Husband Hunting Part IV

Chye nudged me and whispered, “Stand.”

The sermon had ended, a song had concluded, the offering had come and gone, and a prayer uttered over the full, bounty of gifts.

I realized we were at that part of the service. The minister had announced us as guests, not that I’d recognized my name, but apparently it was our job to stand and present ourselves to the Korean Presbyterian congregation. Our covert position in the back  insured that the entire gathering had to twist themselves around to gawk at us. I popped up, gazed at their upturned faces, nodded acknowledgement, and plopped back down in the pew. A gasp of horror from the onlookers told me I had made a mistake. Chye flapped her hand at me, frantically motioning at me to stand back up.

I rose.

The organ burst into a full, bright chord and I jumped. I patted my hair back into place, and hung on to the pew back as the gathering opened their mouths wide and sang, “Welcome, dear guest,” or something to that effect. I’m likely making it up at this point, if only due to the complete, unnerving experience. That and I don’t speak Korean, so honestly, they could have sang anything, for example, “No sweet girls, there are no husbands here.... at least none as old as you, unless you want to consider... Never mind.”

They sang a full verse. They sang a chorus.

They sang a second verse.

They repeated the dang chorus.

I pulled my face into a wide, sloppy grin. My knees began to creak and bend toward the pew, but straightened suddenly at the start of the third verse. I felt trapped behind the smile plastered on my face and my lips began to dry on my teeth. At the final stanza, their arms rose in unison, palms open, then pointed our direction as the final chorus catapulted out.

My knees were a little weak but I lowered myself and settled softly into the upholstered pew. I pulled my head down and prayed for the announcements to end so we could scoot out of there. The minister joined me in prayer, except his wasn’t silent.

“Ah-min,” the congregation heaved loudly.

His robe flapped in a self-created breeze as he strode past. 

Chye and I rushed for the aisle, taking huge mother-may-I steps toward the exit.

She made it before me, but the minister’s stance guarding the door slowed us down. Chye did as she'd been taught: she bowed low. I automatically reached out to catch her thinking she would fall over, but she had it under control. The minister caste his gaze on me. Just behind him stood the open door. Freedom. I bobbed my head his direction and turned to bolt, but my inept head jerk gave the Korean women time to set their trap. The babbling began. Their voices rose along with the volume and I yelled at Chye as they closed in on us, “What? What?”

A couple of women  in front of us motioned us toward their dining hall. Another women positioned herself behind us, placed one hand on Chye’s back and one hand firmly on mine. She braced herself, dug her feet into the carpet and began to push.

She. Pushed. Us. Down. The. Hall. Literally.

When I saw what was on the table it was too good to miss. I ran the last few steps, a goofy grin gaping across my lips.

Krispy Kremes and Kimchi.

Klearly Korean.

Oh, by the way, we went back the next week.


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Husband Hunting Part III

Adventure embraces every moment of our lives. We have no idea what is coming next. I had no idea Chye (a co-worker and Korean woman) would ask me about the Korean Presbyterian Church I had attended some months back. Crashing their service was a personal dare to further my book research.

It had not been a comfortable experience.

I am not Korean.

Chye had embarked on a personal quest, to secure a Korean husband, and had completed preliminary research--general fact finding about Korean places of worship in the larger metro area, plus she had joined Match.com and joined a Korean dating site.

At mid-thirty the time was now. Marriage and baby were her goals.

As an an artist/designer, Chye recognized and was appalled by the Korean dating sight and the lengths single women went to in order to photoshop a model-perfect profile photo. Chye would rather you know her as she is. I peered over and wondered what it would take to convince her to remove her beret, comb out her long, dark hair, and dab on light makeup--if only lipstick.

Oh, and a little weight wouldn't hurt, either. By government standards she was probably five lbs. underweight, but that underweight was valued by Korean men. In fact, it might impress her latest long-distance interest, an architect in Korea who engaged in intriguing, online conversations. He sounded like a stunning prospect, so I had demanded, "Why is he not married now?"

"I wonder same thing," she noted.

Korean men are not easy to please. Last year on her annual visit home, a high-school classmate had convinced Chye to meet up with him. He was a doctor, who as a teen, had been smitten with her and waddled behind her like an imprinted duckling. Apparently, Chye had become too Americanized. Their first in-person conversation in years ended abruptly when he cancelled their dinner date and explained, "You're too fat."

