling story of how Parsi’s, followers of Zoroastrianism believed in excarnation. That sounded more exotic than trigonometry.  This was my introduction to Zoroastrianism, and the opposite sex. 

 

Zoroastrianism is one of the world’s oldest faiths going back 3,500 years.  I learnt about their faith, not through scriptures or prayers, but by attending different important life rituals. 

 

Excarnation, a new vocabulary for me, Parviz explained, that the Tower of Silence, only four kilometers north of us, near the Alborz mountains, built on high ground, was a circular raised structure, for exposing human corpses for decomposition to be eaten up by vultures, was their funeral practice.  Fascination of both the Aryan and the macabre ritual, I accepted a date to attend a Parsi funeral. 

The sight and sound of vultures swirling above, as the mourned family pushed their grandmother’s body over wooden stilts and quickly began to shut the tower door. An immediate gathering of vultures fighting and snatching their turn in swooping their wings down to pick on fingers and toes.  Those few minutes of monotone prayers imprinted a savage memory of animalistic hissing, fluttering wings, the intestinal ligature ripped fiercely by one voracious bird, that attempted to fly but the dangling heavy cord was too long.  Standing at the bottom of the mount, only the sound captured the ferocity.  

 

Having witnessed the end of a Zoroastrian’s life, I was privileged to attend my best friends’ new beginnings; Tilat’s Navjote, and her acceptance into the faith, with Parviz along to explain the rituals.  

 

Navjote is equivalent to the baptism ritual. In the ceremony, Sudrah, a white muslin vest, worn as prayers are said as acceptance into the faith. Sewn into the vest is a small pocket symbolizing a keeper of good deeds.  It is a reminder before accusing others of their unethical behavior, to look inside the symbolic pocket if you have the standing with which to make such a moral judgement. A cord called Kusti, made from72 threads of lamb’s wool tied three times around the waist over the Sudrah, a symbolism of binding commitment to be worn for life. That ceremony struck a chord, locked away, as I humbly retrieve it today when judgement is called upon.   

 

It also struck another chord as Parviz teased if I ever needed to touch an extension of God, I need only to caress his Kusti. He tried. It was a clever move by the boy/man; it was also enticing; but he did not realize that the titillation had an attachment to the Almighty’s decision to strike that very basic human need committed in desire.  So obviously Buddha’s teaching surfaced naturally when needed. 

 

Zoroastrianism faith worships fire and water, in ancient times, and it stands in today, unrefutably two very important, yet simple requirements in sustaining life. I immediately wanted my modern world of John Lennon back, and so Parviz, in his borrowed tight jeans and T-shirt changed back to the Jamal Kameez that his body and soul fitted more comfortably.  

 

Famous Zoroastrian singer Freddie Mercury, from the band Queen, always wore white on stage, symbolic of his faith.  If the outfit left his upper half naked, he continued to wear his Kusti, unseen, well below his trouser belt.   Bohemian Rhapsody, a global smash hit in 1975 was up a ladder or two from John Lennon. 

 

Back to my nomadic life.  No school nor tutors, for this move was sporadic and short.   Mesopotamia and all its history of ancient beliefs unfolded at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, where visiting the ancient site in extreme dry heat, led the need for sugar.  The young Prime Minister Al-Naif of Iraq noticed the SE Asian diplomatic group was about to faint, instantly ordered pomegranate juice and dates; to his staff, and a young Baha’i lady called Tahira, saved the day and became my life-long friend, sustained through the years until 2008 ended in tragedy as she tried after many attempts to escape the tyranny of the Islamic fundamentalists.  She was shot as she reached the border.  Which border I never found out as all her legit and non-legit email addresses were shut down.   What she did leave behind was our constant exchange of the differences between the Baha’i faith vs Buddhism, in good humor determining which one belief was nearer to the Almighty.  Sometimes she won, sometimes I did.  Eventually the memory of our deep friendship through my atheism and her unwavering belief was put into an imaginary cupboard to store my anguish of her departure.     

 

Until…..

