I wrote this last year, inspired by someone who really used to make me mad... jh, 072409

We go into the Greek deli and eat spanakopita and drink grainy black coffee
And wax rhapsodic about the ancient culture, the friendly people, the irresistible food
Then we walk outside and you say, “F**king Mexican kids” when you see our tires slashed

We watch a taiko drum concert downtown at a spring festival
Exhilarated by the pounding energy, delighted by the musicians’ exotic, Americanized good looks
Then on the way home, you realize that the “godammed Koreans” didn’t give you back your credit card at the tee shirt shop

“The fat black lady” who sits at a receptionist desk
“The old Chinese guy” who cut you off
“The stupid white girl” who forgot to put the eggs in the bag at the checkout counter
Have all angered you, as representatives of their respective races
With their faults and deficiencies, that surely are evidence of their inferiority to you
A fifth-generation son of Latin descent
Who grew up on Cheerios and chorizo
Mariachis and the Mets
Inheriting the racism
That makes this a small world, after all.

- 032708

(sometimes there is a lot of hang time when i'm covering a story... time to stop and smell the roses... or eat at jack in the box...)

Watts, May 16, 2009

as little as we think we have, there are many more living in the same city with less...

i drove for six blocks looking for a place that looks like it might have a reasonably clean bathroom, Jack in the Box on Central and 103rd seemed to be the only option...

the restaurant has bars across the counter window as if it was a bank... I.D. is required for credit card purchases over $5.00 and a cup of healthful fruit costs disproportionately more than a burrito full of dubious and fatty meat...

i can't eat inside the restaurant... i feel out of place with my linen slacks and notebooks... i settled for a breakfast burrito and orange juice, which i eat in my car with the door open... somehow to shut it makes me feel even more vulnerable in bad neighborhood...

a woman waiting for the bus at the stop in front of me is carrying an imitation Coach bag to accessorize her cheap polyester tunic and plastic hair clip...

Watts seems like it was a nice place to live, a long time ago... the jacaranda trees look exactly like the ones at the end of my family's street on the Westside...

looking through a glass onion...

the Dale Chihuly show at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix last May was astounding... the forms were very much like the real cactus they were nestled in... except a whole lot smoother and not so full of water... http://www.chihuly.com/

i've just seen a face(book)...

the facebook (or fb, as we say) honeymoon is officially over... like with most addictions, i hesitated at first... normally, i shun internet overload... it's all i can do to write emails and keep a blog... but word on the street was that it was about connecting, in a safe, non-threatening kind of way...

it has to be... instead of meeting new unknown people, like most social networking sites, you hook up with people you already know... or have known... and have not communicated with in 20 years... therein lies the rub...

at first, it was kind of exciting to be in touch with people from high school, be able to "meet" friends of my sister who lives in brooklyn, and put up photos that i would only share with close friends and acquaintances... it was even safe to put up pictures of my impossibly photogenic nephews...

then reality set in... a bout of "friending" friends (how do you make a friend out of someone who is already a friend?!) from work led to connections not unlike that old shampoo commercial from the 70s... "and so on, and so on"...

suddenly, my ex-husband and my boss were among my people... then came the high school buddies... i might have looked up one guy i was on the newspaper with in senior year... but of course, he had friends that connected to me... our class president searched for all of the class of '83 and now i'm "friends" with people i never knew, never spoke to, and certainly have not thought of in years...

the funny thing is that fb is like a time machine... everyone seems to assume their old roles once again... i was not popular, but i would not say i was unpopular... sadly, i dated the most unpopular guy in not just my school, but possibly the entire south bay school district... M., a peripheral "friend" who actually knew my two sisters quite well (they were popular!) reminded me of the fact that i publicly humiliated my unpopular, trombone-playing boyfriend in front of the whole marching band when i broke up with him... lamely, i responded with something like, 'i'm glad that amused you'...

what i really should have said to M. (who is still a "friend," although i have not written on his wall, sent him a grapefruit or poked him since) is that i was sorry that he had not grown up more than that despite what seems to be a very harmonious marriage and family life and a successful career...

