The Mall of America in Spring

Today marked the always joyful first day of spring. Not the first day you can plausibly wear less than a jacket or pants, nor the day the first buds appear, nor the vernal equinox - no, today was the first real day you can go outside, feel warm just standing there, and, well, you just get that feeling. This is spring, and it's the best time of year.

Not surprisingly, the city of Washington DC and the cherry blossoms also took note of this auspicious date and decided to create a festival (the former) in the blooming (the latter) blossoms' honor. All around the city, the eternal question gets asked by DC newbies like myself: "That's a pretty flower - are they cherry blossoms?"

My stock answer, what I tell myself anyway, is that yes, they are all cherry trees. Because, what's worse than stopping to admire a pretty tree only to find out it's a crab apple tree or something less exotic? (An aside: since I work for a science advocacy group, I wonder if I should feel bad for this alien species achieving a prominent place in our Nation's capital...Oh well, prettiness overrides a lot in life.) Especially popular are the cherry trees lining the Tidal Basin just to the south of the Mall on the Potomac, a pretty backdrop to the Jefferson Memorial that rests majestically across the water. The trees were apparently a gift from the Mayor of Tokyo in the early 1900's and I guess over the years DC needed a proper spring festival/tourist trap and the National Cherry Blossom Festival was born.

The best part of the festival is the flurry of activity around the Mall and Capitol. Families pose for timeless pictures under large, overhanging cherry trees on the front lawn of the Capitol, the blossoms falling like a sweet pink snow as a parent or Good Samaritan takes the picture. Tour groups on Segways (possibly the most ridiculous invention ever created - just the act of standing on, or even by, a Segway makes you an instant turd. Don't get me started on what strapping on a helmet, adjusting your fanny pack, tucking in your ill-fitting polo shirt, and digging for your clip-ons in said fanny pack (or any combination of these that leads to a tour) and taking a tour on one makes you!!) - sorry for the digression, but anyway, tour groups on Segways collect like iron shards to a magnet around some forgotten speck of DC history only to break away like pods from a seed as they migrate to the next designated spot (single file, mind you).

Pasty guys like myself pull the shorts and sandals out of their dusty box and, upon sporting these summery duds, indirectly cause sunglasses vendors to see a short blip in sales due to the garish hue that shines from our legs and feet (note - I got pretty tan this weekend, so put the sunglasses away...). People who took high school (and college, and grad school, and now work) too seriously now bust out the blue cones and rubber balls and claim to dominate yet another facet of their life in that childhood game of kickball. Games on the Mall are apparently a mainstay of DC summers. Unfortunately, so are the serious folks who play; decked out in sporty sunglasses, matching t-shirts, and gym shorts in an almost too calculatedly 'cool' manner - you know the type. Well, they were there in force!

The best part about walking on the Mall, even better than the smugness that being here more than a month entitles you in your attitude towards tourists (kidding!), is the sight of thousands of people coming together to experience this nation's capital city in its finest, least humid, prettiest time of the year. Even the Segway tourists and kickball macho men are at least outdoors enjoying a beautiful spring day. People on the Mall are either on vacation or taking a break from the working life. And it's different than a local park or other leisurely gathering spot. There are no jungle gyms or lakes to boat around - only an old fashioned carousel spinning endlessly cheerful in the shadow of the Smithsonian Castle. Everyone else is there just to enjoy the spectacle, taking in a good book, relaxing with friends and family, walking hand-in-hand with a date, or, yes, playing kickball. People are there for the Mall and the Mall only, the vast expanse of its green (and dusty yellow) space lets you take in the scope of the area, and the bookends of the Capitol and the Washington Monument, not to mention the literally monumental bordering buildings, never let you forget why you decided to take a walk on our nation's park on a beautiful spring day.

Min Soo-Lee

[I don't think I've ever written about being a Korean adoptee before. I apologize in advance for the muddle of ideas and feelings undoubtedly inherent in writing about this topic.]

