Category Archives: Asia

Hazel Lee, Chinese American Fighter Plane Pilot

Hazel Lee, Chinese American Fighter Plane Pilot

By Fanny Wong, New York

Race you to the corner!” Hazel challenged the boys.

The boys groaned, but maybe, just maybe, they could beat her this time.

They didn’t. Beaten again by this scrawny young girl. She also played handball and cards with them. Guess who won?

Hazel’s parents, immigrants from China, met and married in Portland, Oregon. Hazel, the third of eight children, lived with her family in Portland’s Chinatown. It was the only community the Chinese were allowed. The children went to Chinese school on Saturdays to learn to their language and culture.

Hazel was good at writing and speaking Chinese, but a traditional Chinese girl she wasn’t. Her voice was too loud, her laughter too boisterous. She was handy and fixed things around the house. Not ladylike at all.

When Hazel was a teenager, a friend took her up in a biplane at an air show. Her eyes danced, face flushed, and her heart raced with excitement as the plane lifted off. The rumbling motor and whirring propellers were music to her ears. She was as free as a bird high up in the sky. Hazel’s dream soared with the plane. She knew she belonged in the cockpit of a plane.

Now that she had a dream, she had to find a way to make it come true.      

First, she had to find a job after graduating from high school in 1930. The only job she could find was as an elevator operator in Liebes department store in downtown Portland. Up and down she took customers from floor to floor. She stuck to the boring job her job to save money for flying lessons.

Hazel’s parents turned pale when she enrolled in a flight school in 1931. It was not what a woman did. It was not what a young Chinese woman did. What would the Chinese community think of their daughter!

“You’re not afraid of the water, you’re not afraid of the wind!” her mother lamented. It was her way of saying Hazel was not scared of anything. Eventually, her parents let her try something different, be someone different from what the Chinese community expected of her.

Hazel went through the same training as the men at the Chinese Aviation School in Portland. The mind-boggling controls, dials and levers did not intimidate her. She lived for the moment when the plane swooped like a swallow over sea and land. The higher the plane soared, the freer she was.

Hazel passed all the flight tests in a year and received her pilot license in 1932. At that time, only one percent of American pilots were women. In those days, people thought a woman should not fly a plane. How could a woman handle an emergency? Too emotional! Too nervous! And whoever heard of a Chinese female pilot? Hazel couldn’t find a pilot job.

In response to Japanese aggression against China in 1932, Hazel journeyed to China, hoping to join the Chinese Air Force. But again, she was frustrated that it did not accept women pilots. In the end, she settled in Canton and flew for a private airline.      

After returning to the United States in 1938, Hazel waited for years before she could prove herself. In 1942, during WWII, when male pilots fought overseas, the military needed more pilots at home. Some 25,000 women applied for the program. In 1943, with 35 hours of flying time and a medical exam, Hazel was one of 1097 women pilots accepted by the new Women Airforce Service Pilots Program (WASP) to prove their skills.

Like the other trainees, Hazel had to pay her way to Sweetwater, Texas for training. Their pay was $259 a month, with no benefits. She was among the select few and the only Chinese. For six months, in the dusty and hot Avenger Airfield, she endured sand in her hair, snakes and spiders even indoors. But she learned to fly different military airplanes, parachuting and making emergency landings. She studied all the parts of the plane, rudder bar, stick and struts. When she learned to take apart the engine and put it back together, she was as proud as if she had won a trophy.

One time, Hazel’s instructor made an unexpected loop. Her seat belt did not work properly. She fell out and parachuted safely. On the ground, she dragged the parachute behind her all the way back to the airfield. The incident didn’t faze her.

Another time, Hazel’s plane’s engine cut out in mid-flight. She made an emergency landing in a wheat field in Kansas. A farmer chased her, thinking the Japanese had invaded Kansas. She convinced him that she was flying in a U.S. flight program. Hazel knew no matter how American she was she would be looked at differently. But this incident did not discourage her. No, she might look like the enemy, but she was thoroughly American.

Easy-going Hazel made many friends. At 31, she was eight to ten years older than the rest of her classmates. They soon forgot she looked different, that she was the only Chinese they knew. Her calm, fearless piloting skills impressed them. They loved her irrepressible sense of fun, as when she wrote their nicknames in Chinese on their planes with lipstick. Her personality bubbled over like a pot of soup. Her friends knew she was nearby when they heard her laugh, “Heeyah! Heeyah!”

Although Hazel graduated from the WASP program in 1943, the U. S. Government did not allow women in combat roles at the time. Instead, being one of the best graduates, she was chosen for Pursuit School at Brownsville, Texas. There, she trained with 134 other graduates to fly fighter planes, such as the Pursuit and the P-51 Mustang, high powered single-engine jet planes. After the training, she delivered the new planes from factories to airfields all over the North America. If anything was wrong with them, she was among the first to know.

Hazel accepted dangerous missions, such as flying in open cockpit planes in the winter, shivering in many layers of clothing. Another dangerous job was flying a plane that served as a “tow.” A large target sleeve was attached behind her plane for gunners to practice shooting from the ground. She cringed when bullets whizzed by the cockpit, but she kept flying these dangerous flights. Sometimes, after the practice flight, she found holes in the tail of the plane.

Hazel crisscrossed the country in wartime to deliver planes that would be used in combat. She flew seven days a week, bone-tired, but proud of her non-combat role in wartime and took every challenge in strides.

As Hazel zoomed cross the sky, she wished her Chinese community could see her in an unconventional job, and doing it well!

