That's the way the (ginger) cookie crumbles

Listening and reflecting across generations

A few weeks ago, I hosted a public reading event called Crossing Paths: One Stage for Writers Across Generations. I gathered writers from various age groups and gave them a simple prompt: if you’re in your 20s and 30s, what would you say to your older self? If you’re a writer over 40, what’s something you wish you could say to your younger self? Each writer was given 8 minutes to read, and we even had a musical performance by a local songwriter. The stage was adorned with twinkly lights and Christmas trees on each end, providing a warm glow to all the performers.

Amber Wulfe Hoy, a writer in her 20s, read a piece where she imagined visiting alternate future selves: one that was career-driven without kids, and another who sacrificed her art to take care of her family. I remember confronting that same dilemma in my own 20s, before I was diagnosed with endometriosis, before I was told by doctors that I have a low chance of conceiving, and therefore should start trying sooner rather than later. The choice between art and motherhood had seemed mutually exclusive. My life now, with its messy entanglement of both, is something I could not have imagined back then.

An excellent writer in the Over 40s group, Tameron Hedge, read a powerful letter to her younger self. Towards the end of the letter, she addressed that inescapable anxiety that has been clouding my senses in the last few months. “On days when you awaken to find the world gone mad, lacking in reason, awash in hatred and suspicion, your job is simply this: Find your center beyond the noise. Stop worrying about the state of the world. You are powerless to save it. Serve it, yes and you must, but you simply cannot save it.”

I left the event grateful for the writers, as well as everyone who showed up to listen. As I drove back home, I started thinking about what I would have written if I had been given my own prompt. Even though I conceived of the event myself as a way to celebrate and connect writers across different age groups, I’ve admittedly often felt awkward about my own age. As an adolescent, my mother used my face as a canvas for her makeup skills, and I went to school every day with a full face, making me look a whole decade older. She also gave me her own clothes to wear, and taught me to stick to the timeless classics: buttoned-up shirt, straight pants, trench coat, rotating only between white, beige, or black. Growing up in Tokyo while attending an international school that didn’t require any uniforms (unlike most schools in Japan), my clothes signaled that I was working, as opposed to a student. In college in New York, during an Introduction to German class, my conversation partner introduced me to the group as a 28-year-old, despite my constant correction that I was 18. (“Nein,” he protested. “Sie ist neunundzwanzig, nicht achtzehn”).

Now, as a 35-year-old, I finally feel like my clothes and make-up choices have caught up with the age that I actually am. But I still feel unsettled, somehow. I simultaneously get pimples on my chin and white hairs on my head. I don’t feel young, but older friends scoff when I say that. I’m constantly battling the clock, wishing I could get more done, check off more things off a list. Maybe I’ll feel more established, more of a grown-up, after 40?

When I came home from the event, I asked the babysitter how the evening went. “The boys were fine,” she said, “but there was one funny moment.” As they were transitioning from playtime to bedtime, our 6-year-old was disappointed that it was already the end of the day. The babysitter said, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” In response, my son cried harder and said, “But I didn’t even get a cookie today!” He had never heard this expression before, and took it literally.

There’s a similar phrase in Japanese, “Shoganai,” meaning “It can’t be helped,” or “No problem.” Phonetically, “shoganai” could also sound like you’re saying “there is no ginger,” so my bilingual friends and I used to text “no ginger” to each other in lieu of “no prob.” Perhaps an amalgam of both cultures would result in a phrase like, “That’s the way the ginger cookie crumbles.”

As we approach the last hours of the year, I’m reflecting on Tameron’s wise words, together with the way time moves forward too quickly for our 6-year-old. Our family—the four of us in Tennessee, my dad and in-laws in Japan—will all be slurping soba noodles for dinner as we do every New Year’s Eve, the long noodles symbolizing longevity. We’ve come a long way, but we’re still at the beginning.

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In case you missed it — I was honored to be interviewed by Korby Lenker for his Morse Code Podcast a few months ago. We talked about the writing process, imposter syndrome, parenthood, and the art of journaling. His other guests include filmmakers, musicians, writers, and other creatives. Korby was such a fantastic conversation partner—we could have easily talked for hours!

What I’m Reading: There’s always a stack that I’m working through simultaneously (including Knausgaard’s My Struggle series), but I’m particularly excited to dive into The Great Passage by Shion Miura, a novel about an intergenerational friendship between colleagues who are working on a new edition of the Japanese dictionary. (A strong contender for my next book club pick for the Japan-America Society.)

What I’m Watching: My 6-year-old son and I were both sick at the same time last week, and we spent our bedridden days watching almost all of the Star Wars films starting with Episode 4. After we recovered, we saw Flow in theaters—a gorgeous animated film from Latvia featuring a black cat. Thanks to my friend Elena Megalos for the recommendation!

What I’m listening to: “Kick Back” by Kenshi Yonezu (opening soundtrack to Chainsaw Man). My electric bass journey would be complete if I could master this one.

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