There's something about that bone thin Asian women that is hard to shake from some men's fantasies. "Keep eating at Burgerville-USA," I advised. "It saved your ass."

The music played, someone uttered a prayer, and programs shuffled as eyes reviewed what was next in the service. We sat in the back row. I felt slightly self-consious, if not borderline unacceptable (church behaviour-wise), as I pulled out my Droid and snapped a few pictures.

I had no clue if tweeting from church was practiced by Presbyterians, but what could it hurt, I wondered and scribed a couple of 140's.

The music drifted away. The minister began to speak. Instinctively, we both felt the spirit at the same time. We spontanesouly reached out for deeper communication. We were, after all in God's house. Things should be said, things should be shared.

I wrote the first note. "There were more people when I was here before." She glanced at my notepad and shrugged as the minister's voice rose in dramatic fashion. "I LOVE the sound of the language. Beautiful," I wrote and added a smiley face to underscore my appreciation.

Chye slipped the small, spiral notepad from my hands and plucked the pen from my fingers. "He has nice voice!" Her head tilted away as if listening, then wrote, "They are too serious make me very uncomfortable."

I nodded.

"Do you go to church?" Her script on the notepad asked.

I answered, "I used to—this past year, no." Then I drew a little arrow in case she didn't know to turn the page. "And I'm Presbyterian!" I wrote, as if that should allow me entrance to the Korean church mysteries.

"Ah, I don't have religion," she answered in her crisp printing. This makes very strange." She listened and translated the current theme of the sermon then crossed it out, but it was still readible: "Talking about donating and offering money to god." Then she repeated, "I'm very uncomfortable."

She passed the pad and pen my way. "I felt the same way the first time I came here," I wrote, although my reasons had more to do with feeling like I didn't belong than about what I did or did not believe. "Better this time," I finished.

"Hahaha. I'll feel same way if I go to American church." Her next sentenced betrayed that she had spent too many years away from home. "There are too many Korean here." Then she got right down to it. "I don't see any available men. I feel real guilty here. I'll stick with Match.com."

Guilt belongs a lot of places, but not in church.

Okay, guilt is created in church, but I encouraged, "Don't feel guilty—it's an adventure. Not all are successful, but the stories we will tell!" I finished with a larger smiley face.

Chye nudged me and pointed to the notation in both Korean and English in the church bulletin that said, "Welcome."

This is going to be good, I thought, and imagined them asking us to share a little about ourselves as way of introduction. Yes, I'm here with my friend Chye. We are looking for a husband for her. Who is single?

That's when my prayers began in earnest. Yes, Lord, please let us find Chye a husband and get this over. Please, please, please.

To be continued...

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Manhunt Part II

I wonder sometimes why I do some of the crazy things I do. I think it’s because I don’t want to miss out, I don’t like there to be places where I don’t belong, and I like to know what’s behind closed doors. I will be the one who—after everyone has gone home—pokes her head in the men’s bathroom. Just to see what it looks like.

Uh, yeah.

The people who know me would not be surprised by that disclosure. They might, however, be surprised that some of my antics require me to get my nerve up. But Sunday, entering the Korean Church felt quite comfortable now that I was in the company of a Korean, my co-worker Chye.

The time I came without her, the Korean greeters had taken one look at my auburn hair and round eyes and waved the Korean bulletins in their hands as if to ward off smoke from a campfire gone awry, shouting “This is not the right church.” Of course, they said it in Korean, but it was quite clear they believed I had made a wrong turn and ended up in their midst by mistake.

I smiled.

They gaped.

I neared.

They took a step back.

I took another step, reached out, and my smile tensed as I tugged a bulletin out of the tight grip of one of them. I gave it a cursory glance, nodded and entered the sanctuary. I sat as close to the back as I could, certain I was a distraction, but hoped I wouldn’t ruin the service for the people who worshipped there regularly.

This morning they had the same set-up. Two Korean guards women greeted the oncoming with smiles and bowing heads, handing out church bulletins. Their eyes glowed when they saw Chye and the Korean words rushed and swirled as the introduction conversation ensued. With grand hand gestures, one of them handed Chye a blank piece of paper and a pen. Chye wrote something down, turned to me and told me to write my name down.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“They want to introduce you. They say your name and you stand.” She pointed at a spot in the bulletin, ‘Welcome’ it said in bold letters followed by circles and hash marks I recognized as Korean.

