Equal Justice Does Not Come Easy In America

I am angry. As a non-white American, I have felt the sting of racism growing up in America. What happened to George Floyd is beyond abhorrent. What is equally evil is the fact that there were three other police officers on the scene who did nothing to protect this American. And that is why we are protesting in this country. Yet again. The police are not judge, jury and executioner. The United States is not a Third World Country, but it is beginning to have the trappings of one. This country is sick. Leaderless in a time of racial unrest and racial injustice, during a pandemic. Unfortunately, the current occupant of the White House has made the civil unrest about him, and not the George Floyd's of the world. The Trump regime has ordered the U.S. military to patrol certain areas of Washington D.C. alongside unknown and de-badged militia-type forces. Thirty one years ago today, June 4, 1989, the Communist Chinese government quelled a DEMOCRACY protest with its military, using tanks to crush its citizens. Now Donald Trump is threatening to silence Americans with the might of the U.S. military, the same military that Trump refused to join, FIVE TIMES during the Vietnam War. My father served with distinction for 20 years in the U.S. Navy and he wasn't even born in the United States. My grandfather served 30 years in the U.S. Navy, including a stint cleaning up Pearl Harbor on the USS Navajo, and he wasn't even born in the United States. The current occupant of the White House was born here, avoided service to our country and now he threatens to unleash the U.S. military on its own citizens for exercising their right calling for justice for George Floyd? Let me say that again. Trump has threatened to deploy the U.S. military against American citizens on American soil. Let that sink in. Where is the outrage from the Republican Party? Where is the outrage from the Senate? Where is the leadership to help our country heal from this crime? Anyone?

I have been called virtually everything in the racism book. Chink, gook, wetback, kanaka boy, dirty Mexican, Jap, slant-eyed, redskin, yellow, fu-man, Bruce Lee, buddha, Kwai Chang cain. Everything but the nationality that I am. Filipino. Growing up in America, I didn’t know I was different until the 4th grade, when I auditioned for the lead role as the prince in a play called "The Prince of Pollution." I won that role alongside my princess, a Korean girl named Yoo Kyung Kim. Little did I know that our roles comprised the play presented to the other grades in the school, while the parent performances were showcased with white 4th grade students as the leads. Was it racial discrimination that Yoo Kyung Kim and I weren’t able to play the leads for our parents? Maybe not, but for me as a 4th grader in the 1970s, being placed alongside another “Oriental” as the leads made me think differently. From that point forward I realized I wasn’t a white American. Race in America is institutionalized. Growing up, my friends were diverse: Half Mexican/Italian, Half Japanese/German, Costa Rican, white, white, and white. In the summer prior to my freshman year in high school, I met a fellow surfer named Kenny Naragon. We fast became friends and rode our bikes to the beach with our surfboards, surfing almost every day that summer and everyday after school. One night, we were riding home from the beach and we were arguing about a girl, and Kenny let slip, “You chinks are all the same.” After that, Kenny was no longer my friend, and then a few months later, Kenny tragically died under mysterious circumstances. I never got to say goodbye as I struggled with my decision to unfriend him. I can go on and on with the times that I have been racially discriminated against, as it started in grade school and continued on even into my professional career, when at one point I had to report my racial grievances to HR. We all know that racism is persistent in this country. It is no secret that in the United States, as great as the ideals in which the USA was founded, and as great as it ONCE WAS (prior to 2017), continues to struggle with its identity. The current occupant of the White House knows that race is a great wedge issue and he has exploited it to his advantage since before he became the leader of the free world. Let that sink in a bit. The leader of the free world is a race-baiting bunker boy. Trump back in 2017, essentially gave the police a green light to “not be too nice.” Even though there has always been and always will be rogue, racist cops. “Now, we’re getting them out anyway, but we’d like to get them out a lot faster. And when you see these towns and when you see these thugs being thrown into the back of a paddy wagon — you just see them thrown in, rough — I said, please don’t be too nice. (Laughter.) Like when you guys put somebody in the car and you’re protecting their head, you know, the way you put their hand over? Like, don’t hit their head and they’ve just killed somebody — don’t hit their head. I said, you can take the hand away, okay?” This speech and this excerpt has since been removed from the White House website. Now police brutality on the streets of the United States has existed since forever, yet the supposed President of the United States essentially endorsed this type of behavior in that speech "in front of a crowd of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents, police officers, and sheriff’s deputies." Herein lies the disease. The geneation before me has failed America. My generation has failed America. The next generation is demanding "liberty and justice for all," and judging from the PEACEFUL protests from sea to shining sea (including Hawaii), the next generation may just get it right in the choices that they make in their daily lives, and at the ballot box. Change in this country does not come easy, but it does.

