An Immigrant's Gratitude

Typhoon Haiyan ripped through the Philippines, devastating the city of Tacloban on the island of Leyte. It was a worrisome time because I do have close and distant relatives in various parts of that island nation. After the storm passed, and our relatives were accounted for, I was left with gratitude.

I was at the barber recently, and the person who cut my hair casually asked where I was from. "New Jersey," I said. "Were you born there?" he asked. "No, I was born in the Philippines."

He listened as I told my immigration story (I was born in Manila, and I came here when I was three years old) , and I listened to his own immigration story (he was born in Italy, and he came here when he was thirteen). We both became American citizens when we were young: me before high school, and him before joining the US military.

"I think immigrants like you and me are more grateful for what we have here in the US," he said.

That is probably true.

The last time I visited the Philippines, I was ten years old. I was boy running, swimming and playing in the hot sun every day. My memories of that long vacation are wonderful, but I also remember how very different it was from the United States. I knew I preferred the "comfort" of Jersey City, New Jersey.

Being an immigrant means you or your parents have come from someplace else. Being an immigrant is to be aware of two ways of living, and awareness is at least one ingredient to being grateful.

Tomorrow, the people of the Philippines will continue their lives, as best as they are able to. My Mom said that it doesn't take a lot to make a Filipino happy. I'm grateful for this trait.

Tomorrow, I'm going to sit down to the most American meal possible. My wife said she has enough cranberry sauce. I'm grateful.

Commencement

The news is peppered with commencement speech summaries. Famous and notable people are making their way across college campuses, dispensing wisdom, proclaiming advice, exhorting action. I sometimes imagine myself addressing a high school or college graduation.

I'd remind students that commencement isn't about endings, but about beginnings (the word commence means 'to begin, to initiate'). I'd tell them to look back with pride, but look forward with excitement.

I'd advise them to listen to their hearts these next few tender years. What does your heart want to do? Don't question it! It doesn't know why. It wants what it wants. What do you want to do? You can listen to your heart when you're thirty or forty, but the chances of following your heart are strongest now.

I'd tell students what they don't want to hear: that time is short. You're only young once. Someday, you'll be weighed down with "practical matters": job, marriage, mortgage, children. You'll be ordinary like me, and you have to make the best of it, by being the person you want to be.

I'd ask parents to truly let go at this stage. I'd also ask the same of old friends. We have to let them go. We have to let them fly. We've given them our money, our support. Now let's give them their time.

People of accomplishment are favored speakers at commencement exercises, but living a good life is an accomplishment itself. And a good life can be had with simple lessons: listen and know yourself; be positive; be good. It shouldn't take a famous person to remind graduates of this.

On Writing

Last weekend, I read Stephen King's book On Writing. It was marvelous.

I read Stephen King books in the 1980s. I read all his classics: Carrie, Salems' Lot, Cujo, The Stand, The Shining, Different Seasons. They were a thrill to read. It was hard to believe that such huge books could be read so fast. However, when I graduated from high school, I stopped reading King. I moved on, I suppose. In a memorable line from a foreword/introduction to one of his books, he stated that his books are the equivalent of a cheeseburger and fries. I eventually found other sumptuous meals.

Just a few weeks ago, a colleague at work said he read Hearts of Atlantis by King. On a lark, I bought a copy of that book, plus On Writing, which I have always been curious about.

On Writing contains a surprisingly moving and inspirational memoir about his life growing up. Sketches and images of his life are drawn quickly, many of which made me laugh out loud. He recounts the precious moment when he first wrote a story (at the age of six), to when the paperback rights were sold for Carrie, which marked the start of his success.

From there, he moves into the work of writing. His words carry authority, but he keeps things light. He relates writing and story telling to archaeology: you're digging up a fossil, which represents the story. Your success in capturing the story depends on how you lift it up out of the ground. Your tools are words, the English language, and grammar. The story is already there. You have to write write write, and eventually it will come out. (Dennis Lehane, who wrote Mystic River, echoed this concept in a recent on-line chat.)

The final part on On Writing deals with the horrible accident that nearly killed Stephen King in 1999. In a gripping narrative, I found myself in his spell. The moment of impact. The panic of emergency care. The pain of surgery. The road to recovery. The return to writing.

Stephen King was awarded the 2003 National Book Foundation's award for "distinguished contribution". Harold Bloom, a professor at Yale and author of The Western Canon wrote that this was a mistake, and proceeded to a scathing critique of King's work. Bloom's theme: "commercial success is not literary success".

I agree with Mr. Bloom somewhat. Just because a book is a commercial success doesn't mean that it's literary. Last month I finished Empire Falls by Richard Russo, and it was far more "literary" than any Stephen King book I have ever read. If a Stephen King book is a cheeseburger at a local diner, then Empire Falls is the best three-course dinner in the finest restaurant you can think of.

But I also disagree with Mr. Bloom's point that "King ... is an immensely inadequate writer." I disagree wholeheartedly. Maybe Mr. King doesn't belong in the same pantheon as "the great writers" (whomever they may be; Bloom suggests four: Pynchon, Roth, DeLillo, and McCarthy). But he belongs in the ball park. King is a more than an adequate writer. On Writing proves that.

Greg Berge

I was going to write about the recent primary, and how my democratic candidate for governor, Tom Birmingham, lost.

While composing my thoughts, I remembered something Greg Berge said to me: "Politics is all about self-interest." Or was it "Voting is all about self-interest?" I couldn't quite remember, so I did what every web-enabled person does: I punched him into Google. And lo and behold: Greg Berge.

Greg was the resident curmudgeon, instigator, and smart-ass at my first job out of college. He was also an author (he received royalty checks from a study guide he published for some text book). He wrote documentation for our technical products, but he always made it clear that his first love was baseball (specifically, the Mets). Or was it Cornell Ice Hockey? Or was it a love of reading, or being smart?

He taught me baseball. Opened my eyes to it. It was Greg who got me out to Fenway Park to see my first pro baseball game ever. He also taught me how to score. He has memorized the last half-inning of Game 6 (1986), and he keeps index cards of statistics of every player that he's ever personally scored. When the weather was nice, we would play catch (catch!) in a field near the office.

He also taught me how to be a fan. Or rather, how to be a fanatical fan. In the Fall and Winter, he took a road trip to Ithaca every weekend to watch the Cornell ice hockey team. He published a newsletter for fans of The Big Red team. The fact that I was from a competing school in the same division made our brief relationship that much more interesting.

Did we get close? Does it matter? He was an influence. I was a kid, all too happy to enjoy someone else's knowledge. Of course, he reminded me that I should go and get my own knowledge. Or maybe did I figure that out myself?