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the butterfly circus

Thu, 10 Sep 2009 17:53:49 GMT

One of my best friends, Tracy, helped direct this 20 minute short film called The Butterfly Circus. It's a story about hope, a man without limbs, and a circus that inspires.

You can watch it full screen here: http://www.thedoorpost.com/hope/The Butterfly Circus/

At the height of the Great Depression, the showman of a renowned circus leads his troupe through the devastated American landscape, lifting the spirits of audiences along the way. During their travels they discover a man without limbs at a carnival sideshow, but after an intriguing encounter with the showman he becomes driven to hope against everything he has ever believed.

my name

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:10:38 GMT

Nguyen Dat Ha was never my name. It was the name written down by the Saigon hospital official where I was born. The Chinese characters of my name were not going to be written on the Vietnamese birth certificate nor would they translate to English when I came to the United States 11 months later.

Lam is my mother's maiden name. It is the name which on the day of my wedding I told my mother I would carry on with my wife. It is the name my children will carry in honor of my mother who raised three children up on her own after my father left when I was three years old.

I was never called Nguyen by anyone who knew me. Since fifth grade I introduced myself by my middle name or by "Win." A Vietnamese classmate told me I was mispronouncing my name. But I explained to him it was not my name, just the name written for me. Besides, I could never pronounce it the correct way. I could barely pronounce words correctly in my own native language, Cantonese.

Win Dat Lam is now my legal name. It has always been my real name.

making a home

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 17:29:40 GMT

Melody and I have a little apartment in Alhambra that we call home. One feature of our home is that we do not have a television.

In finding an apartment and planning the layout, we tried to envision what we want our home to do for us instead of simply letting Ikea tell us what each room should look like. So instead of having a living room built around a media center, we planned our living room to be conducive to evening conversations over tea. And we wanted a second bedroom to convert to a study room so our master bedroom would be free from our MacBooks. Instead of having separate desks in the study room we share a table so that we can be closer even when we're working on different things.

The space may feel small at times and I surely miss catching Lakers games, but our home feels very intimate and we love it. And maybe not having a television will force us to go out and visit friends more. Hopefully Daisy will let us walk on over to her place to watch The Office on her new TV. :)

Also bumped into an interesting research article with data showing that unhappy people watch more television. Not sure which is the cause and which is the effect.
http://www.newsdesk.umd.edu/sociss/release.cfm?ArticleID=1789
From the General Social Survey, the researchers found that self-described very happy people were more socially active, attended more religious services, voted more and read more newspapers. By contrast, unhappy people watched significantly more television in their spare time.

lies fears truth

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 08:18:07 GMT

I want to be the father that I never had. My mother slaved away for years to care for the three children that her husband left behind. If GOD blessed me with a family, there is no desire deeper in my heart than to be the husband and father to my wife and children that my mom never had. What man would not want to provide well for his family? What man would not want security and comfort for his wife and children?

Then he said to them all: "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.

I love the job that I currently have. I love organizing and administration. I have wonderful coworkers and flexible hours. I get to keep my work at work so I can focus on life after 5 o'clock each day. I have the best health care found anywhere west of the Mississippi River. I have upward mobility and great job stability. I have a great workplace and close proximity to many friends. I love being able to write on Xanga at work.

For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.

The values that a person holds dictates the decisions that a person makes. But sometimes there are competing values. And it is not a matter of discerning between good and evil, but discerning what is best. Indecisiveness often comes when you are not sure what it is that you value more. It is at those moments of indecisiveness that you must choose not just what you will do but what you will value more.

What good is it for you to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit your very self?

I want to be a man who fights for justice and reconciliation. I want to be a man who serves the least in our society. I want to be a man whose life is a testament to GOD's love and mercy. Not just in rhetoric but in deed. Not just one day a week but every day of the week. Not just to those who already know his love but to those who are desperate for his love but have yet to accept it.

GOD has given me a heart for the homeless, for the abused, and for the poor. I would love to have a job where GOD can use this heart he has given me. At the same time, I have huge debt and little savings. How can I even dream of providing for a family when I cannot pay off my debt and move out on my own?

If any of you are ashamed of me and my words, the Son of Man will be ashamed of you when he comes in his glory and in the glory of the Father and of the holy angels.

These weigh heavily on my heart of late. I often stress and lose sleep because of my lack of faith here. Is it true that GOD provides? Is it true that GOD protects? Is it true that no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for Jesus and for the gospel will not fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age: homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—along with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal life?

GOD has always proven true to his word in my life before. Yet I am still not the man of faith and conviction whom I hope to be. Please, be patient with me on this journey.

"Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God."

