Friday, May 30, 2008

Existential issues/Early Faith Crisis

In the last couple of months, Daniel and Lucy have experienced existential questioning and struggles with faith, respectively. At dinner the other night, Daniel revealed that he keeps asking himself, “Why am I here?” He said that he can't stop asking himself the question and gets a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders where he’d be if he weren’t here. This is evidently happening when he is not reading the sports page, eating, taking standardized tests, striking people out during baseball games, reading books, going to church, watching sports, and trying to get his family to:

1. Play sports
2. Watch sports
3. Allow him to eat junk food.

We’ll see what he comes up with this summer. Fortunately, we have friends who report that their daughter is going through a similar phase, accompanied by a precocious use of irony and sarcasm. Daniel is working on this aspect of the existential questioning.

Lucy (age 7) recently her crisis of faith at bedtime after we read the Bible, prayed, and sang. In other words, it could be a crisis, or a sophisticated bedtime stalling technique similar to our niece Joy's (age 3) tactic of saying, "My nook fell out of bed" or "Mama, I need to cut my finger nails." Still, it's interesting that she hit some of the highlights. Here's what she said:

"Daddy, is the Bible real? I can't believe that people can live to be hundreds of years old. I can't believe that everyone on earth spoke the same language. I can't believe that Jesus turned water into wine. And I REALLY can't believe that a woman who is not married can have a baby."

Fortunately, she still believes in the resurrection.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

"Urban" Baseball

We were back in the park last night for another game in an interminable double-elimination tournament. Daniel's team, the West Long Beach Minor B Angels, had to win in order to play in the championship game tonight. The Angels played the Dodgers, the team expected to win the league. Dodger fans were out in force to cheer their team to the league title and then the city playoffs--at least that's what we think is in store. (In West LB, one can't exactly download the game schedule to one's PDA.) Suffice it to say that the intensity level was spurred on by the grown-ups, especially those with ghetto tendencies. Caroline told me to "let it go" when we got home last night. I have to say that I was irritated, but as we talked more, I could see the humor.

Here's a partial list of West LB Dodger Fans and coaches I had to forgive last night:
  • The woman who yelled "take that" after a Dodger pitcher threw a strike
  • The woman who yelled "take that!" after the next strike
  • The guy who stood behind home plate and blasted an air horn after one of the Angels struck out. (Are air horns allowed in baseball?)
  • The guy who blasted an air horn when a ball was in play.
  • The Dodger coach who argued a point for 5 minutes in order to "ice" the Angel pitcher in the top of the last inning
  • The guy who yelled "Hey Nomo, get off the field!" when I went out to compare score books with the opposing coach. (I told them that my name was Sato.)
The Angels played great defense to eke out an 8-7 victory, ensuring a final game tonight. To paraphrase the MLB Angel announcers, "Just another Halo victory...in the 'hood."

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Domestic Abuse on the Bus

The bus pulled up after a few minutes and I flashed my pass, took a seat in the back of the bus, and focused on election returns from the primaries, and my book, Madeleine L’Engle’s reflections on beauty. I needed to get to the park as soon as possible to watch the kids play baseball. In the row to my right, I noticed a man with an enormous head; the size was impressive, larger than a size 8 and even more massive with long frizzy locks. It seemed completely eclipsed the person in the seat next to him.

He leaned in, two inches way from his seat mate, and unleashed what can only be described as a foul, relentless, profanity-laced diatribe. To describe it that way makes it seem somewhat understandable, like a ballplayer losing his temper after a tough loss in the playoffs. But this was loud, hate-filled, and downright demonic. “Shut up,” I said internally, “I just want to read my L’Engle and get to the game.”

The man, in his 20s, did not stop cursing, yelling, and physically dominating the unseen person in the seat next to him for the next 10 minutes. The entire bus was oppressed and angry. Patrons looked back at him and said that he was crazy, in Spanish, or motioned towards him. He finally leaned back, and I saw that he had been speaking to an African American woman with a youthful face and no front teeth. Amazingly, she was not in tears. In fact, she did not seem fazed, at least by outward appearance, by what he was saying. I wondered what to do. Should I confront him? Would this result in more abuse later for this poor woman? I prayed for peace. I wrestled with anger. How could she take this? "You don't have to be with this abusive loser," I thought. "You deserve so much more than this!" Suddenly, he raised his voice and shifted in his seat in an aggressive manner. I turned off the radio, took off my headphones, and prepared to grab his right arm if he tried to punch her.