A few years back, a Minnesota Monthly article caught my attention. It was an article about Korean adoptees living in the Upper Midwest - mostly Minnesota (there are more Korean adoptees living in Minnesota than there are lakes). I think it was the first time I really thought hard about the other people living in my situation. Sure I knew other Korean adoptees, and had even become good friends with many, but our bond was mostly due to the fact that we got along, not necessarily because of our relatively unique heritage. The article listed a book, The Language of Blood by Jane Jeong Trenka as an especially poignant account of a Korean adoptee growing up in Minnesota.

I admit to being somewhat ambivalent about tracking down this book. On one hand, I yearned to discover an account of childhood I could really relate to. I wanted to hear the stories whose grasping tentacles of details immediately drew me into an episode of my life. On the other, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to tread down that path, maybe discovering things I didn't want to address or bring to the surface. Really, this subject goes to the core of who I am, what I define myself as, and what others define me as. I love the life I had growing up and the life I'm living now, so why question anything? In the end, I still felt that maybe this book was the thing I was missing, or it could help me find that thing, the thing that could better define for myself who I really was.

It took me two years, but I finally read it.

I'm not sure if I liked it or not. I have to admit, delving into my status as adoptee has never been at the top of my list of things to do. Reading this book (and, um, writing this blog) make me face this reality in my life head on, something I've never been very good at.

It's impossible for me to point to the moment I realized that I was adopted - it feels like I've always known. It's also impossible for me to place a finger on how my life would have been different in Korea. People always ask me that, but to me, it's kind of like asking them how life would've been if they had grown up where their distant ancestors did. "So, Johnny, do you ever think of how your life would have turned out had your ancestors never came over the drink 200 years ago?"

I'm happy with the life I've had in America. I honestly know no other way. But I do know that I've never been treated by anyone in my family as anything but their own flesh and blood. Truthfully, my mom and dad raised me with more love and caring than many of my friends who live with their biological parents. I'm a strong believer that it's nurture, not nature, that carries the load in childhood development.

Still, seemingly innocuous comments cut the sharpest sometimes. It probably comes up most often with people I don't know very well and it's never malicious, but it always makes me want to quickly change the subject. People will make offhand comments about adoptive parents somehow not caring as much for or having some sort of distant or neglectful relationship with their children. That hurts. Or when someone proclaims, usually in some fit of self righteousness, that they're not going to have children - they're going to adopt from some third world country. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for that! But again, the implication is that somehow we needed saving and we should be eternally grateful for our adoptive parents for plucking us out of some sort of hellhole, the life of the orphan who appears nightly on television, picking through garbage as the seagulls circle while the benevolent old white man idly strokes the child's mangy head as he implores the developed world to send "Just a dollar a week."

There's nothing wrong with charity. What is wrong is the notion that a single act, adopting a child, can define an entire life. If he succeeds, then, "Bravo! he would've never done that in his home country." If he fails, then, "Well, at least he's not living in Country XX." Good parents are good parents regardless of whether they gave birth to their children. That's only part of the equation - the initial condition as we say in engineering. But its not by any means the most important. It's how that child is raised and the person he becomes that should be the true test of merit or good parenting.

It's hard to parse out my true feelings or to reflect on the person I've become through the filter of being an adoptee. Would my life be different if I lived in Korea? Of course, but different doesn't imply that it would be worse, it would just be different. Someday I will travel to my motherland in search of my biological family and my lost culture, but my roots are and will always be back at home in Minnesota, and that's where I'll return.

U Dub

As if my chronic indecision (that's indecision not indigestion, thank you) wasn't bad enough wrt law schools, I got into the University of Washington (U Dub colloquially) on Thursday. It may well be my top choice now - just take a look at the campus! I can really imagine spending 3 years (or more) in Seattle, it seems like my kind of city. I'm still going to visit Boulder, CO and Boston, MA in a few weeks - I don't want to not take the chance to visit these great schools; but I am really leaning towards UW right now. A few reasons why:
1. People always tell you to go to the best school you get in to. While "best" is at "best" a subjective measure, I can say pretty definitely that U Dub is the best school in the Pacific Northwest. This is important for jobs.
2. It's got a very good environmental law curriculum. It even has a masters of law in international sustainable development. While it may not have a singularly excellent environmental law program like its neighbor to the south, Lewis and Clark, the overall quality of the law program far outweighs this slight drawback.
3. It's at a big university on a big, beautiful, vibrant campus. I didn't get that at Michigan Tech and I'd like to experience some Pac-10 sports before this is over - Go Huskies! (At least I don't have to stop rooting for the Huskies - MTU Huskies, UW Huskies, what's the difference?)
4. UW has a masters in public administration that you can complete, along with the JD, in 4 years. This would be good for a potential legislative aide like me.
5. Finally, it's all about my gut. I'll have to visit again to make sure, but my gut is telling me, U Dub.

