Letters of Gratitude: No. 2

Dad,

I'm sure you are aware that you are the second person I ever met--thus letter number 2. You are my rock, my confidant, my inspiration and, sometimes--can really push my buttons. To put it shortly, every tough decision I've made in my life, I've called you to get some wisdom on. When you weren't available, there was some ethereal you floating in my head, delving out level-headed-both-sides-of-the-story devil's advocate kind of advice.

I remember the moment I realized this fact. I was going through a tough decision at work and was talking it over with Katie and she said, "Call your Dad--you always do." It's kind of a beautiful thing, when someone who knows you so well knows who your person is before you have the chance to voice it to yourself. That's you, pop: my person. You have read the newspaper and drank two cups of tea every day for my entire life. Do you know who reads the newspaper? People who care about the planet, who analyze the world around them with such meticulous and balanced evaluation that the tightrope we all precariously march across becomes a bit wider for them. Do you know who drinks tea? The British.

You age with grace, power (think of all your cool powerful Hilo connections. Mayor? Yup. Supreme Chancellor of the University? Yup. The Hawaiian community? Yup.) and perhaps my favorite, an I-don't-give-a-shit-anymore kind of attitude. Now--I can already hear you replying in your head to me "I don't give a 'shit', what is that supposed to mean Lei?". That's you pushing my buttons. What I mean, dear father, is that you're entering the realm of retirement with a renewed sense of self--I think. You crack more ridiculous jokes:

You are letting your goatee and your hair grow out to a hippie length, going to the doctor more often (thank you, by the way--that always worried me about you) and call me spontaneously to get some daddy-daughter time.

I remember going to the fair with you when I was in high school and I totally played that old 50s trick--"Daddy, that giant fuzzy bear is SOOO cute!!" I won. Without a thought, you shelled out a twenty and won me that damn bear like a boss. You still hold my hand in public and I think it's the best. You and I can rock more than a few margaritas while you play hooky from work and have a great time speculating about the state of the universe for hours.

You're such a mountain man. Remember when you took me to work on the mountain? We'd leave the truck behind when we couldn't drive in any further, hike in and encounter a herd of wild cattle and you'd say something surreptitiously cautious about how wild bulls are extremely aggressive--then proceed to the hill ahead (upwind of course) and do this ridiculous bull call that would immediately clear the herd from where we were walking. You tell stories of being chased by every large ungulate out there and blow vuvuzelas at bull elephants with your helpless daughter at the wheel of our escape vehicle.

Can't wait to make more memories with you, Daddy. I love you, and always appreciate being your favorite daughter!

Leina`ala

P.S. Us in Polokwane for the World Cup with our infamous vuvuzelas:

Letters of Gratitude: No. 1

Mama,

It seems fitting that my first letter in the series be aimed at the first person I ever met. The throws of your womb at the time only my subconscious is gracious for--but nearly 25 years later, the cognizant Leina`ala sits straining for your warm embrace more frequently than the reality.

I will never forget what Jim said after a heated debate over the Robinson Thanksgiving dinner in 2012; "Leina`ala, there are two people in this family that are the smartest people I have ever met. Your cousin Cathy, and your mother. You are already lucky enough to look just like her, work towards a brain like hers." It caught me off guard, as I had never heard you pick apart the state of the union with the family, and in my understanding of Dad's family; that's the only way to prove yourself.

I know it to be true. I remember you re-teaching yourself trigonometry for a few hours out of my textbook in high school, only to help me with my homework, not by helping me through the problem I was stuck on, but by posing a simple question: "why are you stuck?". When I said, "I don't understand the purpose of knowing all of this. Sine, cosine, tangent--I've never heard any adult use those outside of school." You smiled warmly and replied, "nothing is useless."

Nothing is useless. Mom, you are the living, breathing image of practicing what you preach. You recycle everything. Materials, feelings, thoughts, and my favorite, generosity.

If you're reading this and have ever met my mother, there is a 98% chance that you have received a gift or ten from her. A physical, in hand gift, with a small note about how she thought of you when she bought, made, saved, clipped or scrounged it up for you.

Mom, you leave macadamia nuts for servers at every table we eat out at. Every roommate I've ever had received an awesome Christmas present or two. Friends I don't even remember from high school received handmade graduation presents from you, and you have presents picked out for my birthday (12/16) in March.