Monday, June 26, 2006

Mon, 26 Jun 2006 04:28:57 GMT

[29 April 1992]

“Wake up!” my mom frantically yelled. Still in bed, I opened my eyes wondering why the lights were on in the middle of the night. “Hurry! Put on some clothes, we have to leave!” My brother and sister were already getting dressed, but I was still half-asleep. I got out of bed and casually started dressing when the electricity went out. The urgency finally hit me as I looked for some clothes under the light of the bright red flames. We ran out of our house into the cold night.

It was just a couple days before that the fires started. First it was a few cars, and then liquor stores and entire shopping centers were up in flames. I lived by the intersection of Western and Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd near the heart of South Central. I could open the windows and hear the uprising as it unfolded. The events that followed the “not-guilty” verdict of the four police officers who beat Rodney King on a Los Angeles freeway quickly exploded into chaos.

It was breaking news on all the local television channels. The verdict was released and immediately a protest was organized in Downtown Los Angeles. “Almost the entire police force is in Downtown,” the news reporters kept repeating to me as I sat on the couch in my living room. The first cars were set on fire and the news switched back and forth between the protest and the erupting violence on Florence and Normandie Ave. You could see police standing guard in Downtown while in South Central cars were being turned over and burned without a police officer in sight.

I was just a curious ten year-old, and maybe I was too young to understand. But I remember asking why news reporters would tell us that police officers were not around to stop looters in South Central. The reports were fanning the flames of violence and I thought it was outrageous. ‘Why are they telling people this?’ I asked in disbelief.

Did the news reporters know what they were doing?

I thought it would be over soon. But the spark was lit and the city was fast in flames. I looked out and saw smoke filling the air in every direction I turned.

I watched the television to see a supermarket three blocks from my house with its windows broken and people looting. Then I stepped out my front door and saw people coming back with shopping carts loaded with food and house supplies. I turned off the television and stood out on my front porch for a while to watch the drama unfold. I saw my neighbor, the only white man in our neighborhood, standing out on his lawn with a pistol in his hand.

It was a warm sunny day outside but I decided to come back inside instead. My family stayed in our house in fear. It was the safest place we could be.

There was a small market adjacent to our house on the other side of the block. Once we ran out of our house, I saw the fire from the market burning bright in the night. I could see red fire burning a hundred feet into the air and grey smoke reaching even further up to the clouds. The night was cold but I could feel the heat from the fire warm my cheeks. We stood across the street alongside neighbors and listened to the fire crackle and the crashing sound of the market crumbling. We listened for hours and hours until finally the sound of sirens came to extinguish what was left of the fire. By the time the firefighters came there was nothing left of the market but ashes.

Why did it take them so long to respond?

Morning came and our house was safe. The heat from the fire was close enough to melt the roof on our garage. But the fire reached no closer than that. We came back home, locked every door and waited for the uprising to end.

It had been going on for days and still no sign of relief. Every hour I watched the local news show police officers stand aside as businesses were looted and burned. After a couple of days I heard whispers on the television of the National Guard coming to restore order in Los Angeles. The governor had the power to call them in, but he waited. Four days of burnings and killings before the National Guard was called in and the drama was ended.

I had thought the four police officers would be found guilty by the justice system. I had thought the police would stop the violence, but they stood by innocently as the city erupted. I had thought our police chief, our governor; someone would stop South Central from being burned and destroyed.

It was a rude awakening.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Tue, 08 Nov 2005 06:38:34 GMT

[1993]

I could tell that my mother was exhausted by the way she fell onto the couch and put her arm over her eyes. She groaned on the couch for a few minutes as her body ached. After a deep sigh she got up. She looked at me with bags on her eyes and said, “It’s late, go to bed." So I went inside and fell asleep to the sound of the sewing machine.

My mother had a hundred more dresses to sew by morning. Maybe if she finished on time her boss would give her the paycheck that was three weeks late.

She always dreamed of finding a new job and someday making minimum wage. But like thousands of people in Los Angeles, she found that speaking English was a requisite to earn $4.25 an hour. So she labored as a seamstress in the garment industry where it did not matter what language you spoke as long as you did not speak about the working conditions.

I woke up as the sewing machine roared at daybreak. Her boss came early in the morning to make the delivery. I peeked out of the living room window to see the white van back onto our lawn and park right at our doorstep. My mother placed all of the clothes she had sewn into bags and dragged it to the front door. The bags of clothing seemed larger and heavier than my mother was so I helped her carry the bags out. The man took the clothes into the van and dropped off several bags of fabric into our living room. He gave my mother a deadline and left.

As the deadline approached, bags and bags of fabric still sat in the living room to be sewn. My mother became ill as she often did. There was something about sewing for fourteen hours a day that was not good for her health.

I came back from school to find my mother lying down with her arm stretched out. Her liver was swollen and it was too painful to keep her arm against her body. My sister and I took turns sewing so my mother could finally rest.