On Thanksgiving Day, 1944, Hazel delivered a plane-a P-36 King Cobra from Niagara Falls, New York to Great Falls, Montana. As her lane approached the airfield, a plane above her lost radio control reception. The pilot did not know the position of Hazel’s plane. The two planes collided and burst into flames. The other pilot had non-life-threatening injuries., but Hazel died of her wounds two days later.

Because the WASPs flew military planes as civilians, they received no military benefits. Hazel’s family had to pay for her remains to be shipped home. After resistance from the River View Cemetery in Portland to bury a Chinese person there, Hazel’s family sought help from an Oregon senator, who appealed to the White House. The cemetery relented and Hazel was buried in a gentle grassy slope. Her grave marker was a polished slab of red granite with a winged diamond etched above her name, a symbol of the silver WASP wings pinned on the uniforms of American women who flew in WWII.

In 2004, the State of Oregon inducted Hazel into the Aviation Hall of Honor. Hazel and the other WASP pilots would not be recognized with military status until 1979. In 2009, President Obama awarded surviving and deceased pilots the Congressional Gold Medals.

Comfortable in a career dominated by men, Hazel not only lived her dream but proved a woman could fly a fighter plane as well as any man. She didn’t expect to make history. As the first Chinese American women to fly for the U. S. military, she was doing what she loved, for a country she loved.  

—Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York. She is a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

HHR’s 2024 Essay, Art & Multimedia Contest Winners

Hindus for Human Rights and Skipping Stones announce the
2024 Essay, Art & Multimedia Contest Winners!

This year’s contest invited students in grades 6-12 to explore the inspiring traditions of peacemaking in South Asia and its diaspora. We asked young writers and artists to reflect on the question, “As a South Asian, what traditions of peacemaking do you find inspiring?”

Violence and conflict have long been a part of South Asian and South Asian diaspora history, literature, and storytelling, but so have different versions of peacemaking. The contest invited students to take inspiration from any South Asian history, literature, poetry, peace activists, or peace movements that focus on concepts or ways to address peace, justice, and democracy.

The contest received a diverse array of essays, artwork, and multimedia submissions showcasing a wide range of South Asian histories, movements, and traditions that advocate for harmony, justice, and democracy. These submissions were heartfelt, creative, and thought-provoking, demonstrating the power of young voices in envisioning a more peaceful world.

Our Hearty Congratulations to all the winners!

Essay Winners:
* 1st Place: “With Andal Comes Grace” by Lekha Kolli, grade 12, Virginia.
* 2nd Place: Anti-Sikh Riots and Ongoing Traditions of Peacemaking by Ira Tiwari, grade 11, Illinois.
* 3rd Place: “South Asian Peace Through the Millennia” by Jacob Sajan, grade 11, Arizona.

Art & Multimedia Winners:
* 1st Place: Narrated Bharatanatyam Performance by Deekshitha Jayaprakash, grade, 11 Minnesota. (Please click on the link to view the performance!)
* 2nd Place: Flowers of Peace Illustration by Aniya Taneja, grade 12, Massachusetts.
* 2nd Place: Bangladesh Protests by Eshita Lahiry, grade 11, Louisiana.
* 3rd Place: Drawing inspired by the 10,000 for World Peace Assembly by Diya Lane, grade 12, California.

Download the Winning Entries (This is a 5 MB file) by clicking here!


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sustainable Shorelines: Keeping our Beaches Clean

Sustainable Shorelines: Keeping our Beaches Clean

By Maya Govindaraj, age 17, from Texas, is currently studying in Chennai, India.

Plastic is Destroying our World!

Beaches are vital ecosystems that support diverse marine life. However, the beauty of beaches is increasingly threatened by pollution, littering, and unsustainable human activities. According to global health experts, “Ocean pollution is posing threats to human health that are great and growing. It is causing disease, disability, and premature death in countries around the world today.” My journey from the beaches of Galveston, Texas, to the shores of Chennai, India, brought me face to face with the complexities of beach cleanliness. By participating in a local beach cleanup event, I gained insight into the challenges facing beach conservation efforts. Galveston beach in Texas is known for its wide stretches of sand, warm water, and opportunities for activities like swimming, and sunbathing. Chennai, on the other hand, is a coastal city in India, situated along the Bay of Bengal with beaches stretching for several kilometers and known for its lively atmosphere, with vendors selling snacks and toys, and locals enjoying various activities like kite flying and cricket. While efforts are being made to maintain cleanliness along the Galveston beaches by local authorities; in Chennai, cleanliness efforts on beaches have faced challenges. Although local authorities and environmental groups are trying to address cleanliness issues it is difficult due to high population density, inadequate waste management, and limited public awareness and participation in conservation efforts.

Participating in a Beach Clean-up Event

By conducting an online survey among Chennai residents who frequent the beach, I was able to gather valuable insights regarding their attitudes and behaviors toward littering and beach cleanliness. Although the survey demographics skewed towards 68% female respondents, with the majority holding at least a high school or higher education degree, a unanimous consensus emerged among them. They emphasized the importance of maintaining beach cleanliness to protect marine life, reduce health risks, preserve the natural beauty of the shoreline, and promote tourism. They advocated for proper waste disposal in designated bins, the use of reusable items over disposables, educational projects to raise awareness, and active participation in organized beach clean-up efforts. According to respondents, the primary factors contributing to litter accumulation include irresponsible behavior, entrenched cultural attitudes towards littering, inadequate provision of waste bins, and insufficient efforts by authorities to address cleaning needs.

Beaches are valuable natural assets that deserve our protection and stewardship. By adopting responsible behavior, supporting local initiatives, raising awareness, and advocating for policy changes we should all play a part in keeping beaches clean to ensure improved health and well-being and their preservation for future generations.