i finally broke down and told my sister Joselyn about what happened months later... she asked me, 'did he write it on your wall or did he send you a message?'... i really could not remember at that point... but the next time i was on fb, i looked in my inbox to see if he had sent me what she was implying was a more discreet message... then i remembered i had deleted a lot of old messages...

but i don't think that absolves him... what bothered me is that he brought it up at all... it was not my proudest moment... and although my old boyfriend did turn out to be a creep, he did not deserve to be embarrassed in front of his peers... although i really wish i could remember what i did...

i do remember that after one huge and final blowup - he did skulk around my house for a while and pester me at school; this before we knew what stalking meant - i threw a paper bag full of his old love letters (wow, i used to get love letters!) onto the roof of Savon on 190th... for some reason, i thought that would eject him from my life forever... and it did...

unfortunately, even though i can't remember half my passwords, or accidentally delete lots of things i regret, the internet appears to be forever... although the old letters on the drugstore roof have by now completely vaporized, every hasty word or social faux pas can go out to a few million of my fellow fb-ers in the blink of an eye...

my kind of town...

the other night in our writing group, Brenda said that cities had genders... she said that New York was very masculine, all loud and brash and in your face... interestingly, she thought that Washington D.C. was like a powerful woman, which i liked very much...

i realized the other day that my last lover wasn't a man, it was a city...

driving down Venice Boulevard to get my sister a birthday gift, it dawned on me that Los Angeles was my on-again, off-again mainstay, the one i returned to whenever i was bereft of love...

i met "him" through my sister, who has lived on the Westside for ten years... she would regale our younger sister and i with tales of his many attractions... under the respectable guise of visiting her, i would furtively experience his charms: bright lights, beautiful shops, great restaurants... and somehow, i didn't mind sharing him with the thousands of other star-struck, Prada-pursuing girls that lined up in their cars, all on their way to work, auditions, or Yogurtland...

his pedigree is fascinating... i could delve into one of many ethnic enclaves within minutes and ingratiate myself to his Japanese, Chinese, Ethiopian, Greek or Persian relatives... i could listen to them speak their language, eat their food, and marvel at how they have made a niche for themselves in this teeming Manhattan of the West...

although our relationship is largely physical - and mostly centered around finding the best bakery in town - there is an intellectual side to it...

although the independent bookstores are tragically closing one by one, a few hang on... i stumbled into one on Sawtelle where a half-dozen of his malcontented and erudite friends were having what turned out to be a regular weekly salon, a hybrid of literary criticism and group therapy... and although some of the museums seem to tout their exhibitions as tawdrily as the latest blockbuster film, great art can be seen in his halls...

he has his faults... he's narcissistic and a night owl... i always have to drive, he never picks up the check and often charges me a fee for parking in the wrong spot... but when i'm standing in line at Sprinkles while jonesing for a red velvet cupcake, gazing at the view from the Getty Center, or walking at dusk on the Third Street Promenade, enjoying being alone in crowd, he's mine, all mine...

the streets of santa monica...

04.27.09

On Friday night, I had the option of going to a play on campus, where I would be surrounded by the glow of art and the friends and acquaintances who were busily creating it. But I had my fill of the Hills in the last few days, days that were filled with the usual difficulty of putting together a weekly publication almost singlehandedly. All I could think of was the long drive home to the Westside, so I decided to get it over with.

I called Shiho to see if she wanted to grab some dinner. My erstwhile plan was to drop by Beadniks, a bead shop on the Promenade, to drop off a resume. I had decided that I need a part-time job to help with saving up for a new apartment, a laptop, travel. I had cobbled together a resume that highlighted my jewelry making skills, including my recent experience teaching beading at David’s studio, a credential that I hoped would not be made much of, since I have not spoken to him since December.

I wandered into the shop and asked for Ermie, one of the proprietors who had answered my email query about employment. I gave her my resume and chatted with her and two employees who were trying to decide how best to display one of their recent necklace creations. It’s been so long since I’ve looked for a job, even a part-time commitment such as this. After we chatted, I browsed the shop and started to wonder if it’s such a great idea to work at a place that you would enjoy being a customer as familiarity breeds contempt. I could see myself getting overwhelmed and beleaguered at the prospect of having to help visitors come up with innovative jewelry designs while neglecting my own muse. I left them cordially, but feeling undecided as to whether or not I would return with a completed application.