Dreams about Baseball

I keep dreaming about baseball. Ever since I stopped playing, I've dreamed about it maybe once, twice a week. It's not, I don't think, because I necessarily miss it, although I do on some level, but it's more than that. In my dreams, I'm never actually playing; my former teammates are always present and always playing, but I'm usually on the bench, on deck, or waiting to get in when the action happens.

Take the latest dream. I'm playing on a team with my old Bloomington teammates - Robert Leath, Mikey Skahen, Pat Finley, Paul Zipoy - and we're down 2-3 going into the late innings. I had been pitching, although I don't dream that part; I dream the part where coach takes me out, telling me he wants to rest my arm. Anyway, I'm slated to pitch again if the game goes into extra innings. I do, however, retain the spot in the batting order and in the bottom half of the last inning, I'm in the hole. There's always a fear in my dreams that I won't be able to find my batting gloves or my helmet, or that I'll miss my turn up to bat. Well, I do find everything I need this time and walk up to the dugout fence to watch Robert take his cuts. I'm still trying to decide whether I want to use the 31" or the 32" aluminum bat. I think I decide on the shorter one to quicken my swing and give me a better chance at making contact. Leath has grown up since I last played with him in real life - no longer is he the skinny, fast 13 year old. He now is a menacing presence at the plate. First pitch, he hits a looping liner that lands just foul across the right field foul line. He jogs back to the batters box and digs in for the next offering - you know he wants more than a looping line drive. Next pitch, he takes a belt-high fastball and rockets it over the fence. It's one of those balls where you don't even have to watch it leave the park - you know, based on the sound and the trajectory, where it's final destination is. There are two men on and we win the game. For some reason, a fan throws the ball back on the field and Robert picks it up as he rounds the bases. I go out and celebrate, secretly relieved I don't have to have a meaningful at bat. Then I wake up.

Rarely in my baseball dreams do I actually take that critical at bat or throw that critical pitch when the game is on the line. I'm always filled with the familiar feeling from my baseball days - not quite fear, but something deeper that causes me to secretly root for a quick ending to the game. Maybe I knew deep down what John Updike so elegantly stated, that in baseball, there is a tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill. Maybe I was afraid to fail, or afraid to take the chance.

I don't think I'm still afraid to fail, but my baseball dreams serve as reminder that I once was. A coach once said that I was the best batting practice hitter he'd ever seen. A compliment and a dig all in one. Fooling around in practice taking my swings or playing catch before games are my fondest memories. I loved the camaraderie and the tradition of baseball, but never the test of the game. I want to be sure that going forward, though I may never play a competitive game of ball ever again, I remember that preparation and skill only take you so far in life. Sometimes, to make your mark, you have to be ready to step up to the plate when it counts.

Why science?

I just finished a book called Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge by biologist, philosopher, and environmentalist E.O. Wilson. One of my first posts on this blog I wrote about this book, back in December 2007 when I first started reading it. Wilson is trying to unite the branches of science, namely the hard and soft sciences, to more fully explain the human condition. Reading it got me to thinking about science; specifically the question, "Why Science?" This post is my attempt to answer this question.