“No. No, way,” I answered, taking a step back.

“Just do it,” she said, then the smile tightened on her lips as if to say don’t embarrass me.

I glanced at the women. They smiled encouragingly and waved the bulletins as if to fan the fire of invitation. I grasped the pen, narrowed my eyes on Chye and scratched my name on the paper under hers. Just you wait, I thought, if they make us speak I’ll announce we’re on a man hunt.

We stepped into the carpeted sanctuary and eased into the back row as soft music lilted from the small orchestra at the front of the church: violin, viola, cello and keyboards. We stared at our bulletins. One of us could read it.

A congregational hymn began, a few hands clapped in rhythm. My head jerked up.

Unbelievable.

I understood Korean. At least one word...



AH-LAY-LOO-YAH

More to come...

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Husband shopping

I went to church on Sunday and understood exactly two words. It's not because I don't get God. I do. I totally get God. It's simple. He's in charge. I am not.

No, I only understood two words because the service was conducted in a language I do not speak. Korean to be precise. Yes. On Sunday I visited the Vancouver Korean Presbyterian Church (밴쿠버 한인 장로 교회(미국장로회 PCA). It was my second time. The first was a personal dare. Book research. And was likely one of the most uncomfortable church experiences I've ever had. Mostly because the tables were turned. Suddenly, I was the sole auburn-haired maiden in a sea of dark, bowing heads.

I was the minority.

Afterwards, I discussed the experience with my friends telling them that I felt every white American should do exactly as I had done, attend an Asian church service and discover what it must feel like to someone who is not culturally in sync, to enter our white bread places of worship, to sense how out of place one feels, how difficult it is to understand or communicate, how happy you are to flee.

One of the people I shared this with, Chye, was not necessarily a close friend, but a supportive co-worker, a Korean woman who happily answered questions that arose as I created a Korean family in my first manuscript. She thought I was odd to go to church, she doesn't have faith, and even odder to thrust myself into a cultural morass, but she evidently stored the 'spiritual visit' away, allowed it to percolate then surface when her stage of life changed.

She nabbed me in the hall, referenced the Korean church, and noted she needed to find out where they were located. Why do you seek out church if you are ambivalent at best about heavenly matters? My curiosity piqued and after a few questions I learned, she wasn't shopping for a good God experience. She was shopping for a good husband.

Where does a nice, divorced Korean girl meet a nice, single Korean man? With approximately less than 0.6% of the local population Korean, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Unless you go to church.

While my Korean church experience had been excruciating I was still drawn to to the little building on 18th Street and possessed some longing to go again, but could not muster the courage. Accompanying Chye would be my ticket back in so I volunteered to go with her. "Really?!" she said astounded. I nodded.

Worry clouded her dark eyes as they swung back and forth between mine. She was particularly stressed about connecting with the local Korean community. She feared they might latch onto her and not let go. Set some sort of Korean-cultural trap from which one doesn't escape, pursue her, push her into a relationship with someone she didn't like. Ridiculous I thought and countered, "I'll be the matchmaker. They'll have to be approved by me, and if they bother you, I'll handle it."

I thought I was invincible. I had not met The Koreans.

To be continued...

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Emergency Jesus kitsch

Anne Dayton tweets, "When I left last night, there was a full package of strawberries on my desk. This morning, half of them are gone. I'm trying not to be mad."

This calls for the only thing that will cheer Anne up: Emergency-Jesus-Kitsch.


Anne, if that doesn't make you feel better, I'll dig up some more kitsch, and I actually mean dig. It's in the basement in a scary storage area, and speaking of scary areas, here's something to curl your hair. (See below).



NO ONE would take anything from me. Everyone's afraid to venture into my cube. Even me!

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Why Korean? Solving the equation, but please, let's do it with their shirts off

(Yes, it will all make sense in the end, but this starts out kind of serious).

I stood in an elevator in a hotel in China. A couple got in, Chinese, and gave me a sharp once over. The woman had her arm through the man’s. Her fingers opened and closed clutching at his nice suit, her dress elegant, nicely cut on her slender frame.

“Why you want adopt China baby?” she asked, and pointed at my baby’s eyes, then her own, attempting to direct my attention to the differences in the shape, crescent vs round. “Baby’s eyes different,” she stated as if of utmost importance.