Don't Sweat the Bullshit

I just woke up from a dream with Dad, mom, juliana, Alexander . Juliana and I were at Dad’s house at around 3 in the morning and the music was blasting. Mom was trying to put Alexander to sleep. Jodi was no where to be found. Mom had one leg over the rail and I said, “mom give him to me.” And she said “can you help me clean up the mess first.” SO I started cleaning up. There were toys everywhere, a playpen blocking the front door, clothes and other random stuff strewn about. Mom handed Alexander to me. Then I got to a dirty diaper full of shit and dirty shorts just left on the family room floor, which pissed me off. I was yelling at mom, “Mom where is Jodi? She needs to pick this shit up” and then Dad appeared from the stairs. He was smiling, “John, give Alexander to me, give me my grandson.” So I did, and he proceeded to put Alexander to sleep in like 30 seconds. Then he said to me,“John, don’t sweat the little bullshit.” Don’t waste your time. 

Ode to Donald Takayama

In the 3rd grade at Star View School, I befriended a pudgy Hawaiian menehune named Michael Takayama, (who I affectionately called "Coconut hair" back then). We met on the playground where (as Michael remembers it) I asked him if he wanted to be friends. He was wearing an Aloha shirt and white pants. And we became friends that day. Later that week, he introduced me to gummy bears. Now back in the 1970s, gummy bears came from Germany and they were a rare treat that I never had before. I had a pouch drink called a Poke'm, which was basically a green colored drink in a plastic bag that you poked with a straw and drank. I traded him the Poke'm for a bag of the gummy bears. During Library Day, Michael and I went to the library at Star View and Michael used the Dewey Decimal catalog cards to find a book titled "The In Sport." In that book, was a listing on Donald Takayama and his contest accomplishments in the world of surfing. "Who is he?" I asked Michael, and Michael replied, "He's my uncle." That was the first I heard of the surfer Donald Takayama. Now at the time I didn't really understand what surfing was and didn't actually see someone surf until 5th grade when we had a field trip to Huntington Beach. It was then that I saw Michael paddle out on a surfboard and attempt to catch some waves in front of Tower 3 in HB. It was blown out and windy and I watched Michael stand up and then fall, then do it again. He was the only surfer at Star View. It wasn't until the 7th grade at Vista View school that Michael got me into surfing. He taught our friend Bill how to surf and Bill in turn took me out on my first surf session. We had fun at Brookhurst St. in HB and I got hooked. Bill, Michael, myself, and several others spent many days surfing Brookhurst, messing around and doing things that junior high kids do. Paddling out in monstrous walled out unsurfable Brookhurst because we didn't know any better to surf the RJs. Paddling out in fluorescent green weird water. Burning a huge dead bird in a fire pit. (Big mistake, that think stank the air). Eating at Massimo's Pizza. Hanging with Michael's older brother Larry. Seeing Guy riding a longboard wearing an all black wetsuit. It wasn't until the 11th grade that I finally got to meet Donald. Bill, Michael and I went down to the factory in Oceanside and we filled out papers for custom boards. This was around 1984. "Two weeks." Donald said. Well, that two weeks turned into two months, then three months, until finally we went down again to see what was up. Our boards weren't even shaped. So Donald, who at the time had longish hair, took us into the shaping bay and proceeded to shape our boards. We watched as he mowed the foam and got three safety nose thrusters all rough shaped. Several hours later we saw our boards fine tuned. "Two weeks" Donald said as he left left the room. For Bill and myself, we were totally stoked to see Donald in action. I'll never forget watching him with the planer. At the time, to me, he was just Donald Takayama, uncle to my childhood friend Michael Takayama. It wasn't until I stopped riding thrusters and jumped onto a longboard did I really find out who Donald was. All the stories that Michael told me when we were small kids, how DT named velzyland after Dale Velzy, how DT shaped the best boards of the era. It all came to light as I began riding Takayama surfboards again. Everyone knows the story, Uncle Donald comes to California as a boy of 12, already an accomplished shaper, and works under the tutelage of Dale Velzy. He then proceeds to work as a hired gun at the factories of other shapers, designing for them what would arguably become the best boards in their stable of boards, and the best boards of the era; The Jacobs Takayama Model, the David Nuuhiwa Noserider, The Weber Performer ( he and Iggy made work) and the list goes on. I got to hang with Donald a few times at the shop as Michael and I would stop by after a surf, and proceed to laugh so hard my ribs would hurt. Stop and say hi when he would be out early in the gold van checking the North jetty. I was fortunate to experience even just the little things that makes Donald, Donald. Sharing bars of chocolate in the retail store. Totally approachable. Totally cool. Da best of da best. I am fortunate to have surfed with Donald a few times and am fortunate to have met him and his wife Sid, all via my third grade friend, Coconut Hair. The surfing world has lost a legend. Arguably the most innovative surfboard designer ever, Donald Takayama is the legend of all legends.

