The World Is A Better Place With You In It
When I was a kid, I would throw birthday parties for Martin Luther King Jr. I knew his birthday because it was a national holiday, a Monday for me to have a three-day weekend off from school. I joke with Mom that it was all just an elaborate scheme to eat cake, my favorite food. But I don't think I was smart enough back in the day to have thought of that, or cynical enough. MLK inspired me. Tame and watered-down elementary school social studies painted him as a hero who made racism in America disappear like a magician. At the time I didn't think too hard about being a mixed-race kid with a white dad and an ethnically Chinese but American-born and raised mom. Or about how all the mix raced kids in my neighborhood were half white like me. I also didn't learn about the brutality MLK faced throughout his life until much later. Apparently, not everyone found him heroic and inspiring at the time, some still don't to this day. But I loved him or the idea of him and the day off from school he gave me and maybe—just maybe—the excuse to eat cake.
I was too young to make a cake by myself, so Mom whipped out her Betty Crocker mix. Oh yeah, I made this--Betty Crocker and I made this Mom always laughed when asked if her baked goods were homemade. I'm pretty sure we always made a chocolate cake for Martin. Dense and moist chocolate cake with chocolate Pillsbury's frosting and sprinkles: pink and purple. Betty Crocker and Mom were a great team. I made him a birthday card too. Mom taught me having a card, especially a birthday card, was important. I drew a portrait of MLK and wrote Happy birthday Martin on the cover. It's the kind of artifact that Mom has saved in a filing cabinet somewhere in our house. I can't remember if we sang happy birthday to him but it's not beyond the realm of possibility.
MLK's actual birthday is January 15, 1929, but Americans get the day off the third Monday of January, one of our rare and precious days off in the year. Since MLK played a significant role in labor activism, I think he'd approve. My birthday March 7, 1997, is on a Monday this year and I will be spending it at work. This year I'll bring in baked goods, made by me alone—no Betty Crocker necessary. I love baking from scratch. It might have started out as a way to spite Mom as an angsty teen since I'd never seen her make something without Betty Crocker's help. Usually, I bring cookies to work. They are easy to transport, already individually portioned, and they bring a whiff of American culture to my Parisian office.
Dad's birthday is March 19, 1963, twelve days later. I always end up thinking about him on my birthday. About how I'm getting older while he stays forever 53, ashes scattered at El Matador beach. Dad is not a household name like MLK but he is closer to fame than most. He worked in the entertainment industry, so he has an IMDB profile. Mom also has an IMDB branded hand sanitizer in her car door. His profile lists all his credits. It even says that he died in Sequoia National Park and that his star sign is Pisces like me, but I'm firmly anti-astrology. Like most people, dad was so much more than the resume our neoliberal world tried to cram him into. He died doing what he loved, solo hiking in the beautiful California wilderness. At least he didn't suffer for long, Mom says. We didn't have to witness the terrible end of his life, but we also didn't have an opportunity to say goodbye. He was afraid of getting old and having Alzheimer's and now he nor I will have to face that challenge. There were so many people at his memorial. He had accumulated so many friends over his 53 years of life, and none of them had died yet; he was the first. He was the youngest of six children, but he was the first to die. He even died two years before my frail Chinese grandfather who had been bedridden for years.
Dad volunteered to canvas for political campaigns. I remember him going door to door in our neighborhood when I was growing up, around the time I was throwing MLK Birthday parties and for many years after. He was an avid reader and always knew what was happening in politics and the world. He was also a devoted patron of our public library and a voracious reader of history books. He gave money to several nonprofit organizations annually. I remember seeing the mail they would send him. He joked that I could easily go to Oberlin College, his alma mater since he donated a hefty $30 the year of my college applications.
Everyone tells me rituals are important: the grief nonprofit I'm part of, my therapist, the internet. I started thinking, maybe I should have a birthday party for my dead dad. It's weird but is it that weird? He really loved his birthday, Mom always says with a laugh.
I don't think I ever invited people to my MLK birthday parties. Maybe my neighborhood friends who were all around the same age as my brother and I lived on the same side of the street and were all half white. After all none of us had school that day and I don't think anyone would have passed up an opportunity for cake.
Who should I invite to my dead Dad's birthday party? What a horrible line, Hey I'm having a birthday party for my dead Dad, bring champagne! Even worse would be to say, Hey, I'm having a birthday party for Dave. Because then the question is who is Dave? And I'd say, Oh he was my Dad but he died five years ago.
I don't want to have a birthday party for my dead Dad alone. A party of one isn't really a party. I could eat some cake by myself but that's just me eating cake by myself. Unless I make a card. But then it's just me, cake, and a card. For MLK's birthday, my family was always there. I live alone in Paris so I'd need to explicitly invite people to attend. Unless I asked a friend or a more-than-friend to spend the night and then wake them up the next day with a surprise birthday for my dead Dad. I would become a dating app legend, la meuf américaine who woke me up with a birthday cake for her dead Dad.
Maybe this just isn't the right ritual. My ritual for Dad's birthday used to be me crying so many tears I made puddles on the floor as I flipped through photos of him and listened to Mom cry over the phone. Crying is not a ritual, my therapist tells me. Last year I think I ate a croissant aux amandes, my favorite viennoiserie. It's a normal croissant but filled with creamy smooth almond paste that tastes like marzipan with sliced almonds on top. You can buy one at any boulangerie in Paris or even in France, which is one of my favorite things about the country. But I can't remember exactly. I don't think I cried last year, for year five. This year March 19th is a Saturday. I could go for a hike and say it's a way to honor him and his love of hiking and the outdoors, which was quite literally the death of him. I could also pour one out as I've seen in movies when people pour their drink on the ground in honor of a dead person. There are lots of things to do, especially on a Saturday in Paris. The question is if I want to do any of them. Saturday is also the perfect day for a party, any kind of party, even a birthday party for a dead person.
