A Whole New World

Waking up to snow when you’re a native Southern Californian, not in your own bed, but in the bed you’ve modified to make your own, feels as if I’m gazing out the window of Apollo 13: the glistening, marshmallow puffs of new fallen snow on a street that’s normally bustling with rush hour traffic, but today looks like an illustration from Millie’s favorite story, “Frozen”, is straight out of a fairy tale.  

Today, we’re hanging out, cuddling under grandma’s fluffy, dryer-warmed, lavender-scented white blanket, reading books, watching movies, and enjoying each other’s company before I venture back to L.A. where, I hear, it’s been especially gorgeous of late.

This is my first full-time East Coast winter. According to meteorologists, this year’s snowfall ties with last’s for being the mildest winter on record. Since mid-November, it’s only snowed four days in the Forest Hills area. It’s strange how quickly I’ve adapted to the cold; now a sunny 40-degree day feels like summer. My sister jokes that when I get back I’ll have to wear tank tops. 

Doom and gloom forecasters warned New Yorkers that the first leg of this week’s Mega Storm 2024 was sure to be a doozy. They even cancelled NYC schools fearing deadly road conditions. But looking out the window, the cement sill inhabited by a pair of heat-seeking doves, it appears the weather guys got it wrong—-again. 

But then there’s a lot of that going on these days, being wrong, that is. 

Fear-mongering, dogma-inciting, flame-fanning, not considering the “other” side, is scary, as in 1930-40s Nazi Germany scary. Can it get any worse? History’s pretty clear about that. The consequences of polarization makes me want to bury my head under the covers.

Mostly, I do my best to avoid the news, but still, it’s hard not to freak out about all that’s wrong. 

My brain, my heart, need space to find the good when everything seems so bad.

This trip, what I’ve been keenly aware of is NYC’s inclusivity. You see positive messages on the subways, in museums, in murals painted beneath defunct train tracts: You belong. Here, you can be anything you want; you’re accepted, but more than that, included. You have a place at the table. In NYC, there are places where you can dine, shop, worship, peruse TV, radio stations, and newspapers, that represent your culture and values. Here, you’re never far from your original home—-wherever in the world that may be. Even Alexander Hamilton in the musical “Hamilton” extolled New York City’s virtues when he sang, “In New York you can be a new man.” You can feel at home while making your new home.

It’s true. I doubt any other city, or nation in the entire world for that matter, could boast such a claim. That’s something to celebrate.

Saying that, I know that inclusivity is a threat to some Americans who would prefer a return to “See Dick Run” 1950s suburbia. But if only, for a second, they’d be willing to immerse themselves in the colors, textures, shapes and sounds of America’s patchwork quilt; I think they might discover being “different” isn’t to be feared, it’s what makes America Great. 

Case in point: my daughter’s husband and in-laws immigrated from Hong Kong and speak Cantonese; as a result, my grandchildren are bilingual at ages 2 and 3. What an advantage! And while The Littles prefer the standard American kid diet of chicken nuggets and French fries, they’re exposed to bowls of interesting greens, savory sauces, and special sweets from Asia. But more than anything, they’re dearly cherished by grandparents who dote on them while their parents are at work. My grandchildren, and society, are richer in countless ways because they’re here. 

Yet some, without knowing their backstory, would judge them, hate them, because of their race. 

I’m not perfect. I’ve had moments of misunderstanding due to cultural or language barriers. But recognizing my own prejudices, I’ve become keenly aware that L-O-V-E has its own language that everyone can understand: It’s visible in Jason’s parents’ eyes; the love they feel for our grandchildren is as big as the Moon. Am I slightly jealous? Yes, because I’m an occasional visitor with less time to bond and they’re here full time. But I can set that aside knowing that when I leave, Our Littles will be adored by their fun, humble, and patient immigrant grandparents.

Welcoming immigrants—-who find their way here legally—-is something we should be proud of. I know I am. My life, and the lives of my grandchildren, are better off because America opened her doors to the Kwok Family. And my family, who immigrated to the U.S. after WWII, too.

It’s getting close to dinner time. I can hear hunger ramping up in the family room. Closing the blinds and turning on the twinkle lights that so delights The Littles, I’m awestruck to see the sun still out and the snow that weighted down the balcony has already melted. I check my phone and see that the temperature is 42 degrees. Wow. Just like summer! The ominous end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Mega Storm of 2024 is a slushy, beautiful mess. Just like America.

I can’t change the course of America, but I can tell a story or two. And so can you. Of the good. Of the worthy. Of the trying-our-best. Of the open hearts and smiles and good people willing to turn off brain-wash TV and social media, and follow Jesus’ command: Love thy neighbor as thyself.

Yes, from all reports it looks like things are going to Hell, but America has too many of us good folks to let that happen. In fact, loving “the other” is such an integral part of the American fabric, Emma Lazarus’ 1883 poem was etched in bronze at the base of the Statue of Liberty:  

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”