Sweet Lou, Don Mattingly, Mike "Pagalulu"... and my Mom

My mom was a rabid New York Yankees fan. She embraced the team wholeheartedly when she moved to the US with my dad from Korea in 1963.

Forget that she barely knew English.

Forget that she barely knew baseball.

Her new father in law (my Grandpa) was the biggest Yankees fan on the planet (or at least, Edgewater, New Jersey). He found a willing recruit in the petite woman his son brought home as a bonus from a stint serving with the Army in Seoul. Forget that her husband was a Dodgers fan (Brooklyn, then Los Angeles). My mom saw the Yankees pinstripes and was hooked from day one.

As her command of the English language grew, so did her knowledge of baseball and her love of the Yanks. Her favorite players were Lou Piniella (as a player, then later as manager- we used to take "Sunday drives" past his house), Don Mattingly (I gave her a Cabbage Patch doll dressed in Yankee pinstripes for Mother's Day one year. She named him "Donny Jr." and held him at every game she watched. I inherited "Donny Jr." when she died), and, as she called him, Mike “Pagalulu”.

I have to insert a confession here. I, too, am a Yankees fan. I’m not as rabid as my mother and there were times I didn’t know the entire starting lineup (let’s just say my brain was a little addled at times, with help from foreign substances). My favorites (Bucky Dent, Rick Cerone <-circa 1970's) were not the same as hers. And although I was very familiar with Donnie Baseball and Sweet Lou, my unfamiliarity with a certain other player leads to the story that is being recorded here for posterity.

The year: 1985. A friend set me up on a blind date with this guy I had admired from afar. His name was Will and he was a surfer. Okay, he was really a waiter (but he surfed on the weekends). He was tall, sandy hair, nice build. (Ladies, you get the picture). Very athletic and into sports. So was I. Except… my sports knowledge lay with the New York Giants at the time, not the New York Yankees. Still, I decided to “borrow” from my mom’s expert ramblings in an attempt to match his enthusiasm for the Bronx Bombers.

Things got off to a good start. I knew enough about Sweet Lou and Don Mattingly to keep the conversation going. Then, I got a little cocky.

Me: Oh yeah, and let’s not forget third base. Mike Pagalulu

Will: Who?

Me (coyly): You know. Mike Pagalulu

Will (scorn creeping into his voice): You must mean Mike PAGLIARULO

Me (face burning beet red by now): Oh. Yes. Of course, that’s what I meant.

If I remember correctly, our date ended about 10 minutes later. That’s how long it took to get the check and leave the beachside café. I remember it had been a balmy night and I was sure we would have walked on the beach after dinner, had things gone well. Not a word was spoken during the drive home. I didn’t even get the customary, “I’ll call you.” Wow. Who knew that Yankees fans could be so damn prickly?

The next day, my mom asked me how the date went. I told her it went fine, then paused, trying to figure out the best way to broach the topic of Mike “Pagalulu.” Finally, I just went for it.

Me: Mommy, I have to tell you something. You’ve been pronouncing a player’s name wrong.

Mom: What you talking about? What player? Who player?

Me: Mommy, the third base guy. His name is Mike PAGLIARULO, not PAGALULU.

Mom: That’s what I say. PAGALULU

Me: No, Mommy. Listen to me very carefully. pa-glee-ah-ROO'-low

Mom: That’s what I say. PAGALULU

Me: No, really. Listen: you’re saying: PAGA-LULU. It’s really: pa-glee-ah-ROO'-lowShe started to get annoyed.

Huffily she said, THAT’S what I SAY: PAGALULU

I gave up. “Okay, Mommy.” And I went to do the dishes.

As I worked, I thought about Will and how uptight he had become because I mispronounced a player’s name. I wondered what else would he get uptight about.