“But they’re both the same color,” I replied, flashed my big browns and smiled as if that answered everything. What the hell did I care? My child is my child. Hair, eye, skin color? What difference does that make? None to me. Weighty subject to at least two people in China. Did they think we were stealing their children? Should we cry at home childless while babies languished in orphanages? Not in my world.

At home a college friend stopped by with his son, birth child, adored, but no more than mine. We’d met at a private college, both musicians, I’d had a crush on him back then, but nothing came of it except good friends. That evening we shared stories about becoming parents, how it changed things, how it made things matter, how close our children were in age.

“Maybe our kids will grow up and get married,” I started to say, and stopped. Tim was blond, Lutheran, and from the Midwest. What if he didn’t want his grandchildren to reflect Asia? I didn’t want to hear him clear his throat and say: Yeah. Cough. Sure. I left my thought unsaid, uncertain of his response.

Before traveling to China I’d taken a language class, wanted to be able to say hello, thank you, and more rice please. I managed hello. Ni hau. I attended informational events sponsored by the adoption agency, Saturdays, evenings, even and all day event from the Northwest China Center. A woman spoke. I learned that during my lifetime it was illegal for Asians to own homes in certain neighborhoods in Oregon’s largest city, Portland. Are you kidding? Not at all. A little girl, born in America with Asian eyes, held her daddy’s hand as he knocked on every door in the neighborhood and begged the surrounding neighbors to sign a statement allowing them to buy a house they could well afford, they had cash. Knocked me over. Her message: it wasn't that long ago...prejudice still exists.

A young man spoke. He came from Korea, his parents were of German descent. He was caught between two cultures and wanted to figure life out. Every time he asked his mother about his adoption she cried. His message: talk.

Another adoptee spoke, he’d been a camp counselor for adopted kids. The teenage boys lamented, “Girls don’t like me because I’m adopted.” He answered, “Girls don’t like you because you’re mean.” His message: adoption is not the root of all problems.

My mom stopped by the house everyday after work the first month I was home, sat in a green overstuffed chair, held my baby and cooed, and I contemplated how it must have felt when she held me as a baby. It felt like love. A mother’s love. Now a grandmother’s love. My dad stood in front of the Presbyterian congregation, cuddled my child and proudly introduced his first grandchild. I beamed. The lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder and admonished, “You think she’s a doll.” No church lady. I think she is my child, the most beautiful baby ever born. If I could have had children I would have had her. I couldn’t, so someone else had her for me, (thank you, lord). You think she is a doll.

I learned that kids in daycare ask what they think. “THAT your mom?” Yup.

I learned that adults don’t. “Is she the mom?” they whispered to daycare workers. I smiled and laughed. I could no longer distinguish their sons. Blond? they all looked the same to me.

I learned that the public includes idiots. A waitress greeted us out on girls night and clucked over my daughter, and fished, “Is her father tall?”

“We don’t know, she’s adopted.”

“How could anyone throw something so beautiful away?” she fussed.

No one threw her away, I wanted to shout. Someone couldn’t keep her and made a plan to provide another family for her. Have you heard of the 40’s and 50’s in America when unmarried, pregnant girls were sent away to convents, and had babies who were snatched from them without discussion? Don’t ever think nothing bad has happened in Caucasian culture, if you can call that culture. You have social security. China does not. The government will take care of you. Who will take care of the aging Chinese workers? Only their sons. And don’t ever say my child was thrown away, ever, ever, ever.

Speaking of sons. There are boys now in my daughter’s life. And boys’ parents, their moms. “That’s nice you like that cute girl Kai, but…”

But what?

Listen lady, you need to fall in love with an Asian man. You need to read books where women just like you (Caucasian) fall in love with sexy Asians. You need to watch films where Asians and Caucasian’s hold hands, kiss, get excited, get married, have children. After all, they do in real life. Why don’t they in the entertainment media? You need to watch YouTube’s “Hot Asian Guys,” you need to WANT to make-out with one of these men. Yes, you need a little Asian lust. If you can believe you'd want one, you can believe your son would want to marry one. Because, believe me, my daughter is NOT marrying an Asian. (I'll explain later).