 

A magical connection took place in Singapore over lunch, and subsequently through her many introductions, my Persian episodic memories were brought back that had been locked away for so long.  Conversations of a favorite dish called Fesenjan, simply a chicken stew with pomegranates, and to die for, the Rose flavored Lukhum, led me to look for a Baha’i community in this corner of Thailand to re-generate what I considered flourished my personality. Comparisons are always judged; but how does progress continue its achievement without comparison.  

 

My good fortune led me to meet the Representative of the Baha’i Community who unknowingly reconnected my broken thread of Baha’i knowledge with Tahira.  In order to bring those wonderful memories out of the cupboard, and not blindly follow, I challenged the Representative with complicated and absurd questions; everything from birth to death rituals, even how to convince a Scientologist to the wisdom of Baha’u’llah.  Her patience and thoughtful answers to the ten questions made me humble, allowed my invested interest to learn further from the books she brought for me to understand.    My maturity saw all those teenage questions that lingered, at that time, came from a vision of clear horizon, untainted by life’s bumpy road.  Now with age comes wisdom through mistakes that grew into an intellectual insight, I came away with unequivocable truth that the Baha’i heart is pure, unadulterated with unlimited capacity of love through humanitarian service.

 

Different periods of human evolution, The One God brings teachings to Jesus Christ, Krishna, Moses,  Zoroaster,  Muhammed, Buddha, Baha’u’llah  for that period of humanity to carry forward the on-going, ever-advancing civilization.

Forward thinking in this modern world of fast paced, hard to keep-up ongoing change, is truly an understanding of time scale, vision and acceptance. 

To be a Baha'i is to be of service to humanity and mankind.  Baha'i is considered to be the second most widespread religion in the world as there are members in 236 unique countries and territories.   The Baha'i World Centre is in Haifa, Israel, and open to every human being regardless of race, religion and gender.  Having role-played as a Christian, a Catholic, a Buddhist, a Zoroastrian,  and a Muslim, the idea is not to convert but to declare, as the American actor Rainn Wilson says, "I'm a Christian and also a Baha'i".     

 

Baha’i faith likens a man and a woman to two wings of a bird, each essential and balance is crucial in order to fly.  It comes down to this essential core and progressive thinking quoted below: 

 

“The world of humanity is possessed of two wings: the male and the female.  So long as these two wings are not equivalent in strength, the bird will not fly.  Until womankind reaches the same degree as man, until she enjoys the same arena of activity, extraordinary attainment for humanity will not be realized; humanity cannot wing its way to heights of real attainment.  When the two wings become equivalent in strength, enjoying the same prerogatives, the flight of man will be exceedingly lofty and extraordinary.”

 

* The Baha’is - a publication of the Office of Public Information of the Baha’i public community:

 

My privileged journey continues the quest to balance spirituality with reality; following the thoughts of Oundlian-Oxonian Richard Dawkins, a famous evolutionary biologist whose fearless discussion on religion is much admired.  Life devoid of prefixes in a box required to tick on forms to conveniently label your ideology is only there for death reasons. We are all one of the same, no division should separate individual ideology.  The mark of respect under one roof should be our humanistic aim.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BLUE NAPKIN

 

In dedication to Patrick Y-Kin Grove 

 

the most precious incalculable gift you have given me, 

treasured beyond words, the story, 

 

The Blue Napkin

 

is written so that when 

Zander, Elvis, EllaGrace and Paxton, 

are struggling through life, questioning your judgement,

in their moment of bad decisions, re-adjust their thinking,

 to understand your limitless empathy, and boundless love, 

through this story

 

 

 

 Sunday afternoon sipping his favorite home-grown Yorkshire tea and biscuit with our eldest 41-year-old son, discussing their beloved subject of soccer, was the best part of his day. In the early years of our married life, I hung on to his every word with pretend excitement about the sport. Even watched the games with him on our first black and white TV, and still could never understand the point of kicking a ball from one end of the field to another. My enjoyment was seeing his excitement of explaining the game to me. I admit it was a deliberate ego-boosting of his masculinity, from an adoring wife, indicative of my Asian upbringing.  With almost 50 years as a team, watching my son and husband animated on a subject of shared enjoyment; the guilt of pretense was replaced by tantalizing homemade scones, with whipped cream and raspberry jam, his favorite comfort food, emphatically discouraged by his diabetes doctor.