What Flag Day means to me

(Written on June 14, 2013)

When I see an American flag:

• I remember military bases in Virginia, Texas, South Korea and (then) West Germany.
• I remember my dad stopping the car at 5 (or 6)pm every evening if we were driving on post at Fort Belvoir so we could get out, stand at attention and listen to taps as the flag was lowered for the night. I remember the cannon boom that was the signal for us to get back in the car and continue driving.
• I remember four years without my dad as he served two tours in Vietnam and I lived in Korea with my mom.
• I remember 3 elementary schools in 4th grade, 3 junior high schools in 8th grade (in two countries) and my dad extending his tour of duty in Germany so I could graduate with my friends instead of finishing senior year at another stateside post with kids I wouldn’t know.
• I remember friends following in their parents’ footsteps and enlisting in the military.
• I remember visiting one friend at West Point several times, including a memorable weekend surrounding the Army-Navy football game.
• I remember working at my first TV station when the first Gulf War broke out. I remember anchoring hourly cut-ins to update the war (even though I’m a producer). I remember editing video of US troops in Kuwait at sunrise, while a radio in the newsroom played the Oleta Adams song “Get Here” and realizing how fitting it was for the situation.
• I remember singing the National Anthem at a UAH hockey game versus West Point the night the ground war broke out and having a near-capacity crowd at the VBCC sing along.
• I remember writing stories about US troops losing limbs and lives.
• I remember September 11, 2001
• I remember working at my final TV station when the second Gulf War broke out.
• I remember watching constant newsfeeds from CNN and NBC, along with everyone else in the newsroom.
• I remember watching CNN even when I wasn’t working.
• I remember watching an NBC reporter I’d worked with in Miami and was fortunate to have become friends with, report live for hours from onboard a tank as the US military crossed into Iraq.
• I remember reading that my friend had died from blood clots formed from sitting in the same position for hours as he reported live for hours from onboard that tank.
• I remember writing countless stories about countless casualties.
• I remember our reporters placed in the difficult situation of trying to interview families of servicemen and women who paid the ultimate price for defending our country.
• I remember days, weeks, months, years of coverage as the war dragged on and on in Iraq and Afghanistan.
• I remember “Mission Accomplished” - but not really.
• I remember producing interview segments with servicemen and women who suffered physical, emotional and mental injuries as the result of numerous deployments and not enough support.
• I remember producing interview segments with mothers who lost their sons in Iraq or because of it.
• I remember producing an interview segment with a young soldier who worked through his own demons - and remember his lost brother by painting scenes that were both violent and beautiful.
• I remember producing segments with organizations that work tirelessly to help give wounded warriors and their families the help and support they desperately need.
• I remember my father’s veterans benefits shrinking as he struggles with health challenges after giving nearly three decades of his life to Uncle Sam.
• I remember teenagers enlisting in the military, knowing yet not fully realizing the challenges they face in this changing world.

When I see the American flag flying from every federal and public building, and in many front yards, I remember the blood, sweat and tears that went into creating our Star Spangled Banner.

And I think, the words “THANK YOU” seem insignificant to express the gratitude for centuries of victories, sacrifice and loss that have gone into keeping Old Glory flying.

Mommy

(written: May 5, 2007)

Mommy.

That’s what she wanted us to call her, no matter how old we got.

She was strict.  She was hard.  She was tough.  And dammit, did I love her!  I pushed all her buttons, and I know she pushed mine.  Criticized me, but praised me behind my back.   She didn’t want me to get big-headed, you see.

I triggered her temper on many occasions.  I seemed to have the knack for it.  “Who pissed Mommy off again?”  “Susan.”

I wanted her approval desperately.  I never knew that I’d already had it.

She hated heavy metal, but she came to see my first band.  We played originals and also covered Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Ozzy.  That night, I forgot the words and swore into the mic, “Shit, I forgot the words to this song.”  She didn’t leave.  After the show, she said, “I don’t know how you stand it!”  To her friends, she said, “My daughter sings in a band.”

I appeared in a video for a band called Raven.  I was in the crowd.  You could only see the back of my head and my arm.  I caught her pausing the video to show a friend.  “That’s my daughter’s head.”

I got a job as a secretary at CBS.  I got the chance to get her and her bowling team tickets to “The Price is Right.”  They got the royal tour. Mommy was treated like a queen.  Her friends told her, “Your daughter must have an important job at CBS.”  She said, “My daughter is very important.”