After a while she got up and looked at me with weary eyes and told me to go to bed. So I went inside and fell asleep to the sound of the sewing machine.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 18:03:20 GMT

[Fall 2000]

For months I was waiting for one kiss.

I grabbed my luggage and hurried off of the airplane as soon as it landed. I stepped into the airport and dropped my luggage the second I saw her so that I could squeeze her tightly in my arms. I swung her around before holding her still for a moment so that I could look into her eyes. Tears began to swell—both of joy and of relief. It had been a difficult few months being 3,000 miles away from each other. And as she was about to say a word I stopped her as my lips pressed against hers.

It was an embrace I had awaited for months—but it did not happen this way.

I flew alone from Los Angeles to Boston. The six-hour flight felt like tormented years. When I arrived at the airport, she was there waiting for me. But instead of the loving embrace I had envisioned before, we stood there for a moment not knowing what to say or do. She gave me a hug, but I stood there as cold and still as how she had left my heart.

The last time we kissed was on a warm summer night a few months before. We had been together for a year and a half and were never separated by too far. That night she cried and cried and cried—afraid of being apart. I told her everything would be alright—that 3,000 miles could not keep my heart from hers.

Then we sealed our love with a kiss—a sweet, sweet kiss before saying goodbye.

'I was planning on flying over there and surprising you in a few weeks,' I told her over the phone in late October. But both circumstances and plans had changed. I made flight arrangements for the next weekend.

I was not used to the chilly Massachusetts air or the shadow of romance that we spent the day with. She gave me a tour of the city and I saw fallen leaves—red and brown and colors I had never seen in a California autumn. We took a slow stroll through the park and held hands just like we used to. We stopped at the side of the bridge and looked at the lights that reflected off of the river as the day already turned dark. With every slight wind I felt the cold harsh air and remembered how we were never cold as long as we had each other to hold. But that was before.

We walked back to her dorm room under a star-lit sky. And though we spent the night together, it did not feel the same. There was a warmth that was missing in our touch.

And the kiss, the one kiss I was waiting for—it never came.

The lips that I had longed to meet again had already met the lips of another before I had a chance. And though she told me it was only a kiss—or two—it was more than that. The sweet kiss I remembered turned bitter.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Tue, 19 Jul 2005 18:17:12 GMT

[1988]

Every day kids would run around and yell during recess, but this time the yelling sounded different. Sounds of childish laughter that normally filled the playground air were instead screams of terror.

My seven year-old eyes turned as everyone dropped their jump ropes and handballs and ran towards the fence to see. Across the street from the playground of Martin Luther King, Jr. Elementary School were two people--a man with a knife in his hand and a woman running away.

The teachers tried to turn the kids away but it was too difficult to stop the commotion. I walked slowly towards the fence as other kids ran by me screaming. The woman tripped and fell hard to the hot concrete. The man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up violently with one hand as he held the knife menacingly over her with his other hand.

I stopped walking--frozen in my steps--and turned away as the screams only got louder.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Sun, 10 Jul 2005 22:39:56 GMT

[31 May 1990]

It was the best birthday present ever. My mom worked for less than minimum wage, but she managed to save up enough money over a few months to buy me a bicycle.

I felt as free as a bird with the wind rushing against me as I rode around my block. I had begged for a bicycle for years, and finally I was riding high through the neighborhood. It was the happiest day of my nine year old life.

My mother, from inside the house, could hear me riding joyfully on my bicycle all day. But it was getting dark outside, so my mom told me to come back in. I parked my bicycle in our backyard and came home with a big smile on my face.

Bright and early the next morning my mother heard the sound of my bicycle riding fast again. But this time it was not me riding. She looked out the window as the sound of my bicycle faded away. I would never see my brand new bicycle again.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Sat, 21 May 2005 16:27:43 GMT

[20 May 2005]

"Is your friend gay?" he asked about me. Mahsa laughed and answered him, “No!"

After three hours of dancing, I went to the couch to rest. The walls were decorated with palm leaves and the room was as hot as a jungle. I sat down tired and sweaty when he approached me.

Mahsa immediately came over and took the seat next to me so he left. The next song played and we jumped back on the dance floor.

Unconvinced by Mahsa’s answer, he turned to Steph and asked the same question. She laughed and answered the same. But he said to Steph, "I think he is gay. He just hasn't come out yet."

There was a pause in the dancing so I went over to greet the birthday girl. As I stood next to Michelle, he asked her, “Who’s your friend here?"

Michelle looked at me with a smile and said, “This is my brother."

“Your brother?" he yelled before grabbing me and pressing his body against mine. He squeezed tightly as I leaned back and patted him on the shoulder.

Then he bit me on my jaw.

“He’s straight!" Michelle gasped. “I don’t care," he said before biting me again. Except this time he smacked his lips and I realized he was kissing me.

Finally, he let go from his firm hug. Mahsa and Steph laughed even more as I walked away.