The Happy Americana Meal

[Cross posted at Cranial Gunk.]

Andy Warhol from The Philosophy of Andy Warhol:

The most beautiful thing in Tokyo is McDonald’s

The most beautiful thing in Stockholm is McDonald’s

The most beautiful thing is Florence is McDonald’s

Peking and Moscow don’t have anything beautiful yet.

In 1990, Moscow became beautiful.

Beijing (formerly Peking) didn’t become beautiful until 2007.

America is “The Beautiful.”

When I was young,I knew I had done well when my parents would tell me we were going to McDonald’s. Together we would drive deeper into Queens for Big Macs, cheese burgers, vanilla shakes, and a mountain of crispy French Fries.

Coca Cola, McDonald’s, Chevrolet – it was all a part of becoming more American. And while I desperately wanted to assimilate more in my youth, I understood even then that a visit to the Golden Arches was not a visit made without thought or purpose. It was not something we did everyday.

This doesn’t mean I didn’t scream and cry for McDonald’s whenever the opportunity presented itself. However, my parents were firm. They said, No!

What disturbs me most about the outcry to retire Ronald McDonald and to remove the toys from the McDonald’s Happy Meals is that the arguments to do so seem less about healthy eating and more about parents not wanting to say, “No” to their children. From what I read, the proponents of the forced retirement and ban justify their stance by clinging to the belief that it is too tough to get their children to “eat healthy.”

Damien Hoffman at the Wall Street Cheat Sheet writes:

As the father of a 9 1/2-month-old, I prefer to have a level playing field when taking the time to teach my children how to eat healthy. If Ronald is giving toys with his meals, I have to work that much harder to get my children to eat what is best for their self-interest (which is also best for our economy and society). Personally, I am sick of having to compete with the lowest common denominator when it comes to creating a healthy environment for my family.

I agree. It is tough to get children to eat healthy. As our careers seep more and more into our personal lives and through cell phone and net book our offices become viral, the time traditionally reserved for healthy meals is diminished. Greater effort and planning needs to be done to insure a healthy diet for us as well as our children.

However, just because it is tough doesn’t mean we don’t attempt it. The problem is not Ronald and his Happy Meal toys but busy parents not wanting to spend the time to cope with the consequences of saying: No!

I am my children’s parent, not their friend. Damien is right in asserting: “Children don’t have a mature sense of social reality.” I would add that a lot of adults don’t either (and I don’t mean that in a passive aggressive pot shot way). Reality is a social construct. Individuals who have not had the benefit of developing in a diverse community logically lack the array of tools with which to construct their social reality. This is where we as a society work together to inform and guide. 

Parenting is very inconvenient. Parenting is very tough. These are social realities. Expecting a “healthy” fast food meal is not socially realistic. Fast food is about convenience. It is filler until something substantial can be had.

The Happy Meal toy is a symbol of American innovation. The Happy Meal was created as a way to promote McDonald’s as a family restaurant specifically servicing small children -

The very first Happy Meal in 1979 in Kansas City was the Circus Wagon Happy Meal and McDonaldland Fun-To-Go in St. Louis. It cost one dollar and contained either a McDoodler stencil, a puzzle book, a McWrist wallet, an ID bracelet or McDonaldland character erasers. The Circus Wagon Happy Meal consisted of a hamburger or cheeseburger, twelve-ounce soft drink, a small order of french fries, and a "McDonaldland Cookie Sampler", a small portion of cookies.

The Happy Meal is that little slice of Americana my parents risked their livelihoods on. They traded their familiar worlds for one they had only seen in the movies. They worked hard for their baseball and apple pie. However, this doesn’t mean we had either everyday. They knew a healthy diet could contain some pie but was not entirely pie. A healthy diet is balanced. And when I screamed for pie, they knew enough to say: No! (and mean it)

Not Ready For Prime Time

Mace Marvelous turns 5 this summer. Wifey and I spent the past couple of months checking out potential kindergartens. We live in California and the woeful budget is slowly chipping away at what's left of the public schools. Even in lovely, coveted Cupertino where I work, the town literally held a city-wide bakesale to stave off furloughs and layoffs. The prediction was that even in Cupertino where test scores are traditionally off the charts (Chinese and Desis represent), kinder class sizes could rise to a 30-1 ratio.