I met Shiho at Anthropologie, an establishment whose French flea market aesthetic belies the upscale pricing of its wares. Still, I am very fond of this look and blithely told my freelancing and therefore spending cash-free friend to simply look upon shopping the Promenade as visiting a museum, to get ideas and then purchase similar items from more recession-friendly merchants.

We walked several blocks to Musha, a trendy Japanese fusion restaurant that she had warned me would have a very long wait on a Friday night. It was getting late and I was starting to get rather hungry, but felt optimistic that we would be seated relatively soon. When we got there, the host told us that it would be a 35-40 minute wait. When someone puts it in numbers, it becomes all too daunting, so we left and settled for Wahoo’s Fish Tacos next door, where despite the friendlier prices and perfectly fine food, nobody was waiting to dine.

Shiho is one of my oldest friends. In the approximately 15 years we have been friends, she has not had a boyfriend. In those same 15 years, she has watched me fumble from relationship to relationship to failed marriage to disastrous rebound relationship. And yet, she still seeks my advice on how to attract men.

An admirer once said I was cursed, that there would always be men wanting me because of my looks, intellect, humor and personality. I have to admit that I enjoy a certain popularity among those who have recently acquired either their drivers’ licenses or Medicare. Guys my age don’t seem to be all that interested, and frankly, where we were about ten years younger, I was not at all interested in them. Now that the playing field is narrowing, I find myself feeling on the sidelines. They are all taken, recovering from being taken, or perpetually single for very good reasons.

We commiserated over our current manless state, she demurring as usual with the fact that she wants to have a bona fide job before tackling this dilemma. Fifteen years ago, she said she didn’t want a boyfriend at all so that she could pursue her dream of being a freelance illustrator, which is what she is now. Now that she is one, she complains of not making enough money with the enterprise, which does not surprise me. Creative people are never paid what they are worth. But I envy the fact that she went after this dream and got it, something I have yet to achieve with my own writing.

You could say that I am equally dismissive of my day job as she is of her independence. I am a public affairs writer at a four-year university. I am privileged to meet and write about some really exceptional people there. But I often feel like little more than a PR hack, having to put the best face on the dull, corporate posturing of campus events and politics.

I have always baited Shiho with the proposal that I go along on one of her speed dating adventures, purely for observational reasons. I would never take anyone seriously that I met at such an event. She always reminded me that I had a boyfriend, which up until now, I always did. I said that I had already fulfilled her stern recommendation of last winter that I stay single for at least three months. She agreed, and said that she had heard of a meet-up group that gathered over ethnic food under $10. I accepted with more enthusiasm for the prospect of cheap, exotic eats than the possibility of meeting a single gourmet male who is as disillusioned as I am.

We strolled back to the Promenade’s main drag sipping tea, catching up with the news of our respective lives and commiserating over our lot as the token spinsters of our circle. Actually, I vehemently forbade her from ever using that word again, for its conjuring of eccentric, vaguely unattractive females who are meekly resigned to their position. We are neither of us unattractive, although I have to admit we are both rather eccentric. And as for resignation, the fear of the end of every hope is beginning to loom for me for the first time. I hate to think of how many years she may have been feeling it before.

When Dorothy Parker wrote that nothing eases the heart like a satin gown, it’s evident she did not live in West Los Angeles. There is gastronomic therapy within reach, especially for despondent females with a sweet tooth. Although we had decided on our Spartan dessert of green tea (me) and a nonfat mocha (Shiho), we realized as we marched toward the ocean that the infamous Xooro, a trendy purveyor of pretentiously artisanal churros, was in our path. We decided to splurge.

We walked into the antiseptic, overly-lit shop, where a digital screen rotated between menus. We both were intrigued by the maple bacon confection, salty and sweet combinations being a trend du jour in confectionery these days. We decided to split one and waited for our order.

I was still trying to absorb the menu screen should there be a return visit, or should I be so overwhelmed by our dessert’s quality that I would want to order another one on the spot. The offerings of “Mexican” and “Spanish” hot cocoas caught my eye and I asked the young man behind the counter what the difference was.