Footnotes:

  1. Texas Disposal Systems. “Ocean Pollution: Causes, Effects, Prevention | TDS.” Texas Disposal Systems, 2 Feb. 2024, www.texasdisposal.com/blog/ocean-pollution-causes-effects-and-prevention.
  2. Landrigan, P J, et al. “Human Health and Ocean Pollution.” Annals of Global Health, vol. 86, no. 1, 2020, p. 151, doi:10.5334/aogh.2831.
  3. “Beach Cleanups, MarineBio Conservation Society.” MarineBio Conservation Society, www.marinebio.org/conservation/ocean-dumping/beach-cleanups.

    Texas, the Lone Star State. By Maya Govindaraj, age 17.

    Editor’s Note: Please also read the article, My Indian Memories by Maya brother Arjun, also published today!

    About the Authors:
    Arjun and Maya are 17-year-old twins at the American International School in Chennai, India. As USTA-ranked tennis players, they love sports and have won medals in South Asian Interscholastic Association competitions. Both serve as Student Ambassadors, bridging cultural gaps through orientation and wellness programs. Passionate about community service, they have both worked with various organizations. They also have co-founded the non-profit Mission BE A Resource, securing grants to support disadvantaged children. Arjun is a tech enthusiast with a love for outdoor adventures, while Maya enjoys helping elementary school teachers and expressing her creativity through art.

My Indian Memories

My Indian Memories

By Arjun Govindaraj, age 17, from Texas, currently studying in India.

The first picture is of us celebrating Holi at school where we throw colors and water at each other and have fun. Holi is the Festival of Colors, a celebration that marks the arrival of spring. It is an occasion filled with laughter, music, and dance, where everyone, regardless of age, comes together to play with colors and enjoy festive food. Classmates and teachers share in the excitement, creating beautiful memories and promoting unity and love. Holi not only celebrates the beauty of diversity but also encourages forgiveness and the strengthening of bonds among people. We also celebrated Diwali, the Festival of Lights, symbolizing the victory of light over darkness and good over evil by dressing up in Indian clothes, sharing sweets, and participating in traditional games.

Second picture is of us visiting the Taj Mahal, located in Agra, India, built by Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal. Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, its stunning white marble architecture, carvings, and beautiful gardens attracts millions of visitors each year, and symbolizes the cultural heritage of India. We also explored the monuments of Delhi, the bustling streets of Mumbai, and the tranquil foothills of Dehradun with its cascading waterfalls. Exploring the streets of Coimbatore, we were amazed by the warmth of its people and the aromas of its bustling markets, while the ancient wonders of Mahabalipuram reminded us of a bygone era of art and architecture. Through these diverse experiences, we have come to cherish our rich culture and landscapes that make our world a truly remarkable place.

The third picture is of my team visiting Kathmandu, Nepal, for the South Asian Interscholastic Association (SAISA) soccer tournament. It was an incredible experience representing AISC against 11 member schools. The atmosphere of Kathmandu, with its rich culture and breathtaking landscapes, added to the excitement of the tournament. Throughout the events, I not only had the opportunity to showcase my skills and win medals but also learned invaluable team-building skills and the importance of fair play. Each match brought us closer as teammates, creating lasting friendships and unforgettable memories that extended beyond the games. The spirit of camaraderie and sportsmanship was truly inspiring, making this trip an enriching experience both on and off the field.

The fourth picture captures a heartfelt moment as we distribute school supplies and a meal to underprivileged children. Following the popular custom in India, they sit on the ground to share their meal, and their smiles of gratitude warmed our hearts as we handed out new backpacks filled with school supplies. In a country where overpopulation and poverty are pressing issues, we felt a profound sense of purpose in being able to contribute, even in a small way, to their education and well-being. This experience taught us invaluable lessons about empathy and compassion, reminding us of the importance of supporting one another and making a difference in the lives of those in need. Acts of service can build connections, bring hope, and inspire change.

The final picture is from our school trip, “Discover India,” which became one of the main highlights of my educational journey. These immersive week-long expeditions across India went beyond traditional classroom learning, offering a rich tapestry of experiences that allowed us to explore local cultures in depth. Each annual school excursion helped us develop essential teamwork and outdoor survival skills. From camping under starlit skies to navigating thrilling rafting/ surfing adventures, every journey nurtured resilience and adaptability while fostering a profound appreciation for the natural world. These unforgettable experiences shaped not just our knowledge but also our connections with one another and the environment.

Editor’s Note: Please also read Sustainable Shorelines by Arjun’s sister Maya, also published today!

About the Authors:
Arjun and Maya are 17-year-old twins at the American International School in Chennai, India. As USTA-ranked tennis players, they love sports and have won medals in South Asian Interscholastic Association competitions. Both serve as Student Ambassadors, bridging cultural gaps through orientation and wellness programs. Passionate about community service, they have both worked with various organizations. They also have co-founded the non-profit Mission BE A Resource, securing grants to support disadvantaged children. Arjun is a tech enthusiast with a love for outdoor adventures, while Maya enjoys helping elementary school teachers and expressing her creativity through art.

Memories of Dumplings

Memories of Dumplings

By Julia Qi, educator, Nevada.

I remember a time when steaming dishes of dumplings were laid out before me on the dining table. I was five years old, and a bowl of Chinese vinegar with two drops of sesame oil sat under my nose, eagerly awaiting the three hot dumplings that my grandma would soon drop in.

She’d always break the dumplings in half for me so my little fingers could navigate my chopsticks, and that day, I was the pride and joy of my family for devouring a total of nine dumplings.

That was the last time I remembered looking at a plate of dumplings without fear—at least until recently.