I got hooked on cocaine.  I lost my job, lost weight, lost hair.  I lived in an apartment without power for several months, ashamed to go home and show my family what I had become.  My father begged me to come home. I finally did.  My mother said, “What did I do wrong that my daughter is on drugs?”  She didn’t say, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I promised her that I would never do it again. That was almost 19 years ago and I haven’t touched the stuff.

I couldn’t hold down a job.  I had the reputation of staying for a year at a time, then getting bored and moving to another job.  My mother called me “Queen of the Part Time Jobs.”  But she didn’t kick me out of the house.

I moved to Alabama, got a job in TV news.  I got promoted, again and again.  One year stretched to two, three, five.  Mommy was proud. I was moving up at the TV station.  But she missed me, she said. “Come home.”  I said, “No, Mommy.  I found a job I really like.  I’ll see you at Christmas.”  I didn’t go home for Christmas.  I couldn’t afford it.

The next year, Mommy asked me to come home again.  “Mommy, I’m the 10pm producer now. I’m producing the main show.  I can’t come home.”  My older sister helped me fly home to surprise her for Thanksgiving.  I wondered why our dinner tasted so bland.  “Mommy can’t have salty foods,” said my sister.  “She’s sick.”  Mommy was happy to see me.  When I left to fly back to Alabama from New Jersey, she said, “I love you.”  She rarely said that.  When i would tell her, “I love you, Mommy,” she would say, “Me, too.”

I didn’t go home for Christmas.  I had to work.  January turned to February, March, April.  At the beginning of May, my father called.  “You mother needs a liver transplant.  We’re flying to Pittsburgh for the surgery.”  He put Mommy on the phone. “I love you and everything I ever did was to make you the best you can be.”  I shushed her. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about that.  You focus on getting better. I love you, Mommy.”  “Me, too.”

But she didn’t get better.  She was sicker than we thought.  She couldn’t have the transplant.   Instead, on May 8, several days before Mother’s Day, our mother left us.  Our strong, tough mother couldn’t beat the illness that ravaged her.

Here’s where I’m a bad daughter. I can never remember whether the year was 1990 or 1991.  Did I have her a year less or a year more? It seems like yesterday.. and it feels like forever.

Dammit, how I miss you, Mommy.

The Unhappy Friend

I’ve been spending the morning thinking about situations and people, especially those who are not happy in their current situations.

I wish I had the courage to tell them that when they are unhappy, they make those around them unhappy as well.  But because we care about our unhappy friends, we try to coax them out of their unhappiness, which adds more stress all around. What makes this worse is that UF (Unhappy Friends) don’t realize this and continue to be unhappy.

I used to be that Unhappy Friend (and in some ways, I still am).

I wallowed in situations I felt I could not control or overcome. When friends suggested happy alternatives, I found explanations as to why those alternatives would not work/succeed. It finally took someone who didn’t know me very well to state rather baldly that I was a huge downer and poisoning my work environment because friends were too nice to tell me off and instead tiptoed around me, hoping they wouldn’t set me off.

Rude awakening? You betcha.

Time for self-reflection, STAT? Absolutely.

Do I still have unhappy moments? Without a doubt.  But now, I try to identify the source of my unhappiness and also try to think about how my mood will affect those around me. It doesn’t always work, and I don’t catch my unhappy mood in time to not affect my friends and loved ones. But I DO get there in the end, and also apologize to those around me for causing them discomfort.

The Unhappy Friend in your life may be unable to do that right now, because they’ve either been stuck in their unhappy situation for so long, they don’t know how to get out of it;

Or (Harsh Fact) - they may actually ENJOY being the center of negative attention and thrive on the fact that they can control their friends, co-workers, ______  (fill in the blank) through their unhappiness and negativity.

In which camp does YOUR Unhappy Friend fall?

More importantly, how much do you CARE about your Unhappy Friend to find out and help them find a way out of their situation?

The Real "F" Word

Four little letters.

One syllable.

For me, the “F” word is not “FUCK”.  It’s “FEAR.”

And I have been controlled by that word for far too many years.

When did it happen?  When did FEAR move into my heart and hold me hostage?

It wasn’t in my 20’s.