Curiosity is a trait possessed by humans that doesn't exactly distinguish us from the rest of the animal kingdom. Yet, it is what we do with the results of our inquiries that elevates us with regard to how we encounter the world. Because curiosity has no greater, wide-reaching benefit if nothing comes about as a result. Many a Blue Jay will die from eating a poisonous caterpillar because they have no way of recording the danger of their last meal except through eons of genetic predisposition. Although we are also genetically predisposed to avoid many situations, humans also have the gift of language to convey dangers or advantages encountered as a result of our innate curiosity. What we learn about the world around us is passed down through generations so that others may learn from our follies.

This curiosity is the very foundation of the body of knowledge known as science. Asking questions - the right questions, comprises the very exercise that has elevated our species from smart primate to ruler of all. These questions, though we are wired to fear dark places, help illuminate them in such a way that, while our instinctual fear may remain, they may seem less mystical and dangerous. As we slowly, yet surely remove the veil covering knowledge of the world around us, we begin to fill the gaps once occupied by deities and spirits. Science has no need for leaps of faith; reason and evidence suffice. It is no wonder why many in this country are skeptical of science. They fear the dark places they once held monopoly over are slowly becoming illuminated, leaving less and less for which to rest their kingdoms upon.

That is not to say there is no need for religion. Some form of religion has been present for hundreds of thousands of years, and no doubt some form will endure for as long as humans do. But current religion cannot remain static, clinging to the last vestiges of a world now long gone. It must emulate science and be dynamic to keep its place at the table. Because there are no dogmas in science to shackle its progress, save for the relentless questioning of the fringes of our knowledge, science can afford to be an ever-changing field. There are no infallible figureheads in science, Darwin, Newton, and Einstein notwithstanding, so new scientists are not dissuaded from challenging the established doctrine, save they provide compelling evidence. This argument does not render religion insignificant, however. Unfortunately, science will never inspire the masses like a powerful sermon will. Young and old will never read Newton's Principia Mathmatica to garner guideposts for a moral life. The holy books have that market cornered. But as we flesh out a more clear picture of the world around us, through science, one cannot help but recall a quote by E.O. Wilson, "The essence of humanity's spiritual dilemma is that we evolved genetically to accept one truth and discovered another."

This discovered truth is what gives me hope. As we usher in another scientific golden age, breathtaking discoveries will be made on an almost routine basis. These discoveries will no doubt overturn some established theories of modern science. But the beauty of science, to paraphrase Einstein, is that the solutions we propose, while astoundingly simple and elegant, are subject to dismissal pending one shred of credible evidence to the contrary. One discovery can change the world and how we view our place in it. That discovery will reign supreme until another clarifies it. That is not to say that we cannot look to science for concrete evidence of how the universe works - such world-altering discoveries rarely occur, but it is always better to be correct and humbled than wrong and haughty. Modern science is still in its infancy and in many cases, scientists still grope in the darkness, sifting through seemingly random numbers, looking for the fingerprint of something higher, occasionally stumbling across vague evidence to the fact.

As science begins to fill in gaps once filled by religion, some believers may be tempted to slander science as heartless and cold, a religion for heathens. I disagree. What would a suitable alternative be? To continue ascribing natural events to the supernatural? For the believers of both science and religion, certainly a binding tie must be the fact that the more we uncover the mysteries of the universe, the more we are humbled by the awesome scope and elegant complexity of what we find. As we forge ahead, let us not forget that science is a direct result of our unique form of our innate curiosity. To neglect the very element that defines our humanity, to refuse to add pages to the book of knowledge, is to reject our sacred gift.

Powershift 09 (I drank the Kool Aide)

This weekend 10,000 young people, myself still included, descended upon our nation's capital for the Powershift conference. Powershift is organized by a group called the Energy Action Coalition, a group (and a conference) focused on "shifting the power" from the corporate-held interests currently contributing to global warming by burning fossil fuels, to individuals and a carbon-free energy sector. I was asked, back in January, to interview for a fellowship with the Energy Action Coalition, and I sometimes wonder what I would've been doing had I worked with them. Anyway, back to the conference.

