Journalist, Author & Syndicated Columnist
I never met Aaron Hawkins, but I knew that he occasionally mentioned me on his blog, Uppity-Negro.com. Once, the fansite title on his blog was my name. Granted, this was during a period when he was doing this to be cheeky more than anything else. Hawkins was one of the first African-American bloggers. He was smart, thought-provoking and funny. I used to pop over to his blog every so often to see what he was up to.
Sung-Bong Choi, 22, didn’t end up winning “Korea’s Got Talent,” but he won over thousands of fans with his talent and courage. Orphaned at the age of 3 and beaten at the orphanage he was left at, he ran away and lived on the streets.
My toddler likes this K-pop boy band called Boyfriend. He insists on watching the video for the group’s signature song, “Boyfriend,” at least a zillion times a day and is getting pretty good at imitating the dance moves.
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
Our father’s goal in bringing his family from South Korea to the United States was to ensure that his children would receive a good education. He and our mother instilled in us the idea that studying hard would be our ticket to having a better life than they had. And they were right. But while the three of us are well educated, we lack our father’s endless thirst for knowledge.
A “critic” at a publication I never heard of suggested that I not write reviews for films that I didn’t like. For real. He really said this. He didn’t seem to understand that at the Chicago Sun-Times (where I was employed at the time), editors didn’t give reporters the option of only writing about things that they liked. He argued with me about it until I finally just stopped responding to his emails. Who was he? Honestly, I can’t even remember.
I feel a surge of gratitude when I look in on my children fast asleep. Penny, with her arms splayed, as if to embrace the universe … William, curled on his side and cuddling his giraffes … Marilee, swaddled tight with only her round face in view … And yet learning how to care for them comes when they are not nearly so adorable. It comes when I am willing to offer myself as a calming presence, willing to sing one more lullaby or change one more diaper or kiss a forehead one more time. Love is not an emotion so much as it is a series of actions.
Every now and then, I get an e-mail that I like to share with my readers. This is actually a letter from a reader who doesn’t like my work. And who said as much in an e-mail to one of the travel editors who runs my syndicated column. I’ve changed the names because it seems the right thing to do.