 

Moving to a more comfortable armchair to watch the afternoon game on TV, both my son and I witnessed the “widow maker” striking as he clutched his left chest in pain. All three of us knew, without speaking, his face became paler as the pain increased that we just had a 30-minute window to get medical help.   The private hospital was directly opposite our building. That was a conscious choice of condominium when we moved a few years back.  Grabbing my phone simultaneously surveying the Bangkok traffic below, calling the ambulance would be futile.  No words were spoken, instinct took over and our actions, though never rehearsed, went with military precision. We traversed flying buses, speeding motorcycles swerving the six lane traffic, pushing him in a wheelchair, grabbed in haste, that was left by the side of the lift, arriving at the emergency entrance of the Paolo Memorial Hospital all of us gasping for breath.

 

Twenty-two minutes from onset to medical assistance extended his 2% chance of survival for a 79-year-old man, medically known as Myocardial Infarction of the heart, for an extra three months.  That gift of ninety days turned into the most vital acceptance of mortality by all three of us. Fifty years of waking up together, eating together, crying together, laughing together, we used the time wisely and learned from the extraordinary events: the notorious six lane traffic came to an unusual respectful stop, the appearance of a wheelchair from no-where; owner unknown, the senior cardiac surgeon about to go home, got pinged as he started his car, the Covid19 test required before hospital admittance became the secondary step. Instead, the balance of life, judged by an emergency intern, deserved his “Summa Cum Laude"  that day.  It was God’s magic, giving time to ease our acceptance of death.  

 

The four medical team from heart, lung, kidneys, and psychiatry did their utmost to regain the blocked artery to its optimum level, balanced the kidney and kept pneumonia at bay; and the optimistic patient was determined to do his part to quickly recover. The daily blood tests, x-rays and oxygen levels, physical rehabilitation gave way from elation mixed with despair.  Inspired by unknown factors, he insisted that we reminisce about the 50 years together in increments of five years.  It was his wisdom to soften my loss that was inevitable, instructing me as always to bravely stand tall, continue to connect with those he loved and respected; and in doing so, I will feel he was still around.  

 

 

In his aversion of modern technology that had multiple functions like the iPhone, where he thinks good mannered listeners should allow conversations to flow, only to be promptly stopped, so that the ignorant know-all could check on Google for accuracy.  Therefore, to my surprise he asked me to switch the recording App on my phone, so that I could document our conversations whenever I needed his wisdom to help me through once he departed. Quite proud of his progressive thinking, I now have hours of our magical conversations taped.  Although a year has passed, today’s first anniversary of 3 June 2023, my loss still weighs heavily, and as strong as I am now, just hearing his voice would unhinge my soul to pieces.

 

As the body organs deteriorated, by comparison, the brain was sharp as a razor blade.   Every day, without fail, I would sit with him from early morning to late evening, going over our highs and lows, embracing love and forgiveness.   He even surprised me of his memory in reciting the whole of Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice for two hours verbatim.  He remembered every single line, and as my curiosity judged his knowledge and capabilities; like other know-alls, I grabbed my phone, searched google for the pdf version of the play; Apple charged me ￡2.50 by which time I scrambled to catch up as he was already in Act 2 Scene 3.  A teasing wink, letting me know he didn't categorize me like those ill-mannered, ignorant fools. Astounded by this gift I never knew he possessed, there was a glimmer of hope that flashed and was gone in a minute.

 

On one of the mornings, holding hands, lying on his hospital bed, acknowledging his last 48 hours. He had an epiphany; talking non-stop, competing with the oxygen intake he quickly told me something which was incredibly cool.

 

He made me get two napkins.  Me being me, raised my eyebrows, in the usual irritable wifely response.  I pulled some tissues from the nearby Kleenex box. He was insistent that I find the right kind of paper napkin.  He told me he saw them at the opposite end of the ward, it was far, the length of a football field where the doctors held their morning meetings.  I was surprised as he had been bedridden for some time, was on a lot of drugs, how did he know the whereabouts of these napkins; his mental capacity was questionable.  He complained that last night the  nurse had turned off the lights and the room was dark.  He was only able to see his way back because Sara’s favorite yellow daffodils were in bloom, shone the way.  I had read somewhere that when death approaches, there includes an out of body experience.  