Then, I was FEARLESS.  I moved into New York City with a box of records, a 25lb bag of rice and a huge jar of kimchee.  I lived with a roommate who turned out to be kind of psychotic.  I made $250 a week (before taxes) and still had money to eat and go out on weekends. 

I rode the subway at 3am.  I walked many places I would cringe to pass in a taxi now. I wore sunglasses at night.  I got mugged twice. It didn’t make me scared. It made me mad enough to carry a can of Raid around.  I went to the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, even Staten Island on my own.

I auditioned for bands.  I made friends with singers and ended up on stage, week after week. (One sweet man, Al, called me up on stage with him, 6 years after I left NYC and went back for a visit)  

New York City was a giant playground and I enjoyed every second of my time there; the good, the bad and the indifferent.

It wasn’t in my 30’s.

Alabama.  A change of scenery.  A return to sanity, so to speak.  I needed to clean up my act, but even that thought didn’t scare me. I called my best friend Pat (who saw me through so many drug-induced nights when I would call her at 3am and ramble for hours.  She even called in sick to work some days, because she had been on the phone with me).  Pat lived in Huntsville and said, “Come down.”

I researched Huntsville.  Rented an apartment and lined up an interview at a temp agency before I even left New Jersey.  I drove down, pulling my worldly belongings (2 boxes of records, 3 boxes of books, some clothes, a battered stereo, a 25lb bag of rice and a giant jar of kimchee) in a U-Haul trailer hitched to my 1978 Chrysler Cordoba.  My dad and my friend Claudia drove with me.

Once there, I set up- my apartment across from Pat’s.  I loved my one-bedroom apartment.  I experienced joy there. I nursed heartbreak.  I made a life-altering decision that I carry around with me still. But FEAR? FUGGEDABOUDIT.

Huntsville was a different playground, but once again, I climbed aboard for the ride.  Community theater, temp jobs, unusual boyfriends (one had another girlfriend on the side who started calling me at all hours of the night, high on cocaine.  I took her calls.  I remembered a time, not so long before that, when I was the rambling voice on the other end).  I broke up with Ryan, but remained friends with Tara until she vanished into a world of stripping and drugs.

I made friends with musicians. I ended up on stage, singing with some very fine people (Thank You, David, Antony and Andrew). I learned about tarot cards, crystals and Spirits That Should Not be Evoked.  I learned about Wicca, Paganism and the need to nourish the earth.  I started my TV news career.

Did FEAR appear then? Nope, the only “F” word for me then was still “FUCK”.  I carried it around every day in my car- a button dangling from the rear view mirror that read: “FUCK YOU VERY MUCH”.

I got pregnant.  Got married.  Got a job in Miami. Traded that one for a job in Seattle.  Moved to Seattle. Got promoted. Again, then again. Won my first Emmy award.  Won my second.  Successful, right? But…somewhere during what should have been a time for celebrating success, FEAR moved into my life. 

Now, I’m afraid all the time.  Afraid to go to work.  Afraid to show my feelings.  Afraid to speak out. Afraid to believe in my own talents.  Afraid to believe that should I fall, caring hands will catch me.

Each day, FEAR wakes me.  “Well, good morning, Su!  What can I make you fear today?”

Pat used to tell me that should a helicopter drop me in the wilderness somewhere, I would have a place to live, a job and daycare within three days.  She said she never doubted that I would land on my feet, no matter what Life threw at me.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I am a Military Brat

   I just read dozens of Veterans Day messages on my Facebook newsfeed, the majority from former classmates at Kaiserslautern American High School. They brought back memories of moving to new cities, states and countries; enrolling in new schools (sometimes 2 or 3 in the same year); making new friends; learning new customs; all the while, our fathers, mothers, or both parents doing their duty for Uncle Sam, in the US, South Korea, Germany, the list goes on.

   Sometimes, I dreaded starting a new school, especially mid-year, but deep down I knew that every student I would meet, was living the same lifestyle I was, which made it so much easier to make friends. Unfortunately, I lost touch with many cool kids when I moved away. I found it hard to write letters, although I tried very hard. They tried, too, but letters petered out and new friends took the place of old pals.