We've decided to go private and it's been quite an education. We saw immaculate classrooms and desks all in a row with amazing artwork. We saw sterile education facilities churning out uniformed geniuses (almost all South Asian). We met an amazing kindergarten teacher who was eager to take our son under her wing. Some of the private schools were so academic there was no P.E. classes. Others made our area public school look dowdy and antiquated as the mismatched sweats the kinder teacher was wearing when we visited.

Mace shadowed at two separate kindergartens months apart and on different spectrums of philosophies. He spent the day in class and pulled out and tested on basic pre-K curriculum. Both came back with the same verdict: Junior K. Painting in broad strokes, one cited fine motor skills and the other cited maturity and language.

We want our son to be fulfilled in class and confident but I'd be lying if I said we weren't disappointed. We all have egos and every parent wants to believe their child is brilliant. We're coming to terms with the placement and signing him up for Junior K program. I know he's totally gonna dig it.

Have you experienced the same situation or been in it as a kindergarten-aged child and put in Junior K? How say you?

SD

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I made it official. I now put the "ass" in Assistant Coach for a bunch of U-6ers one of which is my son Maceo, now 4.

The team is composed of mostly first-time soccer players mixed in with a couple of 5-year old ringers. At the other end of the spectrum there are the oblivious ones, who I like to call "daisy pickers," that I try to point in the general direction of the goal. The head coach is the father of one of Maceo's classmates and a fellow soccer fanatic so we get along well. Practices are a mix of stretching, FUNdamentals, and scrimmage. We understand the main thing is for kids to exercise, learn teamwork, and be good sports. And pass! Pass!

It's been more fulfilling that I originally expected it to be. I was admittedly reluctant at the task of corralling a bunch of 4-5 year olds and teaching them the game I love but it's good times. When they do something you tell them to and it pays off — like making a good defensive play or scoring — the kids break into a big smile and it melts you. I've laughed out loud during these moments. I also realize that scoring their first goal ever is a significant moment in their lives so I try to respect that.

Other observations:

1) The kids always ask: "Did we win?" and "What's the score?" My answer is always a frank "We're all winners" and "The score is FUN-to-FUN". I scoffed at the concept of "fun-to-fun" games as important lessons are learned from losing as well as winning but at age 4? Scoring is moot.

2) One of the coaches this weekend was this pressurized Korean dude who ran his charges like a confused drill instructor. He'd position his kids all over the field for kickoffs and inbound play. I felt bad for the players because they're just learning the game and he's peppering them with questions like, "Why are you doing that?" He was going off on his son and the boy pushed him in the face. Wow. The parents on our team are a supportive lot, thankfully.

3) Before we start we do a roar and chant "Tigers!" and I do that rap show cliche where I feign disgust that they're "not loud enough" so they get fired up and yell louder. I think they're excited because it's the only time they're encouraged to roar and scream.

4) Maceo is a borderline daisy picker and it's secretly killing me. :)

SD

Bitter Tea

[Cross posted at Cranial Gunk]

Recently Turner Classic Movies played The Good Earth and The Bitter Tea of General Yen back to back. I caught the former as the locusts descended upon the crops and continued to the latter as a “Chinked up” Nils Asther rode away in “Yellow Face” without care or concern for the rickshaw driver his car had just hit.

I grimaced as I watched Nils Asther’s exaggerated Yellow Face – painfully narrowed eyes and pencil-thin eyebrows – look preoccupied and distant as a desperately concerned Barbara Stanwyck (playing blonde White Christian) tries to get him concerned about the rickshaw driver he just injured. I couldn’t watch any further than that despite telling myself I was being unfair – things were different then – Al Jolson – Black Face – It’s a Capra movie for Crissakes! You know - It’s a Wonderful Life!

