A continuing series by former ER writer Shannon Goss on life as a modern Asian American hapa woman.

I have and always will kiss my parents on the lips. I also, of course, kiss my boyfriend on the mouth. Beyond that, I dole out hugs like candy on Halloween. Friends, family, even people I’ve just met will get a hug … whether they like it or not.

On occasion I have had platonic male friends greet me with a kiss on the mouth. They were usually the husbands of female friends and, in every case, 10 plus years older than me.
Generally, they would land a kiss the first time, due to catching me off guard, but then I would play defense, ensuring that all future kisses land on my cheek.

Once, I worked for a man who had a penchant for kissing women on the mouth. Despite my attempts to dodge and weave, he would still get me. At one point he kissed the back of my head because I turned so far away.

When I asked friends how they feel about the platonic lip lock, I realized that, like me, they’re not interested. One person went as far as to call such smooches “weird” and “gross.” I also learned that more than a few people have a “creepy uncle” who engages in such behavior.

As for me, three years had passed with no ambush kisses to speak of. But that was before I signed up for yoga classes. My motivation was simple: infuse structure into my fairly
unstructured days. The added benefit would be toned arms, not the worst thing in the world, and an hour and a half where I wouldn’t obsessively check my email. A win-win.

Before my first class I signed a waiver that, like with most waivers, I skimmed. Unwise? Perhaps. Efficient? Yes. I noticed a clause stating something to the effect of: in yoga practice
the teacher may touch you to help with the poses.

So I wasn’t surprised when, while in the corpse pose (despite it’s morbid name, it is my favorite pose), I felt the instructor straddle me as he massaged my waist. It felt non-sexual (and good), so I was okay with it.

But I was taken aback when, while stretching my back with the assistance of the instructor, I received what felt like a kiss on my neck. That’s normal, right?

Now granted, my eyes were closed and my muscles were stretched to the max (read: not of sound mind), so I wasn’t 100% sure it was a kiss, although I’m not sure what else it could have been.

A few days later I was recounting this story to a friend along with my doubt as to what really happened. He asked me the name of my instructor. After I told him he said with no hesitation, “I know him. I’ll save you the trouble. He definitely kissed you.”

Suffice it to say, I switched classes.

A continuing series by former ER writer Shannon Goss on life as a modern Asian American hapa woman.

September 6th marked the two-year anniversary of my grandmother’s passing at the age of 85.  When thinking about how much she meant to me, I can still be brought to tears. I realize the significance of my crying is lessened by the fact that it doesn’t take much to bring tears to my eyes (read: the trailer for The Blind Side), but still, you get the point. My grandma left an indelible mark on everyone in my family, as she was an extraordinary woman in every sense of the word.

In August, my sister gave birth to her first child. A girl. For their daughter’s middle name, my sister and her husband decided on my grandmother’s Japanese name. No one was more pleased to hear this than my grandpa. I had the privilege of calling him with the news. Hearing aid in, he was able to understand me perfectly. For a man who has spent the better part of two years grieving the loss of his wife, I have never heard so much joy in his voice. I could practically hear him smile.

And while my niece will never get to meet the woman she is named after, she will get to know her through the stories that we will, undoubtedly, pass on.

My niece will know that her great-grandmother was the woman who taught her mom and auntie how to ride a bike. She will know that she was the woman who, when laughing really hard, would slap the person next to her. This is something my mom, sister and I all do and, with any luck, so will my niece. She will also know that her great-grandma was a woman so fit that, even in her 80’s, she could pull off wearing short-shorts. And my niece will also know that her great-grandma was the woman who, in the phone call she had with my parents the week before she died unexpectedly, told them to “be kind and take it easy.”

So as we welcome this wee baby into our family, there’s something wonderful about knowing that through her a part of my grandma lives on. I say “part,” but to hear my grandpa say it, it