Somewhere along the way, food transformed into something I avoided. Any plate became a conversion of fat-protein-carbs in my eyes. The rich fat on decadent, red-braised pork belly remained untouched on my plate, and even my mom’s delicious stir-fried dishes were secretly rinsed off in the sink before I’d attempt to pick away at them. Passing by bakeries consumed me with conflict for the rest of the day because they looked so, so delicious. I wanted a taste so bad, but no, I couldn’t.

What my family saw as a “glow-up” before college was, in reality, my refusal to cook with salt or oil. I limited myself to raw foods for weeks and pretended I had simply outgrown my love for my childhood favorite foods. Steering clear of soup dumplings, BBQ skewers, and hearty pots of Chinese stew, I opted instead for bland salads and spinach smoothies.

The restriction ate away at me as I started college. I refused to eat before drinking water to “avoid” the calories. Despite the arrays of dishes in the dining halls, I spent 90% of my time at the salad bar, and the rest of the time lurking in the dessert section mustering the occasional courage to nibble a cookie. The additional walking in New York City resulted in me rapidly losing weight my first semester, which, as I anticipated, was celebrated not only by my peers, but also by my family.

My mother’s beauty was hard to miss. She’s a slender petite woman with voluminous curly hair, big bright eyes, and her classy fashion choices were always a topic of envy. She taught me the meaning of strength, independence, and courage as I saw her create the life she wanted for us in America. When she bought her first house in 2019 after 13 years of moving here, those walls represented something only immigrant parents can really understand. Her words were, “I just wanted to give you a home.” What she meant was, this is something that is finally ours. In a place where we had to start over, we had something that finally belonged to us.

My mom imparted many invaluable lessons growing up, but our culture also taught us that a woman’s beauty is paramount. Despite her exhaustion our first few years in the states from working consecutive night shifts and still managing to get up in time to wake me, cook breakfast, and take me to school, my mom maintained her elegant appearance. She always reminded me that as immigrants, we must pay extra attention to how we looked; we shouldn’t give anyone a reason to look down at us. My naturally tan complexion contradicted the porcelain-white Chinese beauty standard, and the fixation on my appearance naturally grew towards my weight as I got older. While genetically slender, my mom and her three sisters dreadfully feared weight gain. As I rounded out my teenage years, comments about my weight, what I was eating, and what I was wearing gradually took up a dangerous amount of space in my head.

Eating disorders are addictions. You’re stuck in a cycle, and even though you know it’s bad for you, you don’t know how to stop. Years of restriction led to an overwhelming preoccupation with food, which manifested in binging, then overcompensating by purging. The painful details of my four-year struggle with bulimia are oddly blurry, numbed by a filter of shame as I walked around hiding this part of me that I despised but couldn’t let go.

In a culture where famine was still a childhood memory for many, food was not meant to be wasted. Food was nourishment, and the idea of intentionally restricting or purging would have been absurd to those like my grandparents who grew up in the countryside and never had enough to eat for their four little girls. Northeastern Chinese stews were hearty, crafted to keep hunger at bay. Buns and baos were designed to fill you up for hours. My actions were completely at odds with what I was taught, which is likely why I wouldn’t touch my favorite foods for years, at least without bringing it back up.

This past March, I visited my family in China for the first time in six years. There was a stillness unlike earlier springs. The winter chill overstayed its welcome, seemingly in response to my grandpa’s passing just a few weeks prior.

My grandpa always requested peanuts with his dumplings, sometimes a Tsingtao beer, if my grandma allowed it. He liked sauerkraut or chive filling, since meat was hard on his dentures, which made clicking sounds when he chewed. This time around, we bought giant sauerkraut dumplings from the morning market made of purple forbidden rice. My grandma still broke them in half for me, except only one giant dumpling could fit in my bowl. This time, I couldn’t eat nine, but I ate until I was full, and over the memories of my grandpa’s clicking and the warmth of my belly filling up, I found solace.

—Julia Qi, received her undergraduate degree a few years ago, Nevada.

a castle of words

a castle of words

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

I shall gather your
words into a castle
of shards

and walk (barefoot
into it
like a king

into his final
breath) and
I shall blow life

into them and
watch as they
flutter between

me and you
like dancing
elephants

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China. Kevin is a junior at BASIS International School PLH. He is an Honorary Junior Fellow of the John Locke Institute and serves on the PLATO Student Advisory Council. Kevin enjoys boating, collecting rocks, and learning about other cultures.

The Song of Saccidānanda

The Song of Saccidānanda

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

I sing the song of forever.

I sing the gentle winds
as they brush against the cliff
of endless time.

I sing the tireless birds
as they crowd the windswept plain
of limitless space.

I sing the hushed darkness
as it dreams the Rudra Tandava*
of boundless life.

I sing myself,
I sing the song of Saccidānanda.**

Notes: * Rudra Tandav: A divine dance of Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction and transformation, with vigorus, brisk movements.

** Saccidānanda: In Hindu philosophy, the direct experience and bliss of absolute, unchanging reality.

By Kevin Zhang, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China. Kevin is a junior at BASIS International School PLH. He is an Honorary Junior Fellow of the John Locke Institute and serves on the PLATO Student Advisory Council. Kevin enjoys boating, collecting rocks, and learning about other cultures.