I was ready to be offended. But then both movies were made in the 1930s when minstrel shows and Yellow Face went unquestioned. I accepted the caricatures and pacified myself with the excuses of time and place – It was the 1930s – pre-Civil Rights – pre-Dr. King – pre-Vincent Chin… I focused on the story – the drama unfolding.

And they were good stories. The former about a family coping with the challenges presented by nature (both earthly and human) and the other about the mutability of faith. With the latter I couldn’t stop myself wondering why it hadn’t already been remade with Chow Yun Fat and Charlize Theron or Simon Yam and – I don’t know – Gwyneth Paltrow? - But that’s not the point. The point is it is a good story that can be a great one with some modernizing and tweaking.

Perhaps the most poignant example of modern day Yellow Facing is the movie Gandhi. Gandhi because I watch it every time it is on – It is one of my favorite movies! Gandhi because he is my inspiration - I am awed by the resolve he showed in not hitting back and his perseverance through such hardships (first with the British and then with the religious divide between Hindus and Muslims).

Gandhi because he is played by Ben Kingsley in “Yellow Face” (or more appropriately “Brown Face”). But Kingsley plays so well and so convincingly I don’t see Ben Kingsley past the opening credits – I see – in some perverse rearrangement of time – Gandhi as I imagined he would be as the young lawyer being booted from a train in South Africa and years later as the frail looking robed defender with a walking stick.

And I wonder - What would Gandhi say about this portrayal? What would he say about Yellow Facing?

In the Arthur Dong documentary, Hollywood Chinese, Luise Rainer’s (the actress who played O-Lan in The Good Earth), sentiment on authenticity is reiterated by Nancy Kwan and a few of the others interviewed: “It’s illusion… It’s much more important to be true to the character inside than to be exactly right on the outside.”

Racebending (the site that got me thinking about this again), was created to encourage “fair casting practices. As a far-reaching movement of consumers, students, parents, and professionals, we promote just and equal opportunities in the entertainment industry.” Its creation was sparked by M Night Shyamalan’s decision to cast only White actors as the protagonist leads in his adaptation of Nickelodeon’s cartoon series, Avatar.

He rationalizes his decision in an io9 interview:

Here's the thing. The great thing about anime is that it's ambiguous. The features of the characters are an intentional mix of all features. It's intended to be ambiguous. That is completely its point. So when we watch Katara, my oldest daughter is literally a photo double of Katara in the cartoon. So that means that Katara is Indian, correct? No that's just in our house. And her friends who watch it, they see themselves in it. And that's what's so beautiful about anime.

”So that means that Katara is Indian, correct? No that’s just in our house.”

And so I think that’s where the problem lies - “just in our house…” Why should we be Katara just in our houses? Why can’t Katara be Indian? Why does she have to be White? While I agree with Luise Rainer about the craft of acting and the art of making a good film, I think she and Shayamalan miss the point – It is about the opportunity to indulge in the illusion, not about the illusion itself. It is akin to Shyamalan telling his daughter: “Honey, that’s cute but you can’t wear the Katara costume outside like the other kids.”

Siblings...

Growing up as an only child definitely gave me my own unique perspective regarding family life. I remember the looks on people's faces when I told them I was an only child. They often remarked on how "spoiled" I probably was. In retrospect I guess I was spoiled, but definitely not to the point that I wasn't thankful and appreciative of what I had. My mother made sure of that. I did often wonder what it would have been like to have a brother or sister around.

It was a huge leap of faith for my wife and I to decide to have a second child. Our first foray into parenthood hasn't been a cake walk and the sleepless nights alone were almost reason enough for us to stop at one. The utter exhaustion that we experienced in the early weeks and months obviously had an effect on us. However after much discussion and debate and ultimately throwing caution to the winds, we were lucky enough to bring another wonderful life into this world. Thankfully we've been very fortunate as number two has been so much easier and compliant than our firstborn. Maybe you can chalk it up to experience or perhaps it's because we're a little more prepared and easygoing. Who am I kidding, it's mostly due to our daughter herself, have I mentioned how great she's been? I know many parents may hate us, but she was pretty much sleeping through the night by seven weeks. She'll even go days without really crying. Trust me, we thank our lucky stars every night. She's been amazing.