   Years have passed; decades, in fact. Then, Facebook comes along and suddenly, here are familiar names! I knew this person from Fort Belvoir, that one from Fort Bliss. Here are a number of people from K-Town, Sembach, Ramstein, even one from Bitburg. The next thing I know, we’re having yearly get-togethers in different cities, the most recent “reunion” taking place right here in Seattle. The years melt away. We may be older, wiser (or not so wiser), stressed, carefree, depressed, bubbly, busy with family or blissfully (or not so blissfully) unattached, but in many ways, we haven’t changed a bit. Age-old conversations pick up where they left off. New conversations spring up. Old flames reconnect. New flames ignite.

   My husband commented recently about the people he met at my recent reunion, who welcomed him as a member of the K-Town family right away and treated him as though they’d known him for years. This is not unusual. It’s the way we are, the way we grew up. We’re military brats. We’re used to making friends quickly. And now, thanks to social media and this wonderful thing called the internet, we don’t have to worry about losing touch ever again.

WALK ON!

(I wrote this several years ago. Posting it here to keep it with my other posts. Sometimes, I still feel like this)

I must confess, I am struggling and have been struggling for a little while. I’ve been writing like a fiend to mask my inner turmoil, but that turmoil seems to be clamoring more and more for my attention.

I don’t need to talk about why I am struggling. I know everyone here has some issue that they are dealing with. I am certainly not unique in that respect. But, as I tell friends who are having troubles and feel guilty because there are other people who have worse troubles, we can only deal with our own shit. And make no mistake, our shit is very real, no matter how much worse someone else has it.

So… I’m struggling and I take my sister to an exhibit and special 35th Anniversary screening of the Bruce Lee movie “Enter the Dragon.” It’s an amazing night, peopled by Bruce Lee fans from all walks of life. Martial artists, collectors, former co-stars, his widow and daughter (who spoke so eloquently about Bruce as a man, a philosopher, an actor and a legend). Watching the movie on the big screen for the first time was pretty cool. Watching my sister take in the sights, meet the legendary Taky Kimura and relive the film on the big screen, was even more rewarding.

When we got home, I took several items that I wanted to keep out of my goodie bag and gave the rest to Kim to give her son Cody. Then I came in, chatted with my friend Tiara for a bit and went to bed feeling guilty that I made Tiara feel bad because I was feeling so down and she could not help me. Tiara is very caring and feels others’ pain very deeply. I tried to put it down to the fact that by that time (after midnight), I’d been up for 24 hours, with only a 45 minute nap in that time frame.

I had a troubled sleep, despite a comfy new mattress and woke feeling as gray as the sky outside. No energy. No interest in the Garden Tour I signed up for with my best friend Pat. Not even coffee could perk me up. To distract myself, I went through the items I had saved from my Bruce Lee goodie bag. One thing caught my eye. It was a key chain with a little strap. I took it out of the bag it was in and looked at it more closely. The words “WALK ON” were etched into the side. Then, I noticed the bag also contained a slip of paper with lots of writing on it. I took it out and saw that it was a story. Here’s what it said:

"The years between the Green Hornet and the Hong Kong films were often difficult for Bruce Lee. In Hollywood, he wasn’t getting offered the roles he felt he deserved, he struggled to support his family and he injured his back very seriously and was told that he would never be able to participate in martial arts again. He turned to many self-help books during this time for inspiration.

One day, he took hold of one of his own business cards and wrote the phrase “Walk On” on the back. He bought a special stand for this card and kept it on his desk as a constant reminder to keep moving forward. With this as his mantra, Bruce Lee worked himself into the best shape of his life, wrote volumes of notes on many subjects and ideas, and further developed and named his art of Jeet Kune Do. The rest is history. When life gives you obstacles, you must summon the courage and…

WALK ON!”

Now, I have to insert something here. Before I fell asleep, I asked for a sign that my life was worth living, my work worth doing, my writing worth continuing and sharing with the world. I woke up to find this note. Now, I’m trying to figure out if this is the “sign” I asked for.

I guess I shall start walking… and find out.