“half, whole”

“half, whole”

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, Connecticut.
 
 
i have always been

two halves stitched together
half this, half that,
never wholly me
always half in, half out
not belonging to either
instead, i am two parts,
conflicting, like puzzle pieces
that don’t match,
forced together anyways
not one whole,
just bad stitching
the parts that don’t fit
hide under the paint,
cracked and chipped
not hiding much at all

they like to ask
if i am this half or that half,
but i say and, not or
and maybe they won’t understand
but i am always this half
and that half,
these halves are just me,
whole

By Alyson Henderson, age 16, high school junior, Connecticut. She adds: “I have been reading and writing for as long as I can remember, and it’s through reading and writing that I learned about other people’s cultures and identities as well as my own. My dad is white and American, and my mom is Korean and immigrated when she was young. For a long time, I’ve been exploring my own identity through writing, particularly my identity as a biracial person. I often feel like I have to choose between being Asian and being white, and I can’t identify as both. However, by ignoring either part of my identity, I am ignoring so much of my life. The way I see it, choosing one half of my identity is being dishonest with myself about who I am. My poem, “half, whole” explores the struggle of never feeling fully accepted as either “half” of myself, and how I have accepted that I don’t have to be put in one box and discard parts of myself for others’ comfort.”

Seeing the World on a Bicycle

Seeing the World on a Bicycle

By Arun Narayan Toké, Eugene, Oregon.

A few weeks ago, I bicycled the east rim of the famous Crater Lake with two good friends of mine. You might ask what’s so special about this bicycle ride?

On two Saturdays in early September, the Crater Lake National Park in Oregon (USA) closes the East Rim Drive to automobile traffic. Only bicycles and hikers are allowed to enjoy this beautiful mountainous landscape. It overlooks the incredibly beautiful, natural 2,000 ft. deep lake that was created about 7,700 years ago, when a volcanic eruption left a huge hole where the Mount Mazama once stood sky high—some 11,000 feet high. Snowmelt and rains over 750 years formed this crystal clear, deep blue lake. After the United States government made this natural landscape and its surroundings into a National Park in 1902, they also built a 33-mile long “Rim Road” at a height of about 7,000 to 8,000 ft. so visitors can appreciate the natural beauty as they drive around the lake to observe the varied vistas of the valleys and the mountains.

Each year, three to five thousand bicycle enthusiasts—young and old—come to ride around the lake on these two Saturdays. Some participants choose to hike or run parts of the scenic road with no shops or commercial activities. Every so often, you come across rest areas with incredible vistas of the lake (see photo above), distant valleys, and many spectacular mountains like the Diamond Peak. The organizers even provide several rest stops offering cold drinking water, snacks, and hot drinks. At one rest stop, someone even served us freshly baked, nutritious cake!

Two years ago, after bicycling a part of the East Rim Road during this event, my friend Daemion and I had hiked a mile down to the lake shore, and took an exhilarating swim in the icy cold waters, and then hiked back to the rim with about 2,000 feet elevation gain. (Daemion is a “pro” at bicycling. A few years earlier, he had bicycled 2,000 kilometers from his hometown on the Southern Oregon Coast to the Grand Canyon National Park in Arizona, and after his Peace Corps volunteering assignment in Sierra Leone, he bicycled over 1,600 kilometers to Ghana before returning back to the U.S.!)

With the popularity of the electric-assist bicycles, senior citizens and others with limited physical abilities are able to participate in this adventure, once reserved for only the “physically-fit” athletes.

This beautiful bicycle ride reminded me of my five month long adventure, several decades ago, when I was young and full of zest for adventure.

* * * * *

As a child, I grew up in Central India…my father had a bicycle repair and rental shop. Naturally, I learned from him how to fix simple repairs like oiling the moving parts and fixing flats in inner tubes. In the U.S., if you take your bicycle with a flat to a bicycle shop, they simply replace the inner tube. But in India, the repair shops actually found the pinhole using a container of water to see where the air was leaking out from the tube, and then vulcanized it. Similarly, when a tire had small hole or break in it due to wear and tear, they’d put a piece of an old tire as a backing to cover the worn out area, rather than replacing the old tire. It was inexpensive and meant for functionality, rather than speed. Only when it was absolutely needed would they put in a new part!

After I moved to Vermont (USA), I acquired a ten-speed bicycle. During my weekends or summer breaks, I didn’t shy away from bicycling 60 miles or so a day, over two or three mountain ridges with steep inclines. And, for the last 30 years in Eugene, my common mode of commute is bicycling. I believe I must have bicycled upwards of 50,000 miles (80,000 Kilometers) over these years.

* * * * *

I have cherished memories of my five-month-long travels by bicycle in Northern Europe. On my return trip to the U.S. in the summer of 1986, I was invited to visit some friends in Germany and in Sweden. After spending a few weeks of summer with my friends in Germany, I went to Stockholm. It was mid-summer and the days were long and warm. I decided spontaneously to buy an old (I’d say, antique), single-speed bicycle for a very reasonable price in the university town of Uppsala and bicycled south to the Stockholm! It was strenuous, of course. But after a couple of days of resting at my friends’ house, I was ready to continue. I had no idea where I’d go, how far I might travel, which way I might take, and for how long!

I set my next destination as Karlstad, the City of Lakes in Southwest-central Sweden. While bicycling in the afternoon, it began to rain. I kept myself dry under a porch roof and after a while when it stopped raining, I continued on. I realized I had not prepared well for the trip—no raincoat, no spare tubes, no bicycle pump, no tools, no tent, no bicycling maps, and no plans. True, I did have a road map of Sweden so I could decide which general direction I might take and what my next immediate destination city might be.

Que sera, sera! Whatever will be, will be! I wanted an attitude of faith and trust. I decided I’d deal with what comes my way, when it does! Since I had not made any big plans, I didn’t feel like I was under any pressure that I had so much more to travel, or that I had so little time left to complete my journey.