You hear stories and nightmares of sibling jealousy or behavioural issues associated with bringing a new baby into the house. For the most part our son has been indifferent, which is way more preferable than what we were told to expect. Lately, he's even been showing her more affection, odd considering he has never really been the cuddly type.

As parents, my wife and I try our best to lay a strong, nurturing foundation for our children. We strive to establish a stable, warm, and supportive home environment. We constantly stress and try to model the importance of manners and respect. No where is this more apparent than in the things that we tell our son. We try to convey the responsibility he now has as the big brother, to watch out for his sister, to teach her things, and to reinforce that the bond that they share is like no other. We want to be able to see them grow up together and be able to lean on each other in times of need; however, we also know that there are no guarantees. Although we want them to be best friends it may not necessarily turn out that way. So we're keeping our fingers crossed and our hopes high for the future. And if anyone has a magic formula as to how to foster such a relationship, we're all ears.

The Art of the Chinese Compliment

[Cross posted on Cranial Gunk]

I pulled a real Chinese parent move recently. My eldest’s piano teacher told me he was playing very well but instead of turning to my eldest and saying: “Hey! Did you hear that? That’s excellent! Good Job!” I said: “Hey! Did you hear what your teacher said? If you concentrated and practiced more, you could be even better.”

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized what I had done.

Oh my God, I thought – I am my father’s son! I’m not the cool American parent hanging his child’s drawing on the refrigerator – Good job Timmy! Let’s go for ice cream! I’m the Chinese parent saying, Is that it? You’re going to do better than that, right?

There should be a special category in parenting dedicated to the art of the “Chinese Compliment” - An 80, son? Well, I guess that’s good if that’s the best you can do. Sometimes it isn’t even what they say but how they’re saying it. I imagine an American parent saying the same thing but the tone is all different. In my head I am hearing a more excited pitch (akin to awe or expectance) – An 80, son? Well, I guess that’s good if that’s the best you can do. Now, let’s go for ice cream. There’s no ice cream when the Chinese voice in my head says it.

A friend and I joke about the extreme differences in our upbringing when it came to compliments. He says when he came home with 60s on his tests, his parents would say, “That’s Great! You did good this time! You know a 60 is more than half way to a 100! Let’s go out for ice cream!”

I’ve failed more than my fair share of tests – passing is a 75 - and can say with great confidence that I’ve never gotten ice cream.

I want to say here that (ice cream or not) I love my parents. As a parent now myself, I have learned that sometimes it is not so much about being fair or liked by my children but about what is necessary to insure good habits – Sometimes you need to be the bad guy in order to raise a good child.

And there are sacrifices. I like ice cream too but there is the proper moment for it – There is an appropriate time – An appropriate time that I (as father) need to choose and stick with – My children don’t need mixed messages from me regarding treats and rewards – I think in Parenting 101, most experts agree that consistency is important.

Maintaining consistency and good habits is hard. Complicating the process is determining when. Just like the cliché of the punishment fitting the crime, the reward must fit the deed. What’s an ice cream occasion and what warrants a visit to the toy store? Every parent has his own measure of success and this measure is incremented by that parent’s expectations of his child.

I expect my children to strive to be the best at whatever they decide to do. This is different from expecting them to be the best. I make the distinction because I feel too often children as students get too comfortable. They define a set of skills and academic subjects they are immediately successful at and cease to strive for more. As a parent, it’s my responsibility to nudge my children along so they can develop the necessary habits to achieve greater successes and learn to cope with their failures.

Now, I am certainly not justifying my words to my eldest when his piano teacher complimented him. It’s also my responsibility to inspire my children. There is a time to relish the moment – as in an instance of a compliment – and a time to be pragmatic – as I was trying to be when I told my son he could be even better if he practiced more.

I guess I got too comfortable in my role as a Chinese parent. I guess I need to take my own advice and stop being comfortable. I need to take my own advice and strive to be the best dad I can be.

