Sending Off Grandma

Grandma loved hiking up Yurongshan but, in her later years, was not very good at not falling down. Last year, on a hike, she fell and broke a hip. This sent Mom into a panic and she sped home and put her in hospital and accompanied her on her recovery. When that was done, Grandma went hiking on Yurongshan again and fell down again and fractured her hip again, this time on the other side. After that recovery she joined the nursing home where, after a short few months of getting used to her new life and building rapport with the support staff, she faded away and died. It happened quickly, and in any case the tribe has a deep distaste for the idea of life support at all costs, and was glad to see that she has gone so quietly.

I was called home in short order. I had missed Grandpa's funeral in June 2009 and had resented my parents for going to China without me, even as my sergeant major had given me compassionate leave. So there is no question when Dad asked me if I would like to go; I definitely would, and moreso if it could right a historical wrong. Mom's parents had been my caretakers when I was a toddler, and I was close to them.

Mom delegated some key tasks for me, and I was oddly honoured to follow through with them. I chose the design of the urn at the undertaker's: An urn of dark sandalwood, minimally adorned. I did the overnight vigil at the memorial hall with Dad, and I carried Grandma's ashes from the crematorium to the columbarium. Some of these duties were rightfully performed by my cousins, Grandma's male-line descendants. Despite this, I took those over from them because they were estranged, by way of my late uncle, and did not show up.

Because the vigil was performed by my Dad and myself, it was a night of light foolishness. At night the bugs of the forest liked to fly into the memorial hall, attracted and disoriented by the lights. That night was the first time I saw an owlfly. Dad saw the owlfly, which was like a dragonfly with long, strange, alien-looking antennae that ended in knobs, and quipped "Grandpa is visiting". Another time I rescued a large beetle that liked to flip on its back and Dad said, "that's a dung beetle; uncle is visiting!" At the crack of dawn he got the zoomies and went out to walk around the tombstones while I was fast asleep on the bench. This light-heartedness he attributes to the family's Catholic faith, which lifts the weight of the many ancient taboos around death off our shoulders.

Chengguan Liqiao Catholic Church

Chase Across the Floor

Hammer and River bring Tibetan dance to a Jazz battle, May 2026, Nanjing

The Chase

By the last night I had developed preferences in my dance partners, and would try to get my favourites to dance with me. One way to do this would be to "chase" — noting where your mark is and to dance gradually closer and closer to them so that eventually when the song ends you can hop over next to them and proposition. I chased Shasha around the place but gave up when she succeeded in hunting down Elisha, our Coach, and danced two dances with him. 

I asked in a meditation if God was on the dance floor, I should be chasing him as hard as I tried to chase Shasha. My interior spiritual director interjected, "but wouldn't Jesus be chasing you instead?"

"How can I be chasing Jesus and have Jesus chasing me at the same time? Wouldn't we find each other trivially and have a straightforward placement in the very next dance?" and my brain smouldered from the overthinking.

The Good Dance

After failing to get a dance with Shasha, I redirected my chase to a classmate I met during the day's workshop, this was Cynthia, an exchange student from Philadelphia with whom I had amazing dances earlier. Her game was a low forward stance, intense eye contact, and a look on the face gleeful and almost to the point of frenzy.

Trisha asked me what made me decide if a dance was good. My answer to it was "emotional connection". Cynthia's strong eye contact game was reassuring to me, although it could be off-putting to another person. I hear it said very often by other dancers that they valued good technique and clear signals. For me, on the other hand, the best dances came with minimal technique and a whole lot of Silly, a shared lexicon of in-jokes and cultural touchstones of the depth and variety like one shared by siblings who grew up together in childhood.

Surrender

This is on the fabled point in an endeavour where you have reached the end point of your mojo, said "fuck it", and then performed better than you ever would have up to that point. In Vietnam I had hit a wall, but still carried on swimmingly with the marine biology theme. In Nanjing this week Marsha "surrendered to the music" in the middle of her solo competition. I found a new way to surrender which was to surrender to the follows. I have a new appreciation for follows who turn out not to be passive participants in a dance, but come with their own mojo stowed in the backpack and are not afraid to use it.

Good follows go as far as to volunteer to cover for my own fallen nature. At one point, after I almost trip over my own foot, the follow took over the controls — not switching, but leading the dance from the shotgun seat. I dug it, but I imagine they were quite pissed they had to do it!