When it felt right, I would look for a place to stay—either a youth hostel or, if I was in the middle of nowhere, just sleep under the stars in my sleeping bag. Sometimes, I asked a passerby or a farmer along the rural road if they knew of a place I might stay for the night. Many a times, the farmers offered their barns… but they made sure to ask me if I smoked. When I told them, “No, I do not smoke,” they invited me to use their barn; and usually there was plenty of hay in the barn to make a good padding under my sleeping bag. More likely than not, I was also invited for a morning breakfast of muesli (cereal), yoghurt or kefir (cultured milk), toast, a good cup of coffee, and light conversation. And, then I’d continue on my journey.

At times, I bicycled late into the night… at that high latitude, almost near the Arctic Circle, the sun did not set until almost midnight. As tired as I’d be most days, I slept like a log, and I had no idea what time I woke up. I carried no watch, and in those days, there were no cellphones either. It was a totally carefree way to travel. I had no schedule, no planes or trains to catch, and nobody waiting for me.

My Swedish friends had told me that in Sweden, you could camp out anywhere in the countryside as long as you were not bothering others. If you camped about100 meters away from a home for the night, you’d be fine. I did not see any “No Trespassing” signs anywhere!

Most campgrounds did not charge you to sleep there; but you had to pay for the use of their facilities or restrooms, etc. It being a warm summer season, I was very comfortable sleeping outdoors without a tent; and at times, I found refreshing places to swim. International youth hostels provided a reasonable place to stay and a good morning breakfast. I often bought my supplies in small stores—fruits, vegetables, bread, etc. to keep me nourished. At times, I found patches of wild strawberries and raspberries in the countryside too.

* * * * *

One morning, after a good night’s rest out in the open countryside, I packed my bag and began bicycling. Soon, I rode by a few teenagers sitting on a culvert. They tried to make some conversation in their broken English and invited me to their home. Their mom served me a breakfast of fish curry and rice. They were refugees from Vietnam.

In one small city of may be 20,000 people, when I reached downtown it must have been past 10 p.m., I asked some youth (who looked Indian) hanging out in the town square, if they knew of a youth hostel in the town. They said they didn’t know, but that they were staying in a hotel, and I was welcome to join them. I walked with my bicycle over to their hotel. I found out that they were war refugees from Sri Lanka, and the government had housed them in this hotel. I watched them make hot, spicy curry and rice. Luckily, they had some yoghurt to go with the meal; I don’t think I could have possibly eaten that super hot curry with several tablespoons of red cayenne pepper. We had some good conversations before retiring for the night.

Another evening, it was raining—not very heavy, but a consistent rain. It was too wet to find a dry spot to sleep outside. So I waited out the rain under a roof before continuing on. Finally, when it stopped raining in the wee hours of the morning, I bicycled on towards the town of Holden in Norway until I found a picnic area, and I slept in my sleeping bag on one of the picnic tables; the grass was too wet!

Early that morning, I heard a car pulling into a nearby picnic area. So I figured it was time to roll on. Just as I was about to get out of my sleeping bag, a middle-aged woman from that car came walking to my table and said in Norwegian or Swedish, “Good Morning,” and handed me a hot cup of coffee and some snacks with a smile. And, she went back to her family for their breakfast. What a kind and considerate couple!

* * * * *

I kept going towards Oslo for a while, but decided to head south instead, towards the famous city of Gothenburg. It is the second largest city in Sweden. It’s situated on the Kattegat, an arm of the North Sea. After enjoying swimming at a vast beachside park, I continued south towards Copenhagen in Denmark. I connected with a couple of other cyclists, and we bicycled together for a while. That encouraged me enough to continue on with my bicycle journey. It had become a way of life for me. I pedaled across the southern region of Sweden to Kivik on the Southeastern coast. I was having a light conversation with the owner of a farm and I noticed that they were using a wood pellet stove for heating the farmhouse. During our conversation he realized that not only did I have an engineering background but also that I had written a textbook on Energy and Society, so he invited me to see his wood-chip stove and the heating system. After that he extended an invitation to stay with the family for the weekend. He said they had a birthday party for their daughter the next day and that I might like to experience that.

So, next morning—bright and early—we all walked over to her window to wake her up with a Happy Birthday song in Swedish. And the party was on! I felt like I was a part of their family. I wrote a story of this Swedish Birthday Celebration in English and typed it up on their non-electric typewriter and presented it to the family for their keepsake.

Then I bicycled west towards Malmö and continued over the bridge to Copenhagen, Denmark. While pedaling, my knee was acting up; even a slight uphill was impossible to pedal over. So, when I visited a Danish-Mexican family that I had met during my travels in Sweden, they suggested to rest up for a week with them. After that week of rest, when they suggested that I go north with them to a folk music festival in Aarhus, I was more than happy to accept. This way, they said, I would be able to ride through much of Denmark and get a feel for the country. I bicycled up one of the tallest points, Himmelbjerget (The Sky Mountain) in Denmark (150 meters high!) and then fly down it on my bicycle.

In the rural area of Denmark just north of Holland, while enquiring if there was a youth hostel in the area, an old farmer saw that I was bicycling through Scandinavian countries and invited me to his farmhouse. He also asked an English teacher he knew in the area who had visited the United States to check me out. After talking with me for a while and seeing my valid U.S. passport, he told the farmer that I was to be trusted. And he told me I was welcome to stay with them. The old farmer, close to seventy years, quickly cleaned up a spare bedroom in the house for me. We played a game of chess and ate typical Danish supper with Danish beer. The old man spoke no English and I did not know any Danish; but we had a great time. I was asked to come to a party the next day, but I politely declined.

While bicycling through Denmark, I noticed that I could see the inner tube on my front wheel; the old tire had worn out in a place after traveling more than a 1,000 kilometers. I bought a new tire at a bicycle shop at 5 pm on a Friday evening, just before they closed. They couldn’t put it on until the next working day and I figured I would do it somehow.