I got out of work early Friday because the Union of Concerned Scientists was hosting an informational booth and I had volunteered to work there, to recruit conference go-ers to join our action network. Many did. And got free posters and calendars. After working the booth and checking out a few other groups around me (possibly setting up some volunteer opportunities!), the keynote addresses started. Oh, before I talk about that, I should mention that my friend from MTU Kaye and her friend Nicki drove all the way from Michigan to attend and they stayed at my house. I hope they had a good time - I'm glad they came. So I met them as the doors to the auditorium were opened and we got pretty good seats. I wasn't sure what to expect out of the keynote speakers, because I hadn't heard of many, but I was curious and excited nonetheless. The first two speakers had a very special significance for anyone who has witnessed the action (or inaction) of some of our agencies and been angry for their flippant regard for true science and protecting the environment. Friday night, I became even more hopeful that the Obama Administration will walk the walk when it comes to the environment. Lisa Jackson, Administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency, and Ken Salazar, Secretary of the Interior, each spoke at length about their agencies' renewed commitment to protecting the environment and safeguarding our environment and natural wonders. Very refreshing.

The highlight, however, had to go to the final speaker that evening (watch the keynote). Van Jones. Van Jones is an activist from Oakland who pushes for green jobs and has set up a group called Green for All. A Yale Law grad, Jones has reached out to underrepresented sectors of our country - the poor, minorities, indigenous Americans - in a way no other person has. These are the people disproportionately affected by the actions of a few; when a coal-fired power plant or a landfill is sited, it's usually in these types of communities. They suffer the short- and long-term health effects of asthma, birth defects, and cancer while others profit in suburbs and downtown high rises. Van Jones, in advocating for a carbon-free world, says that these people can get well paying jobs in all sectors of the new green economy doing jobs like energy audits, retrofitting old power plants to run on new materials, and a myriad of other things that will give them steady income to lift them out of poverty and our country a new reliance on cleaner energy that will lift us out of recession and save our planet. His keynote address says all of this and more - he is the most eloquent, powerful speaker I've ever heard in person.

The rest of the conference was great - I won't go into a lot of detail because I may write a few posts on some specific topics I learned about later on. For being run by people my age it was especially well planned and executed. You could tell that young people were planning it because it was so tied into the internet and today's forms of communication - e-mail and texts, that you could find out everything you needed to know from the comfort of your laptop or your cellphone. They texted room numbers out and various speakers used text messaging to sign future activists up to their action lists. I was impressed and felt like a complete Luddite. It happens a lot.

I went to panels and workshops on: the upcoming Copenhagen climate meetings (where a Kyoto-styled world climate pact will be again deliberated since Kyoto is expiring soon), climate justice, the different types of climate change mitigation policies (cap-and -trade -invest -dividend, carbon tax and divided, etc.), and how to find a career in climate change issues. Some panels were more useful than others, but it was a good opportunity to listen to many diverse viewpoints on this climate crisis. Unlike some other conferences I've attended, the panels and workshops were well timed and thought out and I believe I got as much out of them as I could've hoped.

The people there were mostly affluent, white college undergrads from schools like Cornell, Columbia, University of Vermont, Oberlin - typically very progressive schools. There was a refreshing emphasis on some young leaders representing indigenous communities and poor communities, often one and the same. Ok, so this is the part where the jaded DC "insider" comes out in me and I'm not sure I like it. I'm happy this issue is getting the energy it needs from energetic, passionate youths (I guess like myself). Every big movement needs its leaders and activists who aren't afraid to get dirty and take a stand. That's great. But I think that the true solution needs a larger portion of pragmatism for success. Idealism is great and I'll quit my job whenever I lose it completely, but from being a fly-on-the-wall for my few months here in DC, I know that almost no issue is solved by pure idealism and activism. That's an important part, but it doesn't begin to infiltrate the establishment, the establishment that actually makes the laws. Congress will never pass (as advocated by another group I almost worked for) a mandate for 100% renewable energy in 10 years. My group is working on a 25% by 2025 bill that is on the far-left of what almost anyone will agree has a chance to pass this year. The most ambitious target ever passed in the Senate or the House is 15%.