There was a celebrity follow who hyped up my game at Shim Sham. Thank you! My ego liked it very much.

Hyeon and Jay — for the hype

Self-abandonment

That being said, a lot of whether a dance turns out good or bad depends a lot on the follow I happen to dance with. Together with the fact that my mojo vaporises once I am aware that someone (other than my dance partner) is watching me, these are reasons why I did not hit the floor as a competitor this round.

I came to realise that, just as I mirror my follows' energy in a partner dance, I do the very same in my romantic relationships, and it was unhealthy. I tell myself "I will go where you go" (Ruth 1:16) and "be all things to all people" (1 Corinthians 9:22) and land outside my comfort zone all of the time, when at the same time the exes did not do the same back to me. This was a fast way to lose myself in a relationship, over and over again.

Is there a way to simulate a more positive dynamic in a partner dance, for argument's sake?

Dance Glossary

Mojo: Alignment with oneself

Mana (points): Like mojo, except quantitative, whereas mojo is qualitative

Out of mana: Tired

Rizz: Alignment with dance partner; connection

Pull: Initiate a move

Pull cringe: Initiate an experimental, silly, or otherwise nonstandard move

Have the silly: Have the kind of mojo that makes you pull cringe

Throw moves: Pull moves on yourself

Follow the Voice of Allah: Dance with musicality

Play ball: Be able to dance

Game: Quality of dance

Check game: After not dancing with a friend for a long time, do a quick dance to see if their game has changed in the meanwhile. This is the dance version of catching up

Ineffables: Philosophical (meta-)aspects of social dance, including floorcraft, etiquette, and mindset

Floor: The dance floor

Floor funk: The moment when you feel dread at being present on the floor; being overwhelmed, or feeling that you belong anywhere but here

Mooch: Learn moves from someone by watching them on the floor

Dance crush: The dance partner who, if they appear at socials and you do not get to dance with them, you would go home sad (this is a distinct concept from a romantic crush)

Coach: If you define a person to be Coach, you can accept advice from them any time

Swing energy: The version of you that you are on the dance floor when it carries over to other contexts 

A demonstration of "Mojo" (Photo: Andrew Lin)

I wanted this

Photo: Matthew Stockman

Alysa Liu took a long break away from figure skating to live life, and returned guns blazing.

She left behind forever a figure skating scene which told her, your must look like this, you must not eat that, wear these clothes, play these music... but builds up a scene which says, this is what I do, this is how I move, this is what I'm fucking talking about!

The old world had starved waifs, narcissistic coaches who build their self worth over the success of their charges, entire nations who bear down the responsibility of national glory on the shoulders of young men and women, conniving vixens who plot the downfall of their competitors, hired goons who break people's knees, sore losers who throw a tantrum when they do not get a metal in their favourite colour, corrupt coaches who give unfair scores, and Alysa Liu comes in like a bull in a china shop and goes, let's nuke this. Let's burn down this town, raze it three feet into the bedrock.

This is about joy. This is about love. I love to skate and I love my friends. My joy and love will pass from person to person. And fuck everything else.

Reflection for Invocabit Sunday

My Lent last year had been about abandoning the Harsh Inner Voice. I recognised shortcomings in my own approach to self-denial and redemptive suffering. I rejected the Voice whenever it showed up, particularly on the dance floor. This was not the same as indulging the ego — resisting the Voice was challenging and uncomfortable, because it was not intuitive.

For the rest of last year, I continued on this thread and this fasting blossomed into a deconstruction. I reexamined my many ascetic practices which by this point made me miserable and resentful, rather than helping me grow in faith. I learned about purity culture, and how high control and high demand in religions could lead one into the opposite of the values they intend to promote. I learned about the corruption of church leaders who preach purity, but live the culture of rape and pederasty. I reflected on my own rules and adherence to the ascetic practices, which were supposed to help with my purity, but became accessories to corruption themselves. 

Meanwhile, most of the priests at the confessional, and my own spiritual advisor, only gave me boilerplate answers to address my troubles. They could not find a way out other than variations of do the same, but harder. There was one exception, however, which was when one of them threw this one out: focus on loving God.