Picture (Book) Perfect

[Cross posted at Cranial Gunk]

There’s this story I like to tell about my introducing “literature” to my children. It involves my eldest. He must have been two. I had bought a copy of Maurice Sendak’s classic, Where the Wild Things Are, to read to him at bed time. I was so proud of myself, suddenly eligible to join the cult of NPRents simply by reading classic Western children’s literature to my children.

My eldest seemed to enjoy the story but then one night he asked me to stop. It seems my venture into classic Western childhood storytelling was scaring the wits out of him! Where Max welcomed the Wild Things and became their king, my child hide from them under his covers after I turned off the lights. And so I learned it wasn’t the “Terrible Twos” causing him to be a “wild thing” - It was the lack of sleep from being so frightened at night!

Needless to say I stopped reading Where the Wild Things Are to him at night. I think we settled on the manic hijinx of The Cat in the Hat instead.

I like the notion of “picture books as art objects” (as Barbara Kiefer defines it) – “a combination of image and idea in a sequence of turning pages that can produce in the reader an effect greater than the sum of the parts.”

Neil Gaiman and David McKean’s The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish immediately comes to mind. The “mixed media” feel – angular depictions in photographs and ink - of the images enhances the surreal dream-like content of the text.

The story is about a boy who trades his father to a friend for two goldfish. When his mother finds out she demands he get his father back. The situation is complicated when the boy discovers the friend who he swapped with has in turn swapped his father for an electric guitar. The story follows the boy through the various hands who have traded his father.

On the opposite end of the visual spectrum – but no less an art object - is Joyce Sidman and Micelle Berg’s Meow Ruff: A Story in Concrete Poetry. My youngest brought it home from his school’s library. Like Gaiman and McKean’s books, Berg and Sidman use text as a visual instrument to help convey the narrative. Unlike Gaiman and McKean, Berg and Sidman’s images are bright with safe edges. With its Chibi-like illustrations, Meow Ruff is a good introduction to poetry in general – not just concrete poetry.

Embedded in the gray depiction of the poured concrete parking lot: “Parking Lot/ Hot Spot, Black Tar Multicar, Hard Flat Welcome Mat.”

And in the depiction of a tree: “Each Leaf A Map Of Branches Each Twig A Branch Of Leaves Each Branch A Tree Of Twigs Each Tree A Green Haired Slim Chested Great Hearted Gnarl-Armed Strong Legged Deep Rooted One.”

Meow is a cat whose owner has abandoned it in a local park. Ruff is a dog who gets away from his owner and stumbles into the park. A rain storm forces the two – who were initially at odds - to seek shelter together under a picnic table - becoming fast friends.

What’s great about this book is when you have time to think about it, it is a story of abandonment – in Meow’s case purposeful and premeditated – in Ruff’s case just an act of recklessness – that is told in the bright vibrant colors of a child’s birthday card and not the expected subdued colors that signal loss and tragedy.

I think you can take it for granted that the picture book is the first book children experience – meaning it is the first book they interact with physically and emotionally – from turning the pages themselves to interjecting their own ideas as you read.

I remember as a child I had a set of picture books from Encyclopedia Britannica. I don’t remember how many were in the set but they had solid colors – purple, red, yellow, blue, green, etc. I remember one was numbers and one was nursery rhymes.

I also remember Little Golden Books - thin, hard covered books, with the marbled, golden spine. I remember the three little pigs and a story with a puppy in it.

I remember the first Rice Daddies post I read. It was a contest involving the first book you read. I couldn’t remember the first book I actually read on my own – though I remember its story. It was about a boy with large hands who was awkward until he found a sport that would utilize his hands – football.

I also remember my elementary school teacher reading Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing to my class. It was a positive and lasting impression (though many scores later, reading the same story to my children I realize my teacher left some parts out).

Books continue to be an integral part of my home – even before the children. My parent’s were avid readers and so are my children’s mother and I. I believe the availability of books and a literature rich environment as well as seeing my parents read all the time fostered a penchant for reading in me.

I don’t know if my children will remember their first book, so let me write it here – Where the Wild Things Are (my eldest) and Go Dog Go (my youngest).