As I was bicycling through the city with a tire hanging on the handlebar, a middle-aged man waved me down and asked if he could help me with tools to replace the tire. We walked over to his home a few blocks away and replaced the worn out tire. During our light conversation, when he realized I had been bicycling through several countries, he graciously invited me for supper and an overnight stay. He was a schoolteacher and we shared good conversations on various topics. And, the next morning, I continued on my journey south to Germany, all rested up and refreshed.

* * * * *

Soon, I was bicycling through Flensburg, Germany. I continued on to the large city of Hamburg in Northern Germany, and visited a couple I knew from my trip to Guatemala. They had a new-born child, and I was amazed to see the planning and detailed work they had put in the bedroom for their baby. It was very conducive to a restful sleep. Every night, they read a couple of board books to the baby and turned on soft music to get the baby ready for a good night’s rest. I was included in the whole ritual!

After spending a few days with them sightseeing, I was on my way south. While crossing a bridge over the Elbe River in Hamburg, I saw someone walking about 50 feet ahead. I said to myself, I think I know who she could be. I yelled her name as I bicycled towards her, and sure enough, it was my friend Heike. What a pleasant surprise! We had met on our “Peacewalk Through Central America” a couple of years earlier and walked together over 500 kilometers through Costa Rica and Nicaragua. No wonder, I could tell who was walking ahead!

After a good conversation and quick lunch at an ethnic restaurant, we decided to bicycle on to Frankfurt. Heike needed to go visit her aunt there. She picked up her bicycle from her home, and we were on our way south. After spending a few days with her aunt in Frankfurt, I continued the journey to Heidelburg in Southern Germany. I had left my luggage with my friends there before I had gone to Sweden. After a few days of resting and sharing my experiences with my friends, it was time to begin my return journey.

* * * * *

Much of the time, I was able to bicycle on scenic and safe bike paths along the rivers in urban areas of Germany. In Sweden, Norway and Denmark, the bike paths paralleled the main roads but they were separated by rows of trees or some grassland and therefore, it was less noisy, more pleasant and much safer to bicycle on them. In some larger cities, they even had “Bicycle Only Roads,” with their own traffic lights! Throughout my travels, I felt car drivers were very considerate of bicyclists and pedestrians. They drove carefully so as not to endanger us. Once, I was pleasantly surprised when a big semi (a huge truck) stopped for me to cross the street on my bicycle.

The bicycle lanes and bike baths were free of litter. During my whole trip, not once did I get a flat tire; no nails, no broken glass or sharp objects halted my bicycle journey. My rear tire served me well until almost the end of my 2,500-kilometer journey. Then I discovered a slow air leak in rear tire near Wuppertal, a hilly city south of Dortmund. I rode up and down a steep, long and windy road on my single-speed bicycle. However, while climbing up I was going too slow for the headlamp to shine bright; the generator didn’t work at low speed! Other than that, this 50 plus year-old bicycle gave me no trouble on this long journey that covered parts of Sweden, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Belgium, and Holland (the Netherlands). I visited some famous cities like Stockholm, Copenhagen, Hamburg, Bonn, Cologne, Dortmund, Frankfurt, Heidelburg, and Amsterdam. In a few cities, like Bonn (which used to be the capital city then), I even stayed long enough to know the local culture and attractions. This was the most wonderful, educational experience I could have had. It was beyond my imagination and it did not cost me an arm and a leg.

On my return journey, I covered the Netherlands in just a couple of days and arrived in Haarlem, about 25 kilometers west of Amsterdam. I had visited a Christian community in this coastal city some years earlier. So after a few days, I said goodbye to the Netherlands and left on a ferry to the United Kingdom, leaving my bicycle with the Christian community.

* * * * *

Life has taken a different turn since then. I have been publishing Skipping Stones, a multicultural, global awareness magazine for today’s youth for the last 36 years. My European experience was definitely a motivational factor in founding the magazine.

In Germany, Denmark, Sweden, and the Netherlands, like so many other countries on the continent, almost all of the young Europeans I met were bilingual or trilingual! I wanted to promote this concept of multilingualism in Skipping Stones. In the beginning years, many of our published articles, poems, and stories were in two or three languages, side by side. Having grown up using three languages in India, it was normal for me. But not so for many Americans!

Unless you grew up near the Southern border—like in Arizona, Texas or California—where many people do speak both Spanish and English, it’s not common to meet many bilingual people in the United States. Of course, most new Americans and Latin Americans (including Cuban Americans and Puerto Ricans) are fluent in at least two languages. Because I have spent more than a year in Mexico and Central America, I have acquired some ability to communicate in Spanish, and I know first hand, how comfortable it feels to have the language skills of the region you are visiting. Most Indians can vouch to this fact of social life; for we grew up with learning and speaking three or more languages in India. Mahatma Gandhi could speak 14 languages, I have heard!

Recently, as I was about to start writing this article, I came across a news report of Lael Wilcox, an American woman who bicycled around the world—over 18,000 miles (that’s 29,000 Kilometers) in a record 108 days and 12 hours—averaging some 160 miles a day! While my bicycling adventure was nowhere near that caliber, I have acquired a lifetime of experience bicycling through, and immersing myself in, five countries in about five months. I would recommend it to anyone who can take time in life to embark on such a journey. I have met bicyclists like Willy Weir, who have bicycled in many continents and written a few books about their wonderful experiences. One thing for sure, people all over the world are more than pleased to meet and greet adventurous souls, break bread with them, have chai and chat with them, and make them feel welcomed, wherever they are.