“Mexican cocoa is made with grandma cocoa,” he said.

“You mean ‘Abuelita,’? I asked, referring to a popular product available in most grocery stores in Los Angeles.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, half-smiling at my recognition.

I continued to ask questions in my exasperating customer way, inquiring about the health benefits of the rice bran oil they use to fry the churros and the actual size of the pastries. At some point, he excused himself and returned a few minutes later bearing a paper wrapped cylinder on a plate. The end that was exposed looked like it had been coated in sawdust and there were two plastic forks on the plate.

We proceeded to unwrap the churro and tapped ineffectually at it with a plastic fork. Finally, I broke it in half and took a bite. He had warned us that the maple filling would have turned to liquid and would run out of the pastry tunnel, which indeed it had. The “sawdust” was the bacon component of the churro, which lent it a slightly salty taste, but did not fill my craving for the chewy, sweet smokiness of actual pork product. And the pastry itself was not too sweet, but was sort of tough on the outside, lacking the yeasty welcome of regular dough.

Still, it was dessert, so we made the best of it. I was sort of disappointed that they had, as our host had described earlier, increased the size of the pastry, but I guess for $3.65, people expected more than just an 8-inch churro. We finished and left Xooro without regrets, but also without anticipation of a return visit.

I was turning into my usual pumpkin self after 9:30, so we headed back to pick up her bike from the rack and she walked me to my car in the structure. On the way there, I noticed that under an sign that read, “Design Within Reach” on the window of a tony furniture store, there was a homeless person sleeping mummy-style in an unfurled sleeping bag. I said nothing until we had crossed the street and then embarked on one of my diatribes about the travesty of how some of the highest priced real estate in America provides a literal bedroom community for the disenfranchised.

Throughout the evening, she had congratulated me on my uncanny sense of direction and recognition of landmarks, which I rely on in lieu of my lack of mapreading skills. When she had left, I paced the three floors of the parking structure in a panic because I could not find my car, which I had parked there three hours before. In a flash of remembrance of the last time this happened, I realized that my car was in the parking structure on the next block and sauntered over, where the car was exactly where I had left it, in what would be considered a perfect parking spot right next to the elevator.

my funny valentine... 2/11/09

the movable- and moving- feast...

in my family, food is an occasion, a reason to live more than a means to live... we spend a great deal of time plotting what to cook or where to eat out... even with our crack o' dawn exercise regimens, my sister and i think we deserve something special in the morning and met ever so briefly at whole foods, where we delighted to the sight of a hot breakfast bar, complete with huevos rancheros, maple smoked bacon and "loaded" potatoes... i inhaled my eggs out of the recyclable cardboard takeout box, not so much because i was ready for breakfast but to stay warm... she brought some home for the boys and hiro, to hopefully break them out of the oatmeal routine that seiji and kenzo have dictated as the morning repast...

i was pressed into service to deliver kenzo to my mother's house to spend the day... although he has wednesdays off from sunshine daydreams preschool, he may as well have been carrying a briefcase of junior executive tasks to complete... my sister was concerned that he finish addressing his "kung fu panda" valentines for the kids at school... he also his stuffed panda that he "created" at build-a-bear...

the boys are as obsessed with food as we are... their stuffed animals have names that denote a certain gastronomical bent: creamy the bear cub, chomp the t-rex, brownie the panda...

i asked him what brownie liked to eat... he said, 'carrots. and he has 100 cookies a day.'

what kind?

'chocolate chip with frosting. he doesn't brush his teeth, but i do it for him. he doesn't mind the electric toothbrush.'

you say it's your birthday...

1.25.09

Not only have I moved to a more fattening zip code (Culver City, the Napa of Southern Cal), but I am now in the mecca of stylish parenthood. West L.A. is home to hundreds of upper middle to affluent families, all of whom apparently decided to have kids at the same time, resulting in two-thirds of the city's population being between two and seven years of age.

My nephews are among this number. As befits their station in life, as well as that of their parents, they are ferried daily from prestigious language immersion school to afterschool Lego engineering to swimming to taekwondo. The weekends offer no respite for these pint-sized bon vivants and they have to attend at least one birthday party per weekend to keep their place on the social register.

