I am a man of many words though few disclosures. I find can speak to almost any occurrence, happenstance, circumstance, action, or passing, though I hardly speak freely about myself. With that in mind, what follows is something I usually don’t do… open up.
There are two main things about me. 1) Family means everything to me, though it doesn’t mean the same thing it means to you. When I say family you probably think of your mom, dad, brother, and sister right? Well when I say family, I don’t necessarily mean that, I mean those who make you feel accepted and understood when you are being you. In this way your blood and kin can be family, but those who are the furthest away from a physical reflection of yourself can also be some of your closest family members. I also believe that you are a reflection of your family, which leads to my second point. 2) I pride myself on being a sponge. I absorb. My life is a patchwork of experiences. I am only me because of the things I’ve been through and people I’ve crossed paths with. Many might say the same, though where I differ is in how impressionable I am. Since I was little, I have always had an inherent affliction for introducing myself. I am most in my element in a crowd of strangers, and I see each person as a nugget of life. A quilt of their own experiences who may just be able to give me a patch or two to sew onto mine. In essence, my character is a conglomeration of those I have met.
While I could go on and on about my “family” I’ll go ahead and try to explain this through anecdotes.The first time I experienced this other definition of family was when I was in South Africa at the age of 10. I was staying in the Kazulu Natal region with my mom. We were there for safari. Very touristy, I know, I get it. But of course, as a little 10 year old I was loving seeing all the animals and nature. At night we would have dinners, and every so often some of the native Zulu tribesmen would come around and put on a dance. The first night they did this I found them as I was wandering around. I walked out of the dining area because I heard music and over to a little porch where I peeked over the heads of a lot of older white people sitting and saw this fantastic men kicking their legs wayyyy over their heads with cow hide shields and wooden spears in a dance portraying none other than their flexibility and strength. The performance was near ending and one of them saw me swaying to the beat over on the side and invited me over to them. Of course I went. They showed me the kicking move and I tried it and brought my knee to my forehead, hard. I stood there stunned for a moment as I realized I had just kicked myself in the head, but then I realized that no one else had noticed because the warriors were still dancing so I kept on dancing, with dazed tears in my eyes. The dance ended. I was sweaty and people parted. I got their names, but also was so tired from the dancing that I quickly forgot. My mom was here at this point and she wanted to go soon so I said goodbye. Not before befriending one of them in particular. I am sad to say that I don’t remember his name, I only remember what he did for me.
[Moments after that first time I was invited to dance]
I left that night a happy little camper. About four days later I was at another reserve with my mom having dinner when I heard a familiar beat. I ran up from the table over to an auditorium area where lo and behold, my friend from a few nights before was performing. I watched on in wonder as he continued these powerful stomps and high kicks. His performance ended and he saw me again and came over to say hi. We started talking and his friends came over too they were all very nice to this young boy. They said they would walk me and my mom back to where we were staying. I was ecstatic to be escorted by a troupe of warriors. On the way back I stopped and proposed a trade. –before I go any further it should be noted that I love dancing and at the age of 10 I considered myself a pretty darn good dancer—So I offered up a trade. One of my dance moves for one of his. Now, this was a big deal for me. At school I didn’t like to say or show that I was a dancer for fear of what people would think of me. Here however, this one warrior had brought me up to dance with him, I had hit myself in my head with my knee in front of him, and yet he still said hi the next time I saw him. So I thought I could share my secret with him. I was a breakdancer. He agreed to a trade. He first taught me how to properly throw my leg up (as to not hit myself) and in return I taught him the “coffee grinder.” He went wild when I showed him the dance move, and because of his inherent flexibility he picked it up quite quickly. His friends were going crazy at the move as well, and he made me a promise. He told me he would add it to his repertoire of moves. The largest smile crossed my face. I had shown someone a part of me, they had not only accepted it, but adopted it. And that’s when I knew he was family.
My second defining moment happened my Junior year of high school. I had the incredible opportunity of spending a month in India. Not the India that is generally thought of though; not the hot crowded streets, but rather the sparse and spiritual ridges of the Himilayas. There I lived with a family of six. My host mother and father, and three brothers and a sister. For a month I lived with them, woke up and went out into the barley fields harvesting the barley which had just broke the golden threshold, and then lugging it up the steep slopes back to the village level for processing. I was living a whole another life, a simpler life, and in most regards, a better life. When we first arrived only my eldest brother, Tundup, was receptive to my travel partner and I. My other two brothers, Stanzin and Nurbu were more reserved. Day after day we had breakfast went out and worked, had lunch, came back in did an activity, and slept. Slowly, Stanzin and Nurbu started to warm up to me. One day about two weeks in all the kids and teens in the village were all playing volleyball at the top of the village and when we were down we all walked down together. Nurbu was walking next to me and then grabbed my hand in his hand. I was surprised at first, but then a smile spread across my face. Boys hold hands when they are good friends.
[Me and my brothers with our village in the background]
Three days before I was to leave, me, my trip partner, and my brothers went out for a walk down the road out of the village. We stopped in a picked barley field under a ripe apricot tree. Nurbu climbed up the tree and dropped down the ripest of apricots for us to eat. They were delicious. At the edge of the field was a small cliff 30 foot cliff and then another field further below. We began an apricot pit spitting contest. At one point someone tried to spit it and it only went about a foot. We all started laughing. A deep laugh at the moment. The laughter died down and Tundup looked at my partner and I, smiled, and said “you are Tunpa.” Tunpa was the family name (sort of like a last name). In that moment I felt at home. I am a single child, and that was the first time I felt like I had actual brothers.
About a week ago this last moment happened, which only goes to show that my definition and person is constantly being strengthened and evolving.
[Me and Donald trying to find somewhere good to eat]
It was Easter (4/16/17) and I was alone. My family is all in Washington or Texas and all my friends were busy with their families for Easter dinner. So like any normal young guy would do, I decided to go into San Jose and find someone to have dinner with. I drove into San Jose, parked on the side of the street got out and started walking. Before long I ran into a gentleman asking if I had a smoke. I don’t smoke, but I started talking to him. His name was Donald. Donald is 67 years old. I asked him if he had had dinner yet, and he hadn’t so I invited him to join me. As we were walking along trying to find a place to eat we ran into two people outside of a bar, Dakota and Ebony. They seemed to take a liking to Donald and I and they recommended a Greek restaurant right down the way which they ended up showing us too. Donald and I sat down to dinner and started talking. He spoke about his Russian roots between bites of kebab and hearty laughs. I asked him if he had any family in the area, and he didn’t. He had run away from home when he was 21 from New Jersey. He noted that he recently reconnected with his family a few months ago however. He was such a nice guy and said hi to everyone who left the restaurant, we were sitting by the exit. At one point this one woman walked out and he said hi to her and she said hi back. She was a Chinese woman and he was a white man, though he turned to me and said “she’s family,” and then laughed. I asked him how and he just looked at me and smiled. No words are needed to explain what is already understood.
We all have families. These families aren’t always blood, but they are always heart. As Lilo said from Lilo and Stitch “Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.” A trivial quote, but a quote which surmises how I feel about my people, my family.
My family is worldly. My family is loving. My family is in South Africa, India, England, Czech Republic, Italy, Vietnam, America, Canada, Mexico, France, and so many other place. My family shapes who I am and I shape them just as much. I always want the best for my family. I will always look out for my family, and my family is everyone.