Thus started my mission. A book. A cross-cultural couple. The man is Asian, didn’t matter which flavor, just had to be Asian, handsome and hot, someone those gals would drool over. If he were Chinese, my daughter would think the book had something to do with her and she would hate it, hate me. And of course it’s ‘for’ her, but I have to pretend. Okay, not Chinese. What? Couldn’t be Japanese, I have a Jap friend who told me once that Japanese believe the Chinese are stupid. I’ll NEVER get that out of my head, and besides, it made me mad. What’s next? Vietnamese. Gads, that guy mows my lawn, yeah, for real, he showed up on our doorstep when we moved in and I’ve watched his business grow, he's got a whole crew, very polite, but he’s too short. I’ll never get him out of my head.

Korean? Hmm.

I need a visual to wrap my thoughts around the character who is emerging on little pieces of paper, notes fluttering over my desk, receipts wadded up in the bottom of my bag with bits of dialogue. If I'm going to do this I need to get organized, get it on computer where it can evolve some semblance of order.

At the computer I search for images of Korean men. Whoops, turn that safe filter on! Whew, okay scan the faces for a handsome guy. Here’s one: Yul Kwon. I don’t watch TV. Really, I don’t. Survivor? Okay. Whatever. It’s just that, wow, he looks GOOD, and *pant* GREAT without a shirt. (See picture at top). That’s the guy. Okay, that's settled, Korean protagonist.

What the hell do I know about Koreans? Absolutely nothing. Well, guess what else pops up when you search for Korean men? That’s right, Ask a Korean. I did. He was kind, encouraging, helpful, and intelligent. Now that's my kind of guy! He kept the inspiration wheels greased, and now, I really like Korean guys (don’t worry, I’m old enough to be his mother, or at least a way, WAY older sister).

So, that’s a snippet of the history behind the book. The protagonist Jae-Chun Lee is his complete self now, totally his own person, he’s not Yul Kwan, Daniel Dae Kim, Daniel Henney, or…