Bicycling is an amazing mode of transportation; I cannot say that enough. In today’s world where plane-hopping and automobile travel has become the norm for so many of us, bicycling offers a welcome relief. We can soak in the beauty of life, away from the hustle and bustle of busy airports or crowded lanes of our highways. As we bicycle, often we’re able to stop frequently to have a look at something that calls for our attention, appreciate the beauty that nature has to offer, or to say hello to people we meet along the way. Our carbon footprint is much smaller with the bicycling way of life and travels, and we get more value out of our time and money. Our journey offers us many surprises along the way while we keep our body healthy and fit; our muscles strong and vibrant while we keep on pedaling.

By Arun Narayan Toké, Executive Edior.

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

The Woman Who Taught America How to Cook Real Chinese Food

By Fanny Wong, author, New York.

Standing on the kitchen stool, Yin-Fei could barely see the wok on the stove. Who would expect a five-year-old to cook with a wok and a spatula?

It was Ah Po, Yin-Fei’s grandmother!

“Just the right age to learn cooking,” Ah Po said. “And never have a short temper or use bad words when you are in the kitchen.” She then pointed to a paper image of Jo Kwan, the Kitchen God, and added, “You want Jo Kwan to think well of this family.”

Baba, Yin-Fei’s father, instructed her, “Eat first with your eyes, then with your mind, then with your nose, and finally, with your mouth.”

Luk Gu Jeh, her aunt, was another teacher of hers. “With patience and practice, you can create something that brings happiness and miles of satisfaction,” she told her.

With a family like hers, Yin-Fei was born to be a chef.

Yin-Fei’s skills grew with Ah Po’s instructions.

“Chop the choy sum properly.”

“Stir the fish mixture in one direction to make it stick together.”

“Pour the hot peanut oil and soy sauce on the steamed fish.”

For Yin-Fei, the learning was easy, but finding the joy in cooking was hard.

Too much time cutting and dicing.

Too much time waiting for the oil to be hot enough to stir-fry.

Too much time waiting for the meat to be tender in the braising pot.

But then Ah Po’s birthday changed everything for her.

Yin-Fei was to contribute one dish for Ah Po’s birthday. She picked the White Cut Chicken recipe because in her Chinese culture, a chicken was always cooked for special occasions.

Yin-Fei placed the whole chicken breast side up in seasoned boiling water and covered the pot. When the water returned to a boil, she lowered the heat to simmer, turned the chicken and let it simmer again. She had to time the cooking just right, and allow the chicken to rest in the pot to finish the cooking. Otherwise, the chicken would be overcooked or undercooked.

Yin-Fei lifted the chicken from the pot. She prepared a dipping sauce of soy sauce and ginger. It looked perfect, but did it taste perfect?  

Yin-Fei watched Luk Gu Jeh cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces with a cleaver. Ah Po, surrounded by her family at the table full of many delicious dishes, chose to eat the chicken first. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and chewed it slowly.

Yin-Fei held her breath and waited for Ah Po to finish swallowing.

“Hm….” Ah Po opened her eyes that crinkled with a wide smile and commented, “That was the best chicken I ever had.”

Everyone at the table loved the chicken! Not a single piece was left over! An eleven-year-old girl had made her loved ones happy with her cooking skills! From that moment on, making delicious dishes was her gift to others in the family, a way of showing her love and respect.

Now, she was eager to learn more from Ah Po. She learned that what people ate had to be balanced within their bodies.

Foods such as fish and most vegetables brought them coolness.

Foods such as most meats and some fruits brought their bodies heat.

The combination of these two types of food brought balance and good health to the body.

Yin-Fei learned to cook balanced meals for good taste and good health.

But life was not balanced in their village of Sun Tak. To escape the repressive government in China, 12-year-old Yin-Fei fled with her family to Hong Kong. There, she continued to improve her cooking skills by learning from her aunt. She also learned English in night school and picked an English name for herself—Eileen.

When she was 21, she met an American journalist named Fred Ferretti, and they fell in love and soon married. They moved to New York City. And that was when Yin-Fei’s life took another turn!

Her new in-laws brought her to a Chinese restaurant.

“What is this? This omelet is like an overdone pancake covered with a brown sauce,” she remarked.

“This is egg foo yung, our favorite Chinese dish,” her in-laws said.

From that moment, Yin-Fei had a mission! She wanted to teach Americans how to make good-tasting, authentic Chinese food.

First, she gave her friends Chinese cooking lessons at her home.

“You must write a book!” her friends said.

And she did. Eleven books in all! Each book taught readers how to cook traditional Chinese food at home.

She also taught at cooking schools and appeared in cooking demonstrations on television.

And when a renowned chef invited Yin-Fei to create a dim sum menu for his restaurant and teach his cooks, that’s exactly what she did. She took charge of his cooks!

“No, no, no, do it this way, let me show you.”

If she felt a Chinese restaurant was not up to her standards, she was not shy to say to the chef, “Make it this way, don’t Americanize your food!”

Yin-Fei had found a new passion. She wanted to teach others about how to make good Chinese food.

“Always learn, learn, learn, and never take a short-cut in cooking,” Eileen Yin-Fei Lo told her students. “The food you cook shows your love and respect.”

Yin-Fei became a great chef and a teacher who taught Americans how to cook authentic Chinese food. Born and raised near Canton, the capital of Guandong Province, Cantonese cooking was her specialty.

She taught at The New School in New York City and beyond—from Singapore to Helsinki. Cooking shows on television invited her to demonstrate how to make authentic dishes. She won two International Association of Culinary Professional Awards. Many Chinese food writers that came after her still think of her as the foremost Chinese expert chef.

Yin-Fei passed away at age 85 in 2022, leaving a delectable and mouth-watering legacy.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Fanny has written often on multicultural interest topics and been published in Skipping Stones frequently.