How about you? Do you remember yours? Are they fond memories?

For the Record

[Cross posted at Cranial Gunk]

Listening to Rosanne Cash speak at the Times Center got me thinking about what “The List” I give my children would look like? What kind of intellectual/cultural legacy will I leave for them? What legacy will I be able to forge for them?

My father and I do not talk about music though we have argued politics.

Rosanne says this on her blog about The List:

The songs were culled from a List of "100 Essential Country Songs" that my dad made for me when I was 18 years old. It could have easily been called "100 Essential AMERICAN Songs", as the list covered every critical juncture in Roots music, from early Folk songs, protest songs, history songs, Appalachian, Southern blues and Delta bottomland songs, to Gospel and modern Country music. This list is not only a personal legacy, but I have come to realize it is also a cultural legacy, as important to who we are as Americans as the Civil War, or the Rocky Mountains.

Determined by time and place, my “America” is different than Rosanne’s. In 1973 when she was 18 and her father presented her with his list of “essential songs,” I was still in the single digits (born 12 years later but a day earlier). By the time I turned 18, the synthesizer and scratching had become as mainstream as the guitar and the fiddle.

And of course ethnicity plays a role. The word “country” has additional implications for me and my children (though we are all American born). A list of influential (if not essential) American songs for my children would have to include Jacky Cheung, Leslie, Faye Wong, and Andy Lau. These Cantopop singers made it far enough across the language barrier to reach me without Youtube or MP3 file-sharing.

They were influential partially because they represented a “modernizing” of what I perceived as Hong Kong music (which seemed overly preoccupied with ballads and overly “artificial” sounding synthesizers like the sound bites to 80s video games). These singers seemed to have a deeper understanding of the art of the English pop song and successfully bridged the aural sensibilities of both languages (English and Cantonese).

As a Second Generation ABC (American Born Chinese) I have a faulty grasp of Cantonese (my parents’ language). As Third Generation ABCs my children have no understanding at all of my parents’ (their grandparents) language. Everyone speaks English! (which is good in the respect that we have assimilated well but difficult in terms of a cultural legacy.)

I have written about the importance of my children learning Chinese. After reading about The List, I feel it is important that my children also have an understanding of the culture (art, music, and literature) that enriches their heritage as Asian Americans (or more specifically Chinese Americans).

(Digging around Youtube, Leslie Cheung’s Monica brought back memories. I couldn’t resist closing with it… )

I Miss Pat Morita

So I guess they're remaking "The Karate Kid", with Jackie Chan and Jaden Smith playing the Pat Morita and Ralph Macchio roles. And from the looks of this trailer, the movie's set in China, the ancient land of mean-eyed wushu-trained boys and demure violin-playing girls. During the course of the flick, Jackie Chan (sporting a moustache wispier than Mariah Carey's in "Precious") sagely teaches Jaden Smith how to be a kick-ass kung fu fighter, in part by instructing him to "JACK IT OFF" or something like that. (I guess "wax on, wax off" wasn't suggestive enough.)

But wait a second: This remake features a Chinese kung fu master teaching kung fu in China. There's no karate in this film -- not even the fake kind that Mr. Miyagi taught Daniel-san. So why is this movie still called "The Karate Kid"? Why not "The Kung Fu Kid" or "Will Smith's Kid" or "Jack It Off"?

Oh, right -- I forgot for a moment that in Hollywood's eyes, all Asians (and their respective forms of native martial arts) are totally interchangeable.

humbug

[Cross posted at Cranial Gunk]

I remember our first Christmas together. I had gotten her one of those hand-held electric back massagers (which she asked me to return). She had gotten me a DVD player (which we had to buy a new TV to accommodate).

And we had a live tree that we bought from a reformed drug addict who was selling them outside the Rite Aid on Grand Street. He brought it to our apartment in a shopping cart that rattled and jangled across the islands on Delancey. He had a little hatchet he used to trim off the lower branches so the tree would fit into the stand. We didn’t question it at the time but later that night we kicked ourselves for being so naive. We let a self-admitted drug addict into our home with an axe.

