Speaking of my bio paper...

I was born in the Hospital Garrahan in Buenos Aires on December 19, 1990. I was a complete breech birth and the woman who delivered me, a Buddhist from South Korea, told my mother that it meant I was a bodhisattva- a wisdom being. My parents chose the Korean word 'rae' as my middle name in her honor (although neither can remember what it means) and from time to time they still call me 'little lotus-eater.'

My parents met near Port San Carlos in the Falkland Islands. My mom was there on U-Chicago's photography foreign study program and my dad was stranded. He'd gone as a Baptist missionary intent on converting indigenous peoples through rudimentary hand gestures and drawings. Upon arrival he was surprised to find that the majority of the population not only spoke English, but also already practiced some form of Christianity. Rather than rebound by converting them all to his kind of Christianity, he promptly converted to Sikhism. Upon learning of his transgression the First United Baptist Church withdrew sponsorship and refused to finance his return to the United States. Recently-graduated English major that he was, he couldn't afford the trip himself and so settled down to studying Punjabi and doing freelance landscaping work.
One morning in mid-March my mom rose early and left her host family's home with the Nikon F4 on loan from her local paper. After a few hours of photographing sheep and Magellanic Penguins she wandered towards the seaside to eat her picnic breakfast. As she neared the coast her surroundings became more distinctly boggy and an eerie chanting floated on the cool-ish autumn air.
"Ik oankar sat nam karta..."
Seated on a protruding rock in the middle of a pool of bog water was my dad, now donning a long beard. My mom wondered at how he'd managed to reach his perch without wetting his clothing and determined to wait for him to finish his recitation in order to introduce herself. A full hour passed before my dad opened his eyes to the blond college student seated on the bank across from him.
Did she ever find out how he made it across without wetting his clothes? Well.. I happened about nine months later.

I dreamt a dream of a dozen leagues
And a meter 'long was he
When I sent it there, where in his care
I oft fly to be free
A week, a month, a minute long
Did it flash before I knew
That I had been where I belong
Since my sweet life was new

Turn the Radio Up

On the way home from work today I passed a man headed in the opposite direction. He appeared to be in his forties. Probably around 350 pounds. And driving one of those power wheel chairs. You know, the kind advertised on TV by two elderly women who ride their chairs all the way to the edge of the Grand Canyon and sing out "HoverRound-!" (echo echo echo) I guess they'll take you anywhere so long as you've got the time.
It's a shame that this fellow doesn't have anywhere better to be than Podunk, USA. Then again, maybe he was headed off on some great adventure and I just happened to catch him at an awkward moment. He had his headlights on and an American flag flying from a pole, like the triangular flag that your all-American boy of the 50s had on the back of his bike.
Perhaps he is on his way up North. I mean way up North, to the land of igloos and dog sled teams and Northern Lights. It has been his life-long dream to participate in a dog sled race, and now with his new power chair he can do all that and more. He will not only participate in the race, he will win with record-breaking speed, all the time his little flag waving- a proud indicator of his heritage, a beacon to all American youngsters who dare to dream big: Go ahead, kids, supersize your meals!
Then again, maybe he was just heading towards the little diner on Main Street to shoot the breeze and chew his cud and engage in various other aspects of friendly country society over a big, home-cooked supper. Chair, flag, biscuits'n'gravy. Welcome to the South.