“Where are you from?” is a question I was (and still am) asked constantly. And after I go through the litany – California, Los Angeles, Salinas, Castroville, Tulare – there is always the familiar refrain, “But where are you really from?” And so I explain. My parents immigrated from China, in the 1940’s. “Where
I was in Nashville for the solar eclipse on August 21 and it was everything I had hoped it would be – there aren’t enough superlatives to describe the spectacular display. I didn’t know what to expect in terms of crowds and visibility so I left my husband at home with the caregiver. Even long-time
I have always loved long road trips and the tingle of excitement at the thought of the open road. When my husband and I graduated from UCSB, we threw all our belongings into his Datsun pickup and drove from Santa Barbara to Chicago to begin our stints as VISTA volunteers. I remember the exhilaration and
June 30 was my last day at LAUSD and I turned in all my devices – laptop, docking station, portable hard drives, iPhone and badge. It was a bittersweet feeling – happiness at no longer being tethered to the District 24/7 but sadness at leaving longstanding relationships with colleagues and staff. All month, there were
Our normal routine was interrupted two weeks ago by my husband’s sudden hospitalization. Our caregiver couldn’t get him to walk after they had lunch at the mall on Monday. He couldn’t reach me on my cell phone so he called 911 and they whisked him to the emergency room. It was an hour later
At the end of June, I will be retiring from the school district and I feel a mixture of sadness and elation. Sadness at leaving deeply formed relationships and wistful about the knowledge and expertise I’ve acquired over my tenure at the district. But mostly it’s elation at the prospect of a new life
I raced up to Mammoth after work, hoping to beat the heavy spring snow storm that was forecast. The roads were clear and dry all the way until north of Bishop, near Sherwin Summit. The wind whipped around our car and after Crowley Lake, thick flakes of snow blurred the view through the windshield.
I have had writer’s block for several months now. The anti-muse in me says, “Who cares about writing? This country is falling apart, who wants to read a personal essay?” I have been silenced as I follow social media constantly for the next scandal, the next outrage, ignoring my writing. This weekend, I took