The elaborate protocol to these parties is an experience to behold. First, the birthday boy or girl has to choose a theme, as dictated by the cartoon character du jour. Right now, it’s all about Disney Princesses for the girls and robot-oriented shows like Bakugan or Pokemon for the boys.

My sister considers every email a contractual agreement to deliver on any action promised in said communique. In casual conversation, you cannot expect a casual verbal answer to a question that you may have emailed her earlier, because she will always insist that she emailed the answer and therefore is not responsible for a response to you now.

That being said, Jolene lives and dies by the Evite. No longer are invitations to social gatherings merely friendly gestures of inclusion. You can find out who is attending (provided they play along), how many people they are bringing, or why they are not going to be there. Convenient, yes. But I cannot help but think that nobody needs to know all this information up front. Because if they do, what will we talk about at the party?

The party’s theme, as prescribed by the celebrant, is sacrosanct to the festivities. It must be portrayed consistently throughout the event, in everything from the icing on the cake to the right paper party goods. Jolene spent a sleepless night performing cosmetic surgery on a piñata she bought in the toy district downtown, because she could not find the acid yellow Pikachu that Kenzo requested. Fortunately, most popular cartoon characters are shaped somewhat like a chubby raccoon, so it was not impossible to convert Uniqua from the Backyardigans into the lemon-hued Pocket Monster.

The ideal menu is made up of foods that are eaten with the fingers and since there are kids involved, tends to be as dry and easy to clean up as possible. No slippery brie en croute or delectably greasy rumaki here, although a pizza's succulent ingredients can be tidily contained, depending on how substantial the outer crust is (Pizza Hut's stuffed crust makes for a good retaining wall). In a vain nod to conscientious nutrition, crudités and fruit are optimistically served, although both juvenile and adult guests ignore them in favor of more interesting fare.

Of course, the highlight of the party is the cake and gifts. This is probably the first introduction for children to observing a strict ritual, preparing them for church services or the conformity of America. You must interrupt them from running in circles around your house, a neighborhood park or Chuck E. Cheese’s to celebrate the guest of honor with song and flaming baked goods. Again, messiness is frowned upon and the festively decorated gateau of yesterday has been replaced by hygienically individual desserts such as cupcakes.

With kids, it never pays to get too exotic. Kenzo’s last birthday, which we celebrated on a sunny December day in a regional park, was marked by traditional Japanese mochi pastries filled with ice cream instead of red bean paste. While the kids were momentarily appeased with a sweet, the mochi didn’t hold them in the same thrall as a cake would have. The adults had to take up the slack and eat the melting confections to avoid wasting them. We were not too put out by this sacrifice.

Not only does the birthday child receive gifts, but each guest must go home with a bag of appropriately-themed swag. On Kenzo’s aforementioned “Furious Five” birthday (the name refers to characters from the animated film, “Kung Fu Panda,” not his age and disposition - although the latter could not be more aptly described- we had to come up with items that were suitably evocative of the martial arts and China in particular.

Our sister Joselyn was home for the holidays and the three of us had to decide what be suitable. While I thought fortune cookies would have been nostalgic kitsch, they were rejected by the other committee members as passé. However, we all agreed that those little Chinese spinning drums http://www.instructables.com/id/Karate-Kid-Spinning-Drum/ would be perfect.

We racked our brains trying to think of where we could locate 18 of them by the next day – we’re also incurable procrastinators. I insisted that the only place you would be sure to find them was naturally, Chinatown. So Joselyn and I went downtown, searching for the drums, braving pre-Christmas traffic, and our trepidation compounded by our understanding that our sister routinely turns into the Party Gestapo.

During the 90-minute journey from Long Beach, where Joselyn had stayed with a friend to the environs of Chinatown, we joked, listened to music and blanched each time Joselyn’s cell phone rang. We expected a call from Jolene with another eleventh-hour demand or simply to rage at us the way only siblings can because we weren’t at her house yet with the required booty. After parking the car, we ran into into the first store we saw, hoping to accomplish the mission quickly.