What I'm trying to say is that every movement needs its Malcolm X, but it also needs its MLK to meet the establishment somewhere around the middle. Let's face it - people my age vote for our representatives, but we don't often donate the FEC limit to win their ear once in office. I am grateful for the work so many do because their ambitious targets set a high water mark so that one day, when climate legislation is passed and our country awakes from its decades long climate slumber, halfway will be much closer to the real change we need than it would've been without those groups' hard work and idealism.

On a more cheery note, I took Kaye and Nicki to Ben's Chili Bowl for lunch. It's on U Street, which used to be known as the Black Broadway for it's vibrant African American culture (Duke Ellington grew into a star here) but was largely decimated by the race riots following MLK's assassination. Well the area is currently far along its rejuvenation and Ben's Chili Bowl, which largely escaped blight, is once again its cultural nexus. Bill Cosby and the Obama family are the only ones who eat free there. Obama famously visited during the week leading up to his inauguration - and didn't accept their offer of free food - the guy paid! Who else but Obama. Their chili half-smokes (a big spicy hot sausage) is their specialty and what I devoured today. Good stuff. I love DC. Coming up on this blog are posts on: riding the Metro, why sectoral cap and trade/invest is best, and other stuff I think up.

Fancy-pants Restaurant

This week was Restaurant Week in DC. Fancy-pants restaurants all over this city set a fixed price on their lunch and dinner menus - $20.09 and $35.09, respectively. Seems like a lot, but at these places, that's a deal.

So after work on Thursday, my co-worker friends and I went to our second happy hour in a row (crazy, I know) and made reservations at a restaurant called Vidalia. Described by its website as "original American with a subtle Southern influence", a more apt description for me was "over-your-head foodie ingredients with a few farm animals thrown in as guideposts for the uninformed like me". But before I get into the food, I'll describe the decor.

Vidalia is subterranean. The front door immediately leads to plush carpeted stairs that wind down to the nether-regions of an office building. It's a good thing there isn't a Vidalia in Houghton or Minneapolis - they would need steam cleaning for their carpets daily during slushy winter months. But Houghton it is decidedly not. The greeter, excuse me, maitre d', graciously asked us if he could take our coats (he did) and asked if we had reservations. Well, he asked if we had reservations first, I guess it wouldn't make sense if he just took our coats, no prior questions necessary. As he, or rather the coat-taker person, took our coats (3 on 1 hanger - they're good like that) I noticed that below the podium glass, there were trays of knickknacks. The usual toothpicks, business cards, and other accoutrement were there, but the thing that got me was a small white tray of reading glasses. I know for sure Applebee's doesn't have this option. But I'm not sure why Vidalia has it, either. It's not like the menus had very tiny font - and you would think the patrons would either be of good sight, good taste, or equipped with bifocals of their own that they wouldn't need complementary reading glasses, but what do I know?

As we walked to our table (prime location, I might add), I noticed that most diners were 1. a lot older than us (think mid-30s at the youngest) and 2. a lot richer. Oh well, I had on my best-looking work clothes, so maybe I didn't stick out too much. I checked out the bathroom (too much beer at happy hour) right away and thought it splendid that the stall had its own sink. The thought that some may forgo this option for the other sinks crossed my mind as I undid the latch of the stall, but oh well, bacteria is good for you sometimes. The waiter had a very strong accent, and it was very loud, so I did a lot of smiling and nodding to his suave suggestions. Usually a good tactic.

The menus, as I alluded to earlier, were full of foreign sounding ingredients coupled with farm animal names (i.e. suckling pig galantine). I got the pig for the first course and the goat for the second. They were really good - except for the fact that I coudld've eaten all of the food served to me in about 2 minutes at home. I guess the adage - quality not quantity - is somewhat of a set-in-stone law at these places. You're supposed to taste the food, not inhale it. Well, I'm an inhaler. But I nursed my goat for all it was worth and it was really good.

The nicest thing that happened to me that night was that my co-workers took pity on me for being a poor intern and bought my dinner. I owe them so much - and they made sure to remind me of that! But I am really grateful to them for letting me see into the world I may someday (hopefully never) inhabit. I'll take good bar food over fancy-pants food any day.