Yumi's Musings

Death of a TV Reporter

rie — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 17:24:50 -0800

by YUMI WILSON

My stomach began churning as soon as I read the headline: “Intruder beats TV news anchor.” I clicked on the story. KATV television reporter Anne Pressly had been brutally attacked in her home by an unknown assailant.

My mind flashed back to late January 1998.

“Yumi, did you hear the news?” asked Andy Lippman, my former boss at the Los Angeles bureau of the Associated Press news service.

“No,” I said, immediately sensing by the somber tone that Andy was calling with bad news.

Confessions of a Pop Music Junkie

rie — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 04:43:18 -0700

by YUMI WILSON

It is somewhat embarrassing for a 41-year-old mother and college professor to confess, but I love, I mean, really love, pop music. Every day, while working on my “writing,” I listen to the Top 100, Hip Hop, or Coffeehouse channels at Yahoo! Music. When I hear something that grabs me, I open up the browser and watch all or part of the video, something I have enjoyed doing since the early days of MTV.

You Should Speak Japanese!

rie — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 01:53:36 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was just after 11 a.m. Sunday. I had just finished subbing a step class at 24 Hour Fitness in Millbrae. A fit woman, perhaps around my age, walked up to me after class. Thin-rimmed glasses framed her petite, rectangular face. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a headband.

“You should teach step here,” the woman said as we walked toward the locker room. Before going in, the woman stopped and gave me a serious look.

“So you’re Japanese,” she said with a smile.

On Being Black

james — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop and enjoying a rare summer day of clear skies in Pacifica when a young woman with a sun-quenched tan strolled through the glass door.

“My manager came in,” the woman, dressed in a green cotton dress, groaned to her equally young friend, “and said, ‘You’re so dark, you look black.’ ”

A Walk With Dog

james — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 14:26:51 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was 6 a.m. when Moose, my ex’s dog, began nudging me with his cold nose. I rolled away from him, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep. But Moose started to whine. Worried that he would have an accident on the landlord’s new carpets, I forced myself out of bed, revved up the car, and headed to the beach – the only place Moose could do what any field-trained English Springer Spaniel is meant to do: race toward water, flush birds from trees, search for small critters, and of course, go to the bathroom.

A Father's Day Tribute: To Uncle Kenny, With Love

james — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 00:00:00 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

Uncle Kenny, a strong man with broad shoulders and a gentle smile, died in February, but I didn’t make it to the hospital to see him. I didn’t even make it to his funeral. It took me months just to send a card to his family.

So, it would be easy to think that I didn’t care much about my uncle. It would be easy to think that his death meant little to me. For a long while, I wanted to believe the same thing, too.

But I was wrong.

In the Pursuit of ‘Hapa-ness’

james — Sat, 31 May 2008 00:00:00 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was dinner time in Pacifica. A light coating of fog had rolled into town; the pink-hued sun was beginning to set. I had just dropped off my 12-year-old son at a public swimming spot with his friend.

A steaming meal of tofu and rice at my favorite Chinese restaurant, I decided, was the perfect way to spend my next two hours waiting for the boys.

A woman with short hair cut neatly around her petite face framed by thick-rimmed glasses stood behind the counter. A touch of red brightened her lips; her brown eyes seemed radiant.

Red Light Roppongi

james — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0700

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

They were dressed as everything from Catholic schoolgirls and Japanese cartoon characters, to whores, angelic virgins and demonesses, teetering on three-inch stilettos under the golden haze of Roppongi’s streetlights.

Neon signs – yellow, purple and pink – flashed around them, as impeccably pressed suits bespoke to pimple-faced boys and overweight tourists from brightly lit archways. Some of these suited men were Japanese; they were the club owners, the pimps, or even Yakuza soldiers.

On Being a Writer

james — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 00:00:00 -0800

by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

Some proclaim they are writers; others say they don’t know the first thing about writing. My big brother Tabo reminded me one recent afternoon that everyone, whether they have spent countless hours working and studying formally in the craft of writing or not, has a story worth telling.