Lumpia, Ballet, 66 Geneva & Jewish Summer Camps - A Child Grows In Frisco

For the record, no true born and bred San Franciscan EVER refers to the city as Frisco. I was trying to come up with a catchy title and the above rolled of my tongue with ease. Please forgive me my fellow San Franciscans :-)

The seeds that have mutated into my insatiable cultural curiosity were firmly planted as a little girl growing up in San Francisco. I've shared with you that my brother and I were born as American children to foreign born parents. This by in large translated to our world view being shaped in a very holistic, anti-xenophobic, inclusive prism. As the only black family in the neighborhood we lived in from 1977 - 2004, (when my father moved), our family was the victim of hate crimes, false accusations and plentiful stereotypes. Given that my parents grew up in black countries, the black vs. white dynamic didn't factor into their psyche. For the record, my mother thought Alvin and I could be ANYTHING we wanted. Case in point, it was clear maybe three months into my life that I would not grow to have a ballerina's physique, HOWEVER, my mother enrolled me in ballet classes. For that matter, she enrolled me in sewing, gymnastics and swimming classes. My brother and I progressed so far in swimming that as elementary and middle school aged children we were proud members of the Daly City Dolphins Swim Team. Every summer Alvin and I attended a Jewish summer camp - Camp Akavah. We were the ONLY two chocolate drops in the bunch. In no time we were able to recite blessings in Hebrew and developed a deep respect for the traditions and history of Judaism. My parents never had the opportunity to explore anything extra-curricular in their younger years. Shoot, the curricular in and of itself was a gift. What they didn't have they were determined to provide for me and Alvin.

In the late 70's through the mid 80's San Francisco Junior Academy was comprised of children whose backgrounds were among others - Haitian, Samoan, Japanese, El Salvadorian, Russian, Filipino, German, Hawaiian, Mexican, Belizean, Panamanian and Chinese. At school we were encouraged to celebrate and indulge in other cultures. Lunchtime and potlucks were an international smorgasbord. To this day I crave lumpia, chilaquiles and eso fafao, right along with roti and curry chicken. While my early school years were rich with diversity, monkey-bars, and the obligatory awkward adolescent moments they also featured rushing waves of social activism with the birth of the gay agenda in the Castro, remnants of the summer of love movement in the Haight-Ashbury, the election of Harvey Milk, the murder of George Moscone, and the numbing disbelief with the mass suicide of 900+ members of Jim Jones San Francisco based People's Temple.

I was raised in a mono-theistic, Judeo-Christian faith. Weekly church attendance was de rigueur - and to be honest, I didn't mind it one bit. While my childhood wasn't perfect and at times I begged and pleaded for God to poof my parents away and give me Heathcliff and Claire Huxtable in their stead - looking back I realize my parents did an exceptional job raising me and my brother. My parents weren't easy. Scratch that - my MOTHER in particular wasn't easy. If she observed me or my brother being wasteful she would remind us that "we weren't workin' anywhere". The luxury of "having our say" was non-existent. My parents were immigrants to this country and their lense was keen on priorities, values and opportunity. Having the latest anything was a joke. Anything superficial was....superficial. What I didn't realize then, but am well aware of now, is that what my parents gave me was a gift. They wanted my brother and I to focus on character, on education, on confidence, on the things that would propel us in life. They realized that the physical, the superficial, the accoutrement would catch up later. Now, I won't say that I haven't put in some time on a therapist's couch, I have. But all in all I am grateful for the role my parents played in me becoming who I am today - a Jesus loving, compassionate, cultured, comical, passionate, family loving woman.

My mother passed away in August of 1999 - she is not privy to these words and this acknowledgement. However, my father, 73 years young, a retired educator and Facebook devotee is. Thank you, Daddy for ALL you've done! For your love, your prayers, your humility, your example, your sacrifice.

*Question for readers: If the adult you are today were able to advise you as a 10 year old - what would you tell him/her? Have you connected the pieces to your life's mosaic? What epiphanies/revelations have you had?