Let us love, then, because he first loved us. (1 John 4:19)

What was supposed to be a spontaneous outpouring of love, a reciprocation of Allah's pursuit of us, became stale bureaucracy through my practices. It became buried in numbers, goals, targets, and obligations. I had reciprocated God's love with a sterile love. It followed that to change, I had to rebuild this connection from the ground up. No more daily trips to the church, no more timed prayers, set prayers, and so much more.

My spiritual advisor said, you can't do this and still be in the community. I said, let me leave.

He said, your interior life is in shambles.

But my interior life was not in shambles. It had gone in a better way than ever. I was relating to Allah in a fresh way on the dance floor, I was building up character, I was shaping it on my own terms. I was dressing up differently. I had started going to the gym. I had strengthened my bond with my sisters and my parents. I later also realised that doing the opposite of what my spiritual advisors suggested brought me closer to this wholesome life.

When I was living in Cleveland, I had among my friends a small cabal of gay Catholics. When I was set to leave, the director said, tell your gay friends they are going to hell. And I conveniently forgot about it during the farewell party. It was a great farewell. We are still friends. I write them postcards. We still meet up. It has been a beautiful friendship. Where would I be instead, if I had been obedient to this directive?

I would bring suffering unto myself and to others, and this suffering would not be for love. I would convince myself that this alienation was persecution, that I would be a martyr for having fearlessly preached the teachings of Christ. I would live this lie the rest of my days and whinny pathetically about it in the pulpit, fishing for validation. And as for the fruits of the spirit, there is nothing that would show up that I could recognise as such.

I do not want this.

I do not want a self-denial that makes me think another man's thoughts over my own; I own my inner voice now! I do not want obedience; or rather, I am incapable of obedience to people whose judgement I no longer trust. I do not want control, because control leads so often to impurity.

My old flames so often fault me for not knowing what I want. I realise now that they were right, and I do not want to hurt any more people whom I love. I will learn to live with my desires honestly, and communicate them well. I will do things because I want to, and not out of obligation or expectation. I will get better not because I am scared of hellfire, but learn to reciprocate genuinely, with my own love, the call of Allah, who is all loving.

Current items of fasting, Lent 2026:

1. The Daily Mandilah: take a shower after I wake up in the morning, whether I feel I need it or not. (c.f. Matthew 6:17-18)

2. Moving into the smaller sofa-bed for bedtimes.

Rose

So imma get a story in real quick about something that happened on Valentine's Day, while I am still in the silly mood: I met my old flame on Valentine's, and she gave me a rose.

It wasn't a romantic thing by any stretch. We had gone out a few times some years ago, the fuse did not ignite, she found someone as trad (Traditional Catholic) as she was and they got married. Meanwhile my pride got hurt and I got mad at the Trads for many years and went into another relationship saying "yeah suck it, Trads!" and then that relationship fell apart and I have to work on myself and that means (gasp!) not being so mad at the Trads anymore.

Anyway this woman has a strange fixation on my sister, whom she had never met. Today I happened to pass by her stall and after a while she shot me a text saying, "yeah we got um some extra roses and don't know where to put them... maybe your sister can have one?"

And I said, inwardly, what the fuck am I supposed to do, go home and give my own biological sister a rose on Valentine's Day? Besides, Jamie is a florist, she has spent the whole week of overtime messing with rose bouquets; she will throw up if she kerplops home after Hell Week and sees yet another rose. You're a florist too, bro surely you would know that!

But I did not say all of that to her. Instead I said, "Yes"

I could be mean to her, I could doubt her motives; but it has been so long, and I have already ranted all my rants. I am tired. I do not question it anymore.

So I went back to the stall and my Old Flame handed me a rose (meant for my poor suffering sister) and madafakas NOW I HAVE A ROSE

I charged straight into a single's event wielding this stupid rose like gals and pals look at this ROSE I got on Valentine's Day and afterwards I galloped up and down Middle Road holding this ROSE. On Valentine's Day!

On this special day of Valentine, some people are in love

Some people are in love with the idea of love

But me, I just like to have a rose

It's festive!

In the end I did bring it home and put my one rose into a nice vase and told my sister that this rose is meant for her. Jamie, who had brought home two vase-fuls of yellow and orange roses, was as confused as I am, but did not turn it down. Now, it graces the top of the dining room counter. The outcome is the same whether the rose was meant for her or for me. End of story.