I was just three years old when we were stationed in Germany. But I remember the apartment. A church we were sent to. Crayons melting on a radiator. Walking home at night after a Disney movie. And the bratwurst truck, driving slowly through the neighborhood—hot dinners for sale.

My grandma & aunt were back in Germany, so these Lithuanian-Korean kids met the fam for the first time.

We left Germany early because my dad got sent to Vietnam. Our family took a military cargo plane home. We had missed our flight—my Mom packed the green cards in the wrong bag.

(I remember the terminal seats were hard plastic...we were there all day.)

My mom sent cassette tapes to my Dad in Vietnam. (We still have them.)

On one, I say, “And Daddy, remember the bratwurst? And Daddy, can we have bratwurst again? And Daddy, I want bratwurst.”

#onbrand

I still think it’s strange that my Dad—traumatized child of Nazi-era Germany, whose father was killed post-war in Communist-era GDR—became an elite military marksman, then a genius-level gunsmith, then a shooting range supervisor. (Refugee snapshot.)

WHY NOT LIBRARY SCIENCE?

And also odd: my Mom, born in Japan of forced laborers, in the shadow of the bomb, malnourished from the Korean War, watching every tree in Busan cut down for fuel, American tanks rolling off ships—should marry an alcoholic soldier with PTSD, speaking his third language!

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Tragedy seems to be “bratwurst” for humans.

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The last four months feel as if America misplaced our green card. We’re stuck in a dead-end terminal. War. Disease. Trauma, rage, alienation, loss, insanity, ugliness boil over into something like what I experienced as a child—broken adults breaking things even more.

It’s said that Bitcoin wasn’t invented, rather it was discovered. Maybe Tolstoy also didn’t dream, but rather found a human condition Pi. Constant. The ratio of you to me, me to my past, our leaders to us. Such grim circumference.

January 20 cannot get here soon enough.

Forgive me—I get wistful around New Year. Looking through old photos. Missing my parents. Remembering how healing came, one day in those 50 trillion-digit random life sequence. Oh—the events, words, memories.

3.14159265359....Tolstoy’s number, the cost of infinite love.

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“God’s will is that things be good not just for me but for everyone. And there’s only one way for things to be good for everyone: everyone must want blessings for each other rather than themselves.” (Tolstoy, “For Every Day”)

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A couple more photos of us in Germany.

Nostalgia is a fun place to visit. But we desperately need to get back on track again here in our nation. Time relentlessly pushes us forward. Grow up, America—get it together. Return to your senses. For our children, for each other.

Guys—here’s a photo of my Lithuanian family before the war. Also my Korean grandmother! (I don’t have any of my Korean grandfather. He disowned us for being mixed-race. ) My Dad as a young camera enthusiast (see where I got it from?). My mom’s passport photo!!