Back in the 1960's when we lived in Bangkok, Thailand, my father was able to procure a second car. He needed and ultimately got the U.S. Government's stamp of approval. The Peugeot had taken it's last drive, and, as dad love Volkswagen Bugs, he put his request in for one and we waited.
About that time, my older sister, Judy, had graduated from International School of Bangkok and was now enjoying the offerings of San Francisco attending a secretarial school called Grace Ball Secretarial School that she and my mother had picked out to ensure her productive future. I remember missing her. I remember, for certainty, a hole in the family when she left.
But, it wasn't long before Judy began to send us the marketed cultural byproducts of San Francisco's flower child and hippie culture, which was running rampant at that time. We would eventually receive packages filled with stickers of psychedelic designs as well as the colorful and graphic new phrases that were being made up daily out of that era. I remember the feeling of excitement each time my mother brought these packages home. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have a sister who remembered her sisters back in Thailand.
Soon after Judy left, my dad got notice that his car was in. The Peugeot was sold and our new car was scheduled for delivery. But the Volkswagen wouldn't come in the form of a Bug. It would come in the form of a shiny powder blue Fastback.
Regardless, my dad loved that car. It was his pride and joy -- a brand new shiny car, straight from the factory, delivered to his doorstep at Soi 43, House 41 in Bangkok, Thailand. We all went for a drive that day.
Because we were a close-knit community back in the 1960's where the Americans lived among the Thais, our Volkswagen Fastback became a well-known landmark of the Molthen Family, and we were somewhat recognized among the three-wheeled "samlors" and old wood-plank trucks. Dad was one happy camper.
One sunny warm day, a large envelope from San Francisco arrived. Mom handed the envelope to my younger sister, Mary, and me to open, and as we removed the contents of that envelope, our eyes grew wide as saucers. The culture of San Francisco had once again made its way into our home with the help of my sister, Judy, in the form of large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, removable and stick-able on any clean shiny surface.
I didn't wholly understand the attitude and its significance or consequences of the male ego at that time, but as the years passed, I began to realize profoundly the amount of love that my dad must have had for us and how tolerant he was of our crazy ideas and actions. Dad may have felt as if his manhood had been destroyed that day but he never let on or ever broached the subject of his heartbreak or disappointment.
And for the rest of our time in Bangkok, Thailand, until the day we left in 1969, we all rode in a powder blue Volkswagen Fastback now adorned and decorated with large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, which may have been removable from their original surfaces but were now forever stuck to the outside of my dad's pride and joy -- and singing "Are You Going To San Francisco".
Love comes in many forms. One of them is tolerance -- a form my dad taught me on that day.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Family Ties
"This looks like a tortilla!"
I looked over at my friend, Elva, and laughed. We had just opened up the tin-foil packaging of a street festival food dish called shawarma, a middle eastern concoction of cut seasoned spit-cooked lamb and beef, mixed with tahini sauce and chopped salad makings along with a spread of humos and wrapped up in a fresh loaf of pita bread. We were enjoying an afternoon at the Second Annual Lebanese Festival. Of course, it looked like a tortilla, I thought to myself. Elva is of Mexican descent.
For almost a decade, my last name was Michael -- a well known Lebanese family name; and while I was married to Gabe, a Lebanese-American, I met numerous young fellows straight from Lebanon who came to the United States for their education, somehow ending up working for Gabe as a waiter at his then Lebanese San Francisco restaurant called The Grapeleaf. Sitting there in the plaza square, I felt quite comfortable with a familiarity I hadn't experience since the last Lebanese picnic I had gone to with Gabe almost twenty five years ago. Where had the time gone?
Relaxing under the bright sun at the Redwood City Plaza enjoying my shawarma burrito, music began to blast through the speakers and a large group of young people dressed in traditional Lebanese costume began to gather near the elevated band stand. Seats around us quickly filled up as families began to settle themselves in for the afternoon's entertainment. Young mothers and husbands with their babies in strollers greeted what looked like their moms and dads -- proud grandparents of those young new lives. I saw cousins greet cousins and brothers greet brothers who were the uncles to someone in the groups. Sisters and aunts embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. English was replaced by Arabic.
As the young performers began their show, it suddenly dawned on me. This entire plaza filled with Lebanese families, young and old, was actually filled with one big enormously huge family. The sense of ties was so evident that I saw them reach as far back as the country of Lebanon itself. Its strength and power was apparent as I gazed upon the congregation.
And then I thought about my own family ties. I thought about the general ties of the American extended family. I know that in my own family, I am estranged from all of them. I don't know my uncle and aunt anymore from my father's side, and all of my mother's sisters have since passed away. My cousins are unknown to me and my only niece and nephew were shut off from me when my mother passed away for reasons set for another blog.
As the young people danced and acted out their skits, family members cheered and clapped at their performances. The support and enthusiasm from all sides lifted my spirits and jerked me to the present. I, too, clapped and cheered at their performance.
The enormity of this family overwhelmed me. Perhaps one day, I will be united with my sisters and my brother. I missed them. But for then, I was glad to be a small part of it for that one afternoon with my Lebanese family under the sun at the Redwood City Plaza.
I looked over at my friend, Elva, and laughed. We had just opened up the tin-foil packaging of a street festival food dish called shawarma, a middle eastern concoction of cut seasoned spit-cooked lamb and beef, mixed with tahini sauce and chopped salad makings along with a spread of humos and wrapped up in a fresh loaf of pita bread. We were enjoying an afternoon at the Second Annual Lebanese Festival. Of course, it looked like a tortilla, I thought to myself. Elva is of Mexican descent.
For almost a decade, my last name was Michael -- a well known Lebanese family name; and while I was married to Gabe, a Lebanese-American, I met numerous young fellows straight from Lebanon who came to the United States for their education, somehow ending up working for Gabe as a waiter at his then Lebanese San Francisco restaurant called The Grapeleaf. Sitting there in the plaza square, I felt quite comfortable with a familiarity I hadn't experience since the last Lebanese picnic I had gone to with Gabe almost twenty five years ago. Where had the time gone?
Relaxing under the bright sun at the Redwood City Plaza enjoying my shawarma burrito, music began to blast through the speakers and a large group of young people dressed in traditional Lebanese costume began to gather near the elevated band stand. Seats around us quickly filled up as families began to settle themselves in for the afternoon's entertainment. Young mothers and husbands with their babies in strollers greeted what looked like their moms and dads -- proud grandparents of those young new lives. I saw cousins greet cousins and brothers greet brothers who were the uncles to someone in the groups. Sisters and aunts embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. English was replaced by Arabic.
As the young performers began their show, it suddenly dawned on me. This entire plaza filled with Lebanese families, young and old, was actually filled with one big enormously huge family. The sense of ties was so evident that I saw them reach as far back as the country of Lebanon itself. Its strength and power was apparent as I gazed upon the congregation.
And then I thought about my own family ties. I thought about the general ties of the American extended family. I know that in my own family, I am estranged from all of them. I don't know my uncle and aunt anymore from my father's side, and all of my mother's sisters have since passed away. My cousins are unknown to me and my only niece and nephew were shut off from me when my mother passed away for reasons set for another blog.
As the young people danced and acted out their skits, family members cheered and clapped at their performances. The support and enthusiasm from all sides lifted my spirits and jerked me to the present. I, too, clapped and cheered at their performance.
The enormity of this family overwhelmed me. Perhaps one day, I will be united with my sisters and my brother. I missed them. But for then, I was glad to be a small part of it for that one afternoon with my Lebanese family under the sun at the Redwood City Plaza.
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