"I will get off at the next stop and f--- you anyway. I don’t care about the HIV or nothin’,” he yelled. He assumed a less violent posture and I stared out the window, prayed for God's mercy, and tried to prevent myself from shouting at him. The yelling continued. The bus was dark, oppressive, even in the late afternoon sun. It was as grim as the streets of Bangkok when John and I saw a chubby young girl in glasses, maybe 12 years old, with a middle-aged European man without a care in the world. I exhaled and continued to pray. Behind the dysfunctional couple, a 50-year-old man them was serene, his baseball cap and mustache were locked in place. Finally, a large black man in a huge blue shirts aid, “Big Dawg, take it easy," from the back of the bus.

In predictable urban fashion, the dialogue escalated rapidly.

“What? She’s my lady!”
“So what, she’s a sister.”
“Are you telling me to stop talking to her? You don’t know what we’ve been through!”
“Talk to me like you talk to her, Dawg.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Let’s go.”

The Samoan man stood up, pulled up his sagging jeans, and dropped his wallet. The man in the cap picked up the wallet and returned it. The Samoan paused for a second to consider saying thanks, but turned back to the aisle and said, “I’m gonna beat you Polynesian style, dawg.” For an instant, he reached behind his back with his right hand, towards his waistband. I’m casual, but he was less than a yard away and prepared to launch forward and grab his arm in case he pulled out a weapon. His arms were thrice the size of mine, but I knew that he would be taken by surprise.

The man in blue, a head taller than the yeller, gave a wry smile and said “I dare you.”

“Get off at the next stop, and I’ll show you a Chamoro-style beat down.”
"I double-dare you," he replied.

The woman pleaded with her boyfriend. “Don’t do this, you’ll just be back in jail!”

“I don’t care. I got stabbed 23 times in the yard, it don’t matter.”

The man glared at each other from five feet away. The Samoan man's eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He was high, crazy, probably both. In my memory, his face was contorted in the exaggerated battle lust of Japanese samurai paintings or like a rugby player performing the Haka before a match.

The bus parked at the next stop and the driver, a 60-year old man with a droopy expression, walked to the back. “Let’s just take it easy guys,” he said with arms spread. The wild-eyed man returned to his seat. He sat down and talked to his lady, quietly this time.. Placid man stared straight ahead. The man in blue answered his phone and said, “Nothing's happening, really,” and laughed.

Mercifully, after a few moments, it was my turn to get off the bus. I breathed deeply and tried to shift gears to cheer at a baseball game. It took me a long time before the perfect line for the situation came to me: “Peace. Be still.”

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

The Dapper Man at the Bus Stop

I waited at the bus stop next to a dapper man who wore his security guard uniform like some people wear a 3-piece suit. He carried himself with precision even when he sat and pulled out his cell phone. I sat there reading Walking on Water, by Madeleine L’Engle, as I waited for the bus to take me to the park, and simultaneous baseball games for our kids.

The security guard spoke into his cell phone and had an animated conversation. I tried to focus on election returns and L’Engle for a few minutes, but he said something that caught my attention: “I done prayed that sh__ through. If she wants to do something about it, she can GO AHEAD!” After a few moments, he finished his conversation and noticed my book. "What are you reading," he asked. I muttered something about a great children’s writer and her opinions on faith in God, art, and writing. He looked disappointed, but as he walked away, he said, “Enjoy the book. Every book is a great adventure.” “True,” I said, but I really meant that every day in Long Beach is an adventure.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Why Odd Thoughts from LBC?

Do you know many Christian, C.S. Lewis-reading, sports-loving, urban church-planting, New Yorker aficionados in Long Beach, California? Holla if you do, because I'd like to meet them if their last names aren't Sato or Teter. (Bonus points if they like Wim Wenders, John McPhee, Fantastic Burger, and the works of Katherine Paterson.)

Once upon a time, in an op-ed writing class at USC, I asked a question of a local writer and NPR correspondent. I don't remember the exact words, but it was something about living in South L.A. and writing from my perspective as an Asian Christian. Her answer: "Who knew?"

Well, I don't know who knew what, and when they knew it, but I'm planning to write and see what happens.