I’ve spent the last 44 days in a Lenten isolation of sorts. I gave up social media. I spent the time trying to figure out where the time goes. Turns out I still have no idea. But I learned a lot about planning.
The plan was to trade all the time spent on doom scrolling and “social interaction” for focus on my writing and what I’m going to be when Nate grows up. And maybe I’d eek out some true social interaction…as much as is feasible given pandemic restrictions.
I did write. I wrote enough to use my reactivated Instagram account to point you here (thanks for stopping by, by the way.) And I got into a writing habit, sitting down each Thursday and Friday to compile the post-it notes and other random scribbles into something to post up here. And twice before this post they made it onto this blog.
When I first bought this domain and set up this blog I had a very different idea of what would be up here. I had gotten into the habit of writing letters to things, deities and situations that irked or puzzled me via Facebook posts, texts to friends, and notes in my iPhone. I had planned for this blog to be an extension of that.
Enter the pivot.
We just spent the last 4 years here in the USA in a period of terrifying, amplified division. Under that idiot TV reality character all the racists and misogynists and homophobes who had been keeping to themselves became emboldened and chose to live their extremism loudly and publicly. You’ve read the news, so I don’t need to elaborate but as a non-white female it was the least safe I’ve ever felt here. It took separating families at the border and locking kids in cages, but for the first time in my 52 years NO ONE doubted the micro and macro aggressions I’ve encountered on the daily. Not once did I hear “I think you’re being too sensitive” or “I’m sure that’s not what they meant.” Then the stories of growing up immigrant came rushing back. It’s been half a century of processing life under erroneous assumptions (mine and the world’s) and now they needed a place to live that wasn’t the inside of my head. Soon there were 1000 more scribbles and post-it notes of thoughts and memories. Turns out I have so much to say about this. I started telling shortened versions of these stories on my Instagram page with the hashtags “immigrant stories” and “immigrants make America great”, my version of Cyber solidarity and enlightenment.
Then my mom showed up on my doorstep. At age 71 and after 36 years she’s getting a divorce and that story is not mine to tell.
My plans for lent pivoted into dealing with what needs to be done and what lies ahead. Medicare supplement insurance needs sorting out as she comes off the employer insurance her husband has. There are attorneys to vet and hire. There are real estate matters and taxes and finances and divisions of assets to deal with. There is trying to find a new place for her to live-alone. Now everything she worked for and all the plans she made are gone. Now there are so many tears and so many fears and so much upheaval.
Again.
Yes, we’ve been here before. Twice. The first time being when we came to America from Vietnam at the height of the Vietnam war. The second was when she left my dad. And those are stories that are mine to tell.
They’re stories of navigating adult things long before you were supposed to. They’re stories of what we see and what we endure in these new and foreign situations. They’re stories of fears and dreams and expectations that burden us but aren’t of our making. They’re not unique. They’re not even solely in the domain of immigrants. Mostly they’re stories I never planned to tell.
There’s an adage that says “Failure to plan is planning to fail.”
Bullshit.
52 years, and the last 44 days, have taught me that it’s not about the plan. Every Deadhead knows, “When in doubt, twirl.”
It’s all about the pivot. Be ready for the pivot.