You are the most positive person I have ever met. I left my purse at work the other day, and $50 was stolen out of it. The next day, as I asked around trying to figure out what happened--someone suggested the cleaning people may have taken it, since no one else was in the building later than me. My immediate thought was "I hope it went somewhere good. Put dinner on the table, or clothing on bodies."  That attitude was born and raised from you, Phyllis Lei Robinson.

You cry at everything and nothing. You cry in movies, commercials and when you've heard terrible/amazing news. You don't cry when life gets really hard. You are calm, cool, collected, and tourniquet the bleed with the prowess of a medical professional; literally and figuratively. You laugh at everything and nothing. Dad and I were talking on the phone last week and he said he hasn't heard you laugh like this in so many years, that you're so lighthearted these days. Nothing makes me more happy than hearing your laugh.

I love you, and can't wait to see you this Christmas!
Leina`ala

P.S. Us in Paris, me--exhausted of travelling. You? Boning up on some local South African fiction to get a better idea of what the country we're visiting is going to be like.

Lose myself

I have a tendency to lose myself in things. It's an interesting phrase, "lose myself". It has a happy connotation--losing yourself in a good book, a conversation with an artist, a fire, perhaps Eminem's "moment", a top-down car ride through the desert. Yet... when re-phrased, say... "I lost myself." can be exceedingly sad.

I digress. I have a habit of losing myself. Depending on what it is, it could be anywhere from 10 minutes to several years:

On Friday, I left work to head to happy hour with a few coworkers. From there, three or four followed us to our home neighborhood--Fell's Point. After a night out on the square, I fell asleep to the never-gentle, always-abrupt slumber courtesy of several shots of tequila and more than enough beer. Saturday, I woke up the next morning to an iPhone reminder that today I was floating down with two awesome friends for the Annapolis Arts, Crafts and... you guessed it, Wine Festival. The wine was good, but the art was spectacular. We spent the entire afternoon shifting booth to booth, talking to the artists about their mediums, inspiration, logistics and all-around dirty work to put together these beautiful displays and pieces. I met Mulinde from Uganda, who was selling photographs of beautiful dances from his home-country. He was also selling some art he had picked up while at home, I bought a bowl and a bracelet, pictured below.

After the arts festival, we watched the US/Nigeria friendly and animatedly discussed the state of marriage equality in the country. A friend who had come out the night before wanted me to meet his girlfriend's daughters, so I headed over to their place for drinks, games, and falling asleep to the lull of two small voices asking their mom if I were dead.

Sunday, I was treated to breakfast at Eggspectation, with two cuties in tow, and ended up coming home that afternoon. My roommate had some friends over, so we sat out on the stoop and shared some beer with our neighbor. My first time getting to know the guy, and what a guy he was! A life story of interest, a computer geek for the marines (handsome, at that) and well-versed in cultural relativity, human rights, and that the Jazz Festival is happening in Federal Hill right now. Alas, I accepted his invitation to bike over graciously, we met up with his lawyer friend and ate, drank and danced the night away. A late night water and a plate of hash browns graced my Sunday (or should I say Monday?) to a close. It was quite a nomadic weekend for one that was totally unplanned.

The interesting thing about losing yourself for such long periods of time, is that you aren't yourself that whole time. Faced with an "other" that seems to take over your conscience, whether that be a book, old friends, or otherwise, one can really traipse through life unawares. It does seem a bit melancholic though, if I phrase it like that.

I think this what I fear most. That perhaps I am afraid to be inactive, focused on nothing, not on a phone, nor in a book, nor in conversation, nor perceiving and reacting 100% of the time, because being totally alone is really scary.

The last time I remember allowing myself to be totally alone for any long period of time was the summer after my sophomore year of college. No friends had been left in town, and I was working a job aimed at complete solitude: watching an empty computer lab. I made dinner by myself each night, and would eat at the table, and just be. Sometimes I'd walk out on the porch and sit to feel the breeze in the hot summer night air. I'd lie on the floor in the living room and watch the fan go by. I'd get up and go on runs past cornfields, the sounds of small insects and my feet on the pavement. I'd come home and pretend I was a triathlete; jumping right onto my bike and ending the ride at the empty pool. I'd throw my shirt, socks and sneakers off and swim a few laps in my sports bra and shorts.

Since then, I've filled my life. Filled it to the brim. I'm far less at ease than I once was, more stressed, more beer, more negativity.  I think Abraham Lincoln once said something like "the best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time."

I think, perhaps, my future, or tomorrow, will be different.

Goodnight, Baltimore. Dream sweetly, internet.