I'm not the Mean Girl in Portland...

My husband said that I should have named my profile and title "Mean Girl in Portland." I'm not mean! I'm just honest, maybe too much for people to handle. My former college roommates were not exactly pleased with my honesty, and at times, my husband reminds me to be nice. Such is life...

I don't really get impatient with those I meet. When people ask about my nationality, I tell them that my mother is Thai, my father is Irish (or maybe British, depending on my mood) and I was born on a Liberian freighter on its way to the Seychelles. This is only half true. But it amuses me. I have had people running after me at a swap meet, asking me to translate the Bible written in Chinese. At a recent ukulele event, someone asked me if I was from Hawaii. Other people have enthusiastically told me that they have been to the Philippines, too, even though I’m not remotely Pilipina (though I did receive quite a few invitations to join Kapatirang Pilipino when I was in college) and have never been there (it’s on my to-visit list). I have been asked for directions in every country I have been in. Okay, so this isn’t exactly impressive – I’ve only had time to travel to 22 countries (so many places to go, so little time) – but still. I’m working on it. I suppose I really do belong everywhere, and I’d like to believe that I belong in Portland, too. Having lived just a bit over a quarter of a century, I have to admit that I am still discovering who I am and where I really belong, and ethnicity has nothing to do with it. At all.

Why have I decided to join the blogosphere? Why in the world would I contribute to the hundreds of thousands of bits and bytes engaged in mostly mindless but sometimes thought-provoking drivel? Who would want to read my observations that may occasionally degenerate into an incoherent rant (though I would like to believe I am never incoherent)? The last time I wrote anything public, I had to publish my own underground newspaper to do so. This was in high school. The paper was called The Revolution. Don’t ask my why. Even I can’t remember, and I was a co-editor of the thing! To my knowledge, copies no longer exist. Since then, I’ve written introspective and analytical papers for my degrees, my work with Peace Corps/Uzbekistan, and I sometimes write equally thoughtful observations for my current work. When I am not slacking, I’ll put together a speech for Toastmasters, as I step gingerly toward an Advanced Communicator award, one carefully chosen word at a time.

My husband (I cannot believe that we have been married for nine years) insists that I have a unique perspective on the world and especially on the lovely city in which we live. Who else would be fascinated by the unique architecture, the echo chamber in Strunk Plaza, or those mobiles hanging in the window by the Eliot. I followed Joe to Portland, Oregon in 1999, right after I returned from random travel in Malaysia and Thailand. He had proposed to me two and a half years earlier, before I left for Uzbekistan. I said, “Yes, I’ll marry you, but I have to do the Peace Corps thing first. See you in a couple of years.” Strange as it may be, I kept my word. In his (very few) letters, Joe told me about scraping off his windshield and seeing a tiny patch of blue sky which was quickly enveloped by gray cloudburst and the ensuing drizzle. When I arrived, Portland really didn’t seem too bad, especially after growing up in the Southern California desert. The Tri-met drivers were nice to me and got me where I needed to go. Yes, we are California transplants. Would we move back? Why should we? Portland is our home now and I feel we need to be included in this community, even though I may be part of the 1.5% who will actually wear a suit to work.