Ahn Jae Wook, Ahn So Hee, Bae Doona, Bae Yong Joon, Bae Su-bin, Baek Sung Hyun, Baek Yoon-sik, Bong Tae-gyu, Chae Jung Ahn, Choi Jeong-yoon, Choi Ji Woo, Choi Min-sik, Choi Si Won, Choo Sang Mi, Choi Kang-hee, Dennis Joseph O'Neil, Eric Mun, Gam Wu-seong, Ha Ji-Won, Haha , Han Chae Young, Han Ga In, Han Ji Min, Han Ji-Hye, Han Hyo Joo, Harisu, Hong Seok-Cheon, Hwang Jang-Lee, Hyun Bin, Han Ye, Jang Geun Suk, Jang Ja-yeon, Jang Jin-young, Jang Nara, Jang So Hee, Jeon Do-yeon, Ji Hyun Woo, Ji Sung, Jo Han Seon, Jo Hyun Jae, Jo Insung, Jo Yeon-Woo, Jo Yoon-hee, Joo Hyun, Joo Ji Hoon, Jun Ji-hyun, Jung Eui-Chul, Jung Da-bin, Kang Eun Bi, Kang Dong-won, Kang Ji Hwan, Kang Jung Hwa, Kang Se Jung, Kang Sung Yun, Kang Ta, Kang Hye-jeong, Kim Ah-jung, Kim Bum, Kim Dong Wan, Kim Hee-sun, Kim Hye Su, Kim Hyo Jin, Kim Hyun-ju, Kim Jae Won, Kim Jeong Hoon, Kim Ji-hoo, Kim Ji-soo, Kim Joo-hyuk, Kim Jung-Eun, Kim Kyu Ri, Kim Mu-saeng, Kim Ok-bin, Kim Rae Won, Kim Ri-na, Kim Sa Rang, Kim Su-ro, Kim Sun Ah, Kim Sung-soo, Kim Tae Hee, Ko Ah-seong, Ko Joo-yeon, Ko So-young, Koo Hye-sun, Kwon Sang-woo, Lee Ah Hyun, Lee Beom-soo, Lee Bo-yeong, Lee Byung Hun, Lee Cheong Ah, Lee Da Hae, Lee Dong Gun, Lee Dong Wook, Lee Eon Jeong, Lee Eun-ju, Lee Ha Na, Lee Hee Jung, Lee Hwi Hyang, Lee Hye Young, Lee Hyori, Lee In Hye, Lee Ji-ah, Lee Jin, Lee Jun Ki, Lee Jung Hyun, Lee Jung-jae, Lee Mi Sook, Lee Mi-yeon, Lee Na-young, Lee Sabi, Lee Se Eun, Lee Seung Yun, Lee Si-yeon, Lee So Yeon, Lee Soo Kyung, Lee Tae Ran, Lee Wan, Lee Ki woo, Lee Yeon Hee, Lee Yo Won, Lee Yoo Jin, Lee Yoo Ri, Lee Yoon Ji, Lee Yoon Mi, Lee Young Hoon, Lee Young Ae, Lim Chang-jung, Lim Eun-kyeong, Moon Geun Young, Myung Se Bin, Na Moon Hee, Nah Eun Kyeong, Nam Sang Mi, Oh Ji Ho, Oh Joo Eun, Oh San Ha, Oh Seung Hyun, Oh Yoon-Ah, Oh Yun Soo, Ok Ji Young, Pak Chae-rim, Park Eun-hye, Park Hae-il, Park Han-byul, Park Hee Bon, Park Hee Jin, Park Ji Yoon, Park Jin Hee, Park Jung Soo, Park Min Ji, Park Choong-Jae, Park Sang-min, Park Shin-hye, Park Shin Yang, Park Si Yeon, Park Sol-mi, Park Sun Young, Park Tam Hee, Park Ye Ji, Park Yong Ha, Rain (Jeong Ji-hoon), Ryu Deok-hwan, Ryu Shi-won, Se7en, Seo Do Young, Seo Ji-hye, Seo Min Jung, Seo Yeong, Shim Eun Ha, Shim Hye Jin, Shin Ae, Shin Ae Ra, Shin Dong Wook, Shin Ha Kyun, Shin Hye Sung, Shin Hyun Jun, Shin Ji Soo, Shin Min Ah, Shin Sung Woo, Shin Yi, So Ji Sup, So Yi Hyun, Soh Yoo Jin, Son Chang Min, Son Tae Young, Son Ye Jin, Song Hye Kyo, Song Il Gook, Song Ji-hyo, Song Seung Hun, Song Sun Mi, Song Yun Ah, Soo Ae, Suh Ji Hee, Suh Ji Suk, Suh Ji Young, Sung Hyun Ah, Sung Si Kyung, Sung Yu Ri, Uhm Ji-won, Uhm Jung Hwa, Won Bin, Xiah, Yang Geum Suk, Yang Mi Kyung, Yeo Woon Kye, Yoo Chae-yeong, Yoo Gun, Yoo Ho Jung, Yoo In Young, Yoo Ji-tae, Yoo Sun, Yoon Chan, Yoon Eun Hye, Yoon Hae Young, Yoon Ji Hye, Yoon Jung Hee, Yoon Mi So, Yoon Se Ah, Yoon So Yi, Yoon Son Ha, Yoon Ye Hee, Yoon Yeo Jung, Yoon Yoo Sun, Yum Jung Ah.

Yes, America, there is another world out there! And I have loved looking at it.

And here is where I reveal my prejudice: would I want my daughter marrying one of the above men? Hahaha. Nope. Just a regular guy, with a regular job, who will love my daughter, be a faithful husband and a good father. Find one of those in the entertainment industry. Now, if any of the above want to call me and chat about a role in that future movie, please, by all means. My desk is even clean now.

Thank you Yul for your inspiration, you can put your shirt back on, but you don't HAVE to. Thank you Ask-A-Korean for your encouragement. I will be eternally grateful. And AAK, I fully intend to have you read the manuscript and alert me to any missteps. I'll let you keep your shirt on, I swear.

And here's an unedited snippet from the epilogue:

"Speaking of children, I’ve been watching my little boy, Jin-Bae, oh lord, he is going to be a heart throb, I can see it already, and I’m not just a mom bragging about her kid, no really, he’s going to be even more good looking than his father, if that is even possible. One of these days, my son is going to knock on your door to take your daughter out. Believe me, it’ll happen and that’s just the beginning. And when you and I stand, with our arms around each other, because the most blessed event has just happened, and peer in the crib of our grandbaby, what are you going to see? Are you going to try and erase the Asian from that baby’s face, or are you going to behold that child the way I do, and simply see love? A baby made of precious love." A Single Pearl.

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