Dreams with my Father

My father passed away on September 9, 2011. It was a long slog for him and I miss him. Now I only have memories and pictures, but the other night, I had the third element, a dream. While my sister and mother have already spoken with my dad in their dreams, I had not until the morning of November 1, All Saints Day. In my dream, my dad had returned from the dead and I asked him "Why are you back?" and he said, "Well I need to get this tumour checked out. so you need to drive me to the doctor's to get it checked out." I spent a lot of time driving him to his appointments in the last year, and this was no real surprise request. In fact, I was happy to drive him in my dream. When we arrived at UCLA Medical Center, he got out of the car and started walking, and I said, "Dad why don't you ride in the wheelchair, I will push you." And he said, I can walk, but if you want to push me, that is fine. So he sat down in the chair, with me moving the footrests out of the way like I always did. It was like it was actually happening. When I wheeled him into the elevator, my sister Joyce appeared with a watch in a ziploc bag. The watch was in pieces. Joyce asked my dad to fix it, and she handed him the bag. In real life, my dad enjoyed repairing things. IN the dream, he said. What is this watch? A Becker Guchi? This watch is garbage." Then, I realized that I was wearing my dad's Panerai that was given to me by my mother after my dad died. Feeling guilty wearing the watch that he wore everyday, I took it off my wrist and handed it back to him, saying, "Dad, here is your watch back, you can have it back now that you are here again." And he said, "You need to take care of the watch, the screws on the side are loose, you need to tighten them up." And I said, "no dad, they are fine." And he said, no they are loose, and he proceeded to take the watch from me and pulled out the screwdriver built specifically for that watch and he tightened down the screws and gave the watch back to me. That is all I can remember about my dream with my father, but I am very happy that it was a good dream. I miss you dad, and thanks for visiting on All Saints Day. Love your son, John

Racism lives on in The OC

Today I was driving home from work, waiting at the light to turn left near Sterling liquor on Newland and Heil. There was a man crossing the street, taking his time, while yapping on the phone, and another car also waiting for that man to cross, so that driver could turn right onto Newland. Someone behind me honked, and I put my hand out and gave that driver the customary SHAKA, and proceeded to turn left. Well the driver who turned right, caught up to me at the bottom of the hill, near Nady's market, and proceeded to scream at me. "I was waiting for the guy to cross, YOU DAMN SLANT EYED MOTHER FUCKER," I calmly looked at the guy and said. "I wasn't the person who honked. You got beef? Take it up with the driver behind me" Then the guy in the back seat of the car got all apologetic and said, "Really? I am so sorry, and proceeded to try and shake my hand.

Nothing surprises me anymore in Orange County, having lived in this place for most of my adult life, but for a bunch of rednecks (I know it is a stereotype, but they sure as heck looked AND acted like rednecks) to call me a damn slant eyed mother fucker, for something that I didn't do, and then proceed to apologize and try to shake my hand, well, that just takes the CAKE. That is the funniest shit. I look forward to my MOVE to Hawaii, as soon as my oldest son grows up and gets a full time job. After he graduates from college.