We got lucky and found them in that first store. But modern communication – and Jolene’s discriminating eye- be damned: Joselyn suggested we send her a picture via camera phone of the party favors. We reassured the eager storekeepers, who had quickly assembled the needed quantity, that we just needed to make sure that they were what our sister wanted. I eyed the toys warily, thinking that they would not by any stretch, meet parental standards of safety, being made in China of what were most assuredly toxic materials by factory workers infected with SARS.

Finally, I heard Joselyn’s voice in its most appeasing tones (and believe me, Joselyn doesn’t appease anyone) from across the store, talking to Jolene over the phone. “No. Yes. Yes. No.” And I knew the search was not over. I sheepishly brought my other purchases to the proprietor – when in Rome, you may as well shop – and apologetically thanked them for their efforts.

Dejected, we and I walked out onto the street and warily eyed the endless rows of tchotcke- laden retailers. But that scene from “The Karate Kid” kept playing over and over in my head, as if the crowd that was cheering for Daniel-san was playing the drums to cheer us on to a shopper's victory. We pressed on and came upon a number of kiosks in the middle of a shopping center food court. We found another version of the drums, of slightly better quality with a plastic handle that was made to look like carved rosewood. We sent Jolene a photo of our discovery.

Again, we waited. Major retailers ought to take a tip from the streetvendors in Chinatown. While they may not care if you ever return, they are bound and determined that you get what you ask for now. Again, the man who ran the kiosk quickly got the quantity of drums together for me. This time, Jolene called back a lot sooner. I got on the phone this time and used all my powers of persuasion. She said these would be fine.

When we got them home, they were packed neatly into brown paper lunch sacks that were each sealed with a tiny mask of one of the Furious Five characters. They were distributed at the party and torn open distractedly at the park, their contents strewn across the tables we were trying to clear after the party ended, the grass, various parents’ cars.

I’m sure the allusion to “Karate Kid” was chuckled over by the parents, but we’ll never know if the kids liked the drums. During the course of the party, what I observed they liked: playing with their friends, eating and playing some more. There were noises of recognition at the Kung Fu Panda plates and napkins and the paper Chinese lanterns garnered some interest. But most of the preparation ended up to be for the adults’ benefit.

Today, I accompanied Jolene and the boys to a new organic café. The place was packed with trendy Westside parents and offspring in their organic cotton best. Self-righteously cool anti-war pop art hung on the walls. The coffee menu, which had us drooling as we perused it online, was depleted of many of the specialty drinks it had promised. The space was poorly laid out to accommodate the teeming masses of brunch eaters with wriggling kids and bustling servers who wanted you to get out of their way.

I could have forgiven a lot if the food was good, but it wasn’t. The mayonnaise that should have been in the chicken curry sandwich was replaced with yogurt as a healthier alternative, which only made it dry and crumbly. The mocha I ordered was too sweet, with no hint of espresso. The staff was indifferent and slightly rude and never brought Jolene her latte.

After we ate, she went back to the counter to ask for her latte and I took the boys outside, the better to not be glared at or trampled upon. I didn’t want them to stand in the busy parking lot, so I directed them to the empty patio space, where there was nothing except a red-orange safety cone, which covered some kind of outdoor faucet or gas fixture.

While I kept an eye out for my sister, I marveled at the fact that Seiji and Kenzo had, in less than two minutes, figured out that the cone would make a perfect hurdle and had commenced to jump over it again and again. The lesson here is that most of the time, kids don't care what gift you give them, they often would prefer the box. And they are way more inventive than we are.

I don't know where we lose that creativity and inventiveness along the way. My birthday wish this year will be to get that back somehow. I have a feeling that two little guys with boundless energy are going to have a lot to do with it.

this is why...

1.23.09

First off, I guess I now have to explain why I’m a Republican. Working in not only an academic environment, but one that is also snugly installed in Southern California (aka Los Angeles), it is assumed by all my friends, family and associates that I am an environmentally conscious, George Bush-hating liberal. When I sheepishly reveal the truth, they act as if I admitted to drinking the blood of young male virgins to preserve my youthful appearance. If I do look young, I can only attribute it to clean living and good genes.