 

I pulled a face.  Annoyed and cranky “just go and find it woman!”  I found the colored paper napkins – blue and green, exactly where he told me.  Pulling the swinging hospital eating-tray close, proceeded to unveil his knowledge from another universe.

 

He put the two napkins side by side, representing me, the green napkin; and him, the blue napkin as when we met.  Then he folded the napkins in half and connected it side by side, two halves making a whole napkin.   He explained that two people in love, from two tribes, joining together as a unit, doing it as successfully as we did, required binding ourselves as one. Tricky as he was the guest of the country and I, the ignorant native, having followed my father's extended diplomatic overseas postings, didn’t know my own country. We achieved that unit of one and did so without ever losing our individuality. In turn, what we gained was one hundred percent loyalty necessary in our unusual union.

 

He insisted that bi-racial marriage was ridiculed repeatedly from centuries ago, especially in colonized countries and nationalistic Thai’s were no exception.  He was aware of Thai and ex-pat community envy, some derisory remarks, but didn’t care for his love was unbreakable.  

 

The first seven years together, early 1970’s before our posting to Guam, every week, American GI’s flooded all the massage parlors popping up like mushrooms on New Petchburi Road, right by his office, the Land Rover division of Butler and Webster. The US troops on their week of R&R before going back to kill some more, needed to procreate, and smoke weed to fuzz out reality. I suffered the ‘Thai weekend wife syndrome’ perceived by those hiding their own questionable behavior.  Peripheral attempts to disregard the veiled kind acceptance, eventually enough subsequent remarks stung, and my sarcasm surfaced. Not a good scenario, but necessary to preserve my dignity.

 

Ten years older than me, joking aside, he was obviously the wiser half of the napkin.  Therefore, as a unit, we had to take control of society’s rules and live the opposite, to ensure we would not be blindsided by perceived principles.   Our simple rule was we, as a couple, came first before anything or anyone else.  Employers, Thai family/UK family or even our children would come second. I was judged through the years as ungrateful by my siblings, selfish by our friends and even suggestions of parental irresponsibility. Don’t know if the kids ever felt short-changed, I’m sure they did, observing them as adults now, immense pride over takes any guilt.  We stuck by our commitments willingly and never once gave up when things were tough.

 

Coming back to the folded napkin, he said, when he dies, (dramatically throws his blue napkin as it flies to the floor) unfolds my napkin, bringing my full self to the table.  He said, “Remember it was folded at 19 years of age, bring it up to speed, easily done through your own maturation” And then making his point loud and clear, “emerge as the new formidable you we built together, on your own terms.” clearing his throat,  “No second guesses, you won’t have me to bounce your thoughts; and by the way, that was a cop-out on your part,” coughing as he laughed; teasing me as he scolded.

 

The loss of a life partner, from that moment, as I held his hand and watched the blood drain from his fingertips, the grey tone replaced the pink vibrancy of life, the mask appears, indicative that the spirit had left, as his eyes glazed over.  My son reaches over to close the lids and the heart monitors’ flat line continued together with the machine’s alarm indicating what I already knew. A replay of many movies on hospital dramas, cannot replicate the stillness, amongst the noisy alarms.  The only exaggerated sound was the nasal cannula, programmed in dispensing oxygen at its highest speed when it detects no suction activity, as the lungs no longer functioned.  I could have easily curled into a ball as the pain was immeasurable of wanting to join him.  As I gathered the strength to call the nurse, at the corner of my eye, on the floor, was the crumpled blue napkin that he ceremonially threw into the air a few days before, stuck to the wheel of the bed as they moved him back to the ICU and alongside, my own napkin, miraculously opened. Mystical and magical.  

 

Well, here I am a year later.  Not drowning in widowhood drama. Everyday achieving a set of goals placed the night before, emerging stronger, dignified with grace and gratitude.  I was given a gift of time, only few are rewarded, and my appreciation is boundless. My forward-thinking napkin quietly repairing the heartache of loss, filling my soul to remain present as Grandma Tups, leveling my expectations that the gate is nearer and in doing so teaching and showing me the dignity of life and, also the dignity in death.