Dad and MLK don't have much in common. But they are both dead. And they both did and continue to inspire me. Dad loved me, and I felt his love. On my fourteenth birthday, he wrote me a card that said, the world is a better place with you in it, it really is. I think the world was a better place when he was here, and his life deserves to be celebrated.
I was too young to make a cake by myself, so Mom whipped out her Betty Crocker mix. Oh yeah, I made this--Betty Crocker and I made this Mom always laughed when asked if her baked goods were homemade. I'm pretty sure we always made a chocolate cake for Martin. Dense and moist chocolate cake with chocolate Pillsbury's frosting and sprinkles: pink and purple. Betty Crocker and Mom were a great team. I made him a birthday card too. Mom taught me having a card, especially a birthday card, was important. I drew a portrait of MLK and wrote Happy birthday Martin on the cover. It's the kind of artifact that Mom has saved in a filing cabinet somewhere in our house. I can't remember if we sang happy birthday to him but it's not beyond the realm of possibility.
MLK's actual birthday is January 15, 1929, but Americans get the day off the third Monday of January, one of our rare and precious days off in the year. Since MLK played a significant role in labor activism, I think he'd approve. My birthday March 7, 1997, is on a Monday this year and I will be spending it at work. This year I'll bring in baked goods, made by me alone—no Betty Crocker necessary. I love baking from scratch. It might have started out as a way to spite Mom as an angsty teen since I'd never seen her make something without Betty Crocker's help. Usually, I bring cookies to work. They are easy to transport, already individually portioned, and they bring a whiff of American culture to my Parisian office.
Dad's birthday is March 19, 1963, twelve days later. I always end up thinking about him on my birthday. About how I'm getting older while he stays forever 53, ashes scattered at El Matador beach. Dad is not a household name like MLK but he is closer to fame than most. He worked in the entertainment industry, so he has an IMDB profile. Mom also has an IMDB branded hand sanitizer in her car door. His profile lists all his credits. It even says that he died in Sequoia National Park and that his star sign is Pisces like me, but I'm firmly anti-astrology. Like most people, dad was so much more than the resume our neoliberal world tried to cram him into. He died doing what he loved, solo hiking in the beautiful California wilderness. At least he didn't suffer for long, Mom says. We didn't have to witness the terrible end of his life, but we also didn't have an opportunity to say goodbye. He was afraid of getting old and having Alzheimer's and now he nor I will have to face that challenge. There were so many people at his memorial. He had accumulated so many friends over his 53 years of life, and none of them had died yet; he was the first. He was the youngest of six children, but he was the first to die. He even died two years before my frail Chinese grandfather who had been bedridden for years.
Dad volunteered to canvas for political campaigns. I remember him going door to door in our neighborhood when I was growing up, around the time I was throwing MLK Birthday parties and for many years after. He was an avid reader and always knew what was happening in politics and the world. He was also a devoted patron of our public library and a voracious reader of history books. He gave money to several nonprofit organizations annually. I remember seeing the mail they would send him. He joked that I could easily go to Oberlin College, his alma mater since he donated a hefty $30 the year of my college applications.
Everyone tells me rituals are important: the grief nonprofit I'm part of, my therapist, the internet. I started thinking, maybe I should have a birthday party for my dead dad. It's weird but is it that weird? He really loved his birthday, Mom always says with a laugh.
I don't think I ever invited people to my MLK birthday parties. Maybe my neighborhood friends who were all around the same age as my brother and I lived on the same side of the street and were all half white. After all none of us had school that day and I don't think anyone would have passed up an opportunity for cake.
Who should I invite to my dead Dad's birthday party? What a horrible line, Hey I'm having a birthday party for my dead Dad, bring champagne! Even worse would be to say, Hey, I'm having a birthday party for Dave. Because then the question is who is Dave? And I'd say, Oh he was my Dad but he died five years ago.
I don't want to have a birthday party for my dead Dad alone. A party of one isn't really a party. I could eat some cake by myself but that's just me eating cake by myself. Unless I make a card. But then it's just me, cake, and a card. For MLK's birthday, my family was always there. I live alone in Paris so I'd need to explicitly invite people to attend. Unless I asked a friend or a more-than-friend to spend the night and then wake them up the next day with a surprise birthday for my dead Dad. I would become a dating app legend, la meuf américaine who woke me up with a birthday cake for her dead Dad.
Maybe this just isn't the right ritual. My ritual for Dad's birthday used to be me crying so many tears I made puddles on the floor as I flipped through photos of him and listened to Mom cry over the phone. Crying is not a ritual, my therapist tells me. Last year I think I ate a croissant aux amandes, my favorite viennoiserie. It's a normal croissant but filled with creamy smooth almond paste that tastes like marzipan with sliced almonds on top. You can buy one at any boulangerie in Paris or even in France, which is one of my favorite things about the country. But I can't remember exactly. I don't think I cried last year, for year five. This year March 19th is a Saturday. I could go for a hike and say it's a way to honor him and his love of hiking and the outdoors, which was quite literally the death of him. I could also pour one out as I've seen in movies when people pour their drink on the ground in honor of a dead person. There are lots of things to do, especially on a Saturday in Paris. The question is if I want to do any of them. Saturday is also the perfect day for a party, any kind of party, even a birthday party for a dead person.
Dad and MLK don't have much in common. But they are both dead. And they both did and continue to inspire me. Dad loved me, and I felt his love. On my fourteenth birthday, he wrote me a card that said, the world is a better place with you in it, it really is. I think the world was a better place when he was here, and his life deserves to be celebrated.