For my mom's birthday

One image that always stuck with me was a baby in a satchel strapped onto a mother's back somewhere out in rural Guatemala I could doubtfully find again. It was fascinating to watch really, as the mom ran about, washed dishes, and swept up the floor, the baby like a kangaroo in a pouch, bouncing up and down, head bobbing back and forth, eyes wide but calm during these vigorous and abrupt movements. It was in this distinct moment I remember thinking for the first time that children are not as fragile as we think them to be. Complicated strollers and backward facing car seats are for peace of mind as much as all practicality, and it is just a fact children grow up quicker in places that are not immersed in so much luxury. That baby, it occurs to me, is three years older now, living in a wooden shed with an aluminum roof, and unlikely has he ever left a radius of five or six square kilometers. This memory and associated thoughts join a number of others when I think about my own mom, mostly because out there in the world you see how many ways it could have gone if even a few small things had been different.

I am grateful for what I got, and the complaints are few and far between. I grew up well and easy, and while there were plenty of things to question, love in that house was never one of them. I think this factor alone has the greatest impact on the people we grow up to be, and said another way, you can get a whole lot wrong as long as that part is still right. A wonderful documentary called "Babies" tracks the first two years of four kid's lives from Asia to Africa to the USA, and in that, you see both what is common and what is different about how people are raised. I think the takeaway, or what I chose to take away, is that character is less impacted by a hut in the bush or a high rise apartment in the city, and more by what happens within those structures.

There is no point to this other than outward appreciation: for a mom who brought me up with love and other fundamental tenets, and showed great selflessness in that endeavor, as many mothers and fathers do; for her tireless support in my five years far far away; how she bounced back after deaths and endless departures, as many of us must; how she helps other people feel better day after day. I have enjoyed getting to know this person, my mother, from a very young age, and I will enjoy getting to know her now in a different stage. This is all so very short and basic. I will probably spend all my life trying to get the above words just right. It is one great ineffable really, telling our parents exactly what they mean, and I only wish I remembered more precious bits from all those bittersweet years, evidence and inspiration to draw off of in the night, to show all those things you feel.

Somewhere in the foreground, I see this building slowly, brick by brick, the foundations of a time I might play a similar role to some small being, and I think back on my mom and dad and all the other mothers and fathers I have seen try and succeed and fail and fall somewhere in between, and that famous Hodding Carter line always seems to fit in somewhere:

"There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings."

KL

The ride into Kuala Lumpur from the airport takes thirty minutes on the KLIA Express. It is a fantastic train really, clean, organized, not crowded, and it has the little flat screen televisions that tell you news and random facts like where petroleum comes from and why a particular football star does not want to return to Marseilles. You speed through tropical marshes and greenery until the concrete slowly begins, tall suburban high rise apartments, more and more congested, then arriving at the city center and an impressive skyline topped by the Petronus Towers lighting up the night. I have come to love Malaysia, my second time in, and looking at it all, this impressive array of complex infrastructure and architecture and design, you think for what must be the hundredth time if this concept of America paving the way in everything, so popular in election season rhetoric, is perhaps a concept that should be revisited by the masses. A friend and I once weighed the benefits of dropping every high school graduate from the west in the middle of China with $1,000 and telling them to find their way out, in order to better mold foreign policy. The more I am out, and the more I go back home, the more pressing and more pertinent I think this idea becomes.

In any case, I went straight to my Whisky Bar on Changkat Bukit Bintang, for a dose of sophistication and a cigar. Sitting out on my chair that hasn't changed since I sat there last, I watched the most interesting group of people walk up and down that electric street, ladyboys on the prowl, old white men in town for vague hazy reasons, and backpackers lugging their luggage and spreading their dime as far as they can. It is a melting pot of people really, where a Bangladeshi boy trying for college waits on an Australian businessman who sits next to a girlfriend from the Philippines half his age, whose family back home is assumedly supported by that relationship. I always find myself gravitating towards these concentrated places where everything comes together, vice and incredible goodness, hand in hand, all out there and visible to the attentive eye.

From there a whirlwind, too compressed, as these things always are. A rooftop dinner and the Kuala Lumpur skyline, a helipad full of wine, a club full of Asians jumping up and down, a taxi ride, a short night's rest, a hangover, a trip to the suburbs, powerpoint presentations that do not end, more wine, more food, more talk, the good kind, the best I can remember lately, all bleeding back into the KLIA Express, the world in reverse, the concrete slabs, the green marshes, the airport and the big full ocean below.