Which brings me, albeit in a roundabout way, to the reason I’m a Republican - you can blame my parents. They came to the United States from the Philippines, each before they met and married, to make a better life for themselves. They jumped through the appropriate hoops of the time to gain their residency and citizenship through legal means and brought up their three daughters to regard America as their home.

As children, we saw them prosper and succeed. They made a comfortable home for us in a neighborhood that wasn’t predominantly Caucasian, nor predominantly anything. Kids were kids, neighbors were neighbors.

We began our education in parochial schools, where we met and befriended kids from all different backgrounds. We didn’t look to race as a way to decide who our friends were. We looked to having drill team or student government or the school paper in common. We never played the race card to get scholarships, we looked to our grades for that, which is probably why we never got scholarships.

As a “(Wayne) Roy Senior” at Redondo Union High, I was impressed by our government teacher’s passion for the Grand Old Party and when twenty-seven of my classmates and I turned out to vote for the first time, I would bet that more than half were registered Republicans.

Working at a university, I’ve learned more about the left and often, the extreme left than I probably ever could have imagined. Most of it goes against everything I believe in, infringing on personal choice more than any conservative dogma can. As a woman, I believe that abortion should be a personal choice- that includes choosing not to have one. Science has proven that global warming is a natural phenomenon, occurring every few thousands or millions of years. I don’t think we’re responsible for it, but I think there is a lot we can do to offset the damage.

This may be a purely regional issue, but I don’t think we do the United States or any other nations a favor by allowing illegal immigrants to enter illegally without any ramifications. There many short and long term issues that have led me to believe that issues like this only serve to divide us further. We can’t decide what our main language is. Should people who can’t read English really be allowed to vote on policy and to our elected officials?And just because there are so many illegal immigrants driving around, should we grant them licenses?

I do my part to help save the environment, but I draw the line at recycled toilet paper. And while I am aware of G.W.’s many foul-ups, grammatical and otherwise, we did not have another 9/11 on his watch. We even got used to the indignity of taking our shoes off and relinquishing our Swiss Army knives at the security check before boarding an airplane (to date, I’ve given up three for the cause). I don’t blame him for the economy any more than I can blame him for the weather. It’s a tough job and apparently for the last eight years, my fellow Americans - at least the ones who cared enough to cast a ballot- thought he was the right man for it.

That is why I am happy about President Obama, although I tend to vote the party ticket. This time, not only my fellow Americans, but the next generation of them, decided who the best man was. His election was historic, not only because he is the first African American president, but because he appealed to the younger generation, which for now, I can still claim to be part of.

On the surface, claiming him as the first black president is easy, but superficial. As with Tiger Woods, we can all have a piece of Obama, whose parents were African and Caucasian and who has Asians and Europeans in his immediate family. He’s the Benetton president, “black enough,” yet with a family tree that reflects the face of the nation today.

A conservative friend recently quipped on Facebook that doing the right thing was now in vogue because President Obama has made it so. He’s having a hard time with Republicans losing the White House and Congress. I’m hoping that “the right thing” will somehow be redefined by both parties in the next four years. My wish list for the new administration includes ending the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq responsibly. The economy and the state of education will not be repaired by handouts, but by holding individuals and institutions accountable for results.

Most of all, I want liberal America to see that conservative America has a point too, and for both parties to see the merits in both ideologies. We need to respect human rights, but we need to keep our country safe. We need to make education and health care accessible for all, but we need to set a standard and have those who enjoy the privileges of these systems pay their share as much as possible.

Hopefully, they can create a hybrid of thought that like Obama’s family tree, reflects where we are now. For however flawed some people think our system is, it’s still one of the best, if not the best in the world. And it can be better, if we can return to being a nation where people try to pull themselves up by their bootstraps first before calling upon the government – or blaming it when things don’t go their way.

No where else could people like my parents have helped to build a nation. No where else could a man whose ancestors were once captives in this country, attain the highest office of the land. We have placed an unprecedented amount of expectation on this one man, but we all need to let him and his advisors know what we need. Not since the days of John F. Kennedy, whom my parents also admired, have we stood in such a hopeful place in our history. Let us make the hope and change more than just buzzwords, but a lasting reality.