There is a picture of the four of us (our youngest just over a month old) with Santa at Macy’s. It was the last time Christmas didn’t feel like a hassle. By “hassle” I mean it was the last time Christmas didn’t feel rushed or contrived. And by “contrived” I mean it was the last time Christmas felt like a celebration rather than an obligation.

I’ve been telling the same joke lately. For many of my friends and acquaintances, it is their babies’ first Christmases (or Hanukkahs). I’ve been telling them (jokingly of course): Enjoy baby’s first Christmas (or Hanukkah) because pretty soon he’ll (or she’ll) be asking for stuff.

I don’t mean it in a mean way. It’s not a cynical statement on the commercialism of Christmas and human greed. It’s more an amusing “circle of life” observation on my part. It’s normal child development for my boys to want specific things. It is also normal for them to want what their friends have. It’s a sign they are becoming self aware and constructing a personal aesthetic. It’s also a sign they are becoming socially aware.

A train set is no longer a train set, it is the Thomas the Tank Engine train set like the one [Insert Child’s Peer’s Name Here] got. A video game is not a video game , it’s a DS like the ones [the ominous] they have at school.

My boys are maturing and asserting themselves. The catalysts determining their desires is inconsequential for now. We will eventually have the “talk” about not mindlessly following peer groups but for now it is enough they are becoming sensitive to the norms of their peer group.

That said. It doesn’t mean I don’t get a little bit sentimental about the days when it was enough that the present was from me. With their newfound desires comes new burdens not to disappoint.

… humbug.

Elizabeth Bernstein writes about disappointing holiday gifts from husbands/boyfriends to wives/girlfriends in her Wall Street Journal article, “The Gift that Needs Forgiving.” It seems the “thought” is not enough.

After recounting several tales of “inappropriate” gifts she has been told, she concludes:

You shouldn't need a gift consultant (or a marriage counselor) to tell you these presents are wrong. They're utilitarian. Unromantic. Ugly. And, in many cases, more suitable for a man, or a cleaning woman, than the love of your life.

I am reminded of Cordelia’s plight in King Lear. She ineffectively expresses her love for her father and is cast out. However, the moral Shakespeare posits is the polar opposite of Bernstein’s. He chooses to show superficial gestures of affection paling in the light of those that are more subtle and genuine.

As I read Bernstein’s article, I felt a swell rise from my gut. It wasn’t the holiday sweets charitably giving me a second taste. It was annoyance. As clever as she was in her article, she (perhaps inadvertently) portrayed women as shallow, demanding princesses whose emotional investments are in tokens of homage instead of more meaningful, potentially sincere gifts.

To illustrate my point, Bernstein includes Tom Valentino’s story among the tales of disappointed wives and girlfriends. He is meant represent the “men’s perspective.” He tells of his upbringing and its influence on his values.

In his parents' house, Christmas was all about religious values—and food. Gifts were an afterthought.

"I started to think, well, we have three kids already, so no need for anything from Victoria's Secret," he says. "And I bought her a fancy watch last year for her birthday. How many of those does she need?"

Then he remembered his wife had said she needed a vacuum and a bigger pasta pot. Off to Macy's he went. "I could almost smell the sauce cooking with meatballs, sausage and braciole," he says. "How could a woman not be happy with these?"

He found out, because the gifts made his wife cry.

What would have been an appropriate gift? For the most part, the true desires of the women included in the story are never revealed. Is it a matter of not knowing what you want but knowing enough that you don’t want what you were given?

I am reminded of “Rosebud” and a little snow globe given by a man to a woman. She rejects the gift and goes on to say he never gave her anything of value.

Bernstein concludes:

Sometimes men aren't listening to their wives. But just as often, women aren't clear about their desires. They want men to pick up on their subtle clues, rather than telling them outright what they'd like. As one woman I know explains, "It means we are special to them if they detect what we want without us telling them."

So what’s a Rice Daddy to do? The Asian side of me says: Gift Cards! The American side of me says: That’s so “utilitarian, unromantic,” and “ugly.”