Another application, another draft. I’m not quite happy with any of my work; and I realize by now procrastination is basically self-sabotage — but at least deadlines are pushing me to write first drafts, second drafts, (not quite yet third drafts). And drafts are pushing me to trust — letting things swirl together, pull apart, and breathe.
We visited the Vegas Adult Day Care center today. Haba had seen it in an ad, in the Korean newspaper.
“I just want to go. Introduce myself. We’re new here. I’ll use GoGo.”
He’s been collecting addresses of places, so that he can go there on his own with GoGo Grandparent. Even when I asked him if he wanted to take the delivery menu from a breakfast place, he waved it away.
“The address is all I need.”
I brought up the idea to mom that we bring him to visit, this week. She thought it was a good idea. An opportunity to find community.
And so, we went.
We wait in front of the entrance — Haba, Halmuni, their walkers, and me — while mom parks the car. A middle-aged woman comes out of the building.
“Are they new here? We’re having a birthday party today!”
She ushers them in, with a mix of English and Korean.
The building is immediately friendly — simple, formatted like a community center, with red Chinese paper lanterns hanging in the hallway. Green signs adorn each doorway — OFFICE, PLAYROOM 1, PLAYROOM 2.
The woman — I learn her name is Kim — says, “This is for Chinese. For Vietnamese. Korean is over here.”
Haba and Halmuni get confused and walk straight into the first room. Kim continues walking down the hallway with mom, giving a small tour. I ask them if they want to walk around and see the place. Haba nods and starts walking back to the hallway. Halmuni is already sitting down, and shakes her head.
“No. My back.”
I say she can wait there.
I notice Haba looking around the center as we go down the hallway. He seems to like it. Soaking it all in.
By the time we catch up to mom, she’s at the end of her short conversation with Kim.
“I see. Okay. That’s too bad. I’ll let them know.”
Kim departs.
Mom debriefs to me — the center is free, but only for people under a certain income level. Around $700 for one person, around $1,100 combined for two people. Haba and Halmuni are above the line. She turns to Haba.
“Dad? Dad.”
She explains.
He processes.
“Oh. So I don’t qualify.”
There’s a jumble of interactions for the rest of our time in the hallway. Haba and I peek into the main auditorium. There’s music and people talking on a microphone. I guess this is where they’re having the birthday party. A woman sees us looking inside, and starts speaking to me in Chinese. She waives over Kim again. Everyone is friendly, jumping to help when they see us, the new “members.”
This time, I have the conversation with Kim. At the end, I ask if he can just stay for an hour to see the place. She shakes her head no. Apologetically, she departs down the hallway again.
Haba and I start walking back toward the entrance. This time, we encounter two older Korean women sitting in chairs, their walkers parked in front of them. They greet us, and mom explains that her Korean is bad. (I think.) She introduces them to Haba instead, and they all strike a conversation. It’s nice to hear him talking in Korean.
The women start speaking to me now. “Office! Office!” They point to the office across from us and motion to go inside. I try to explain that we’ve already spoken to Kim. I’m not sure if they understand me. The woman on the right — she hasn’t talked as much — eases up from her chair and starts pushing her walker toward the office, herself. The first woman joins her. The office is locked, so they bang on the door. “Office!”
Someone comes to open the door, slightly bewildered. I realize the women — being very earnest and nice — probably won’t leave until we’ve entered the office. I go inside with Haba. We have the same conversation again, and he explains to me a bit more how the adult day health care works. Again, only for people under a certain income level. I ask if he knows of any other places we could look.
“There’s New Life … and Spring Mountain. But I think their programs are the same as ours — privately run, but with Medicaid. I think there are some centers that accept private pay … but they’re not quite Oriental. You know, they like to stay together.”
I ask a few more questions, until Haba interrupts.
“Okay Sara. Let’s go. This man is very busy. Thank you very much.”
He shakes his hand, and we go.
I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed, or them. I think about this while looking out the window, as we drive to In-N-Out for lunch.
“You okay?”
Mom can tell.
“Yeah.”
Something that struck me, as we had those multiple conversations, was what it means to live in the gaps. Haba acknowledging — “I don’t qualify.” Ironic, for certain — to be saying that because your income is above the ceiling.
“I think many of the people there, they must not have worked here for many years.”
I ask how many years Haba worked in the US. Later, as we eat our In-N-Out at the dining table, he tells me — “10.”
Mom has mentioned finances being one of Haba’s regrets. His insecurity. One of his many “demons.” And one more reason why he resists help.
In a jumbled up way, I reflect. In the hallway and in the car. I know the prices of living, in independent care and assisted care. Over $3500 for a small 1-bedroom in Cupertino. About $5000 if they moved to an assisted care center in Nevada. And mom’s offer to pay for it, even to dip into savings. But the blow it creates on Haba’s pride.
Falling into the gaps. Working the fields in California to pay for tuition in Michigan. Building a career in the United States, in good jobs — Hughes Aircraft, the CIA.
Yet, not having it be enough. Yet, creating a separation today, between him and the two adult day care centers in Las Vegas with an Asian community.
The gaps.
Addendum
I wrote the majority of this piece that same day — after returning from our excursion, before hopping back into the work day. I hope it becomes the first draft in a collection of essays — exploring the gaps in our Asian American experience, while holding my grandfather’s own journey of reckoning and healing, today.
I have hours of conversation with my grandfather — some recorded on audio over the years, and some still unexplored.
He tells me about a series of uncomfortable firsts — being a Korean student at his high school in Japan, an English-speaking commander of KATUSA in the Korean War, and a student of engineering in Michigan in the 50’s.
He tells me about choosing between white and black bathrooms. He tells me about salary discrimination before the civil rights bill and MLK.
He tells me about how today, he listened to Andrea Bocelli on repeat to calm his emotions. He tells me about his brothers — (apparently, the eldest is Fred Armisen’s grandfather) — and mourns that he is the last one left.
From past, present, and future — we can know our selves in his story. Yet in a way, he is grappling to see himself. How do you live a story, as it’s still being written?
As I capture as best I can, woven into my words is a wish. I hope that in storytelling, comes healing — in relationship with our selves, and in relationship with each other. That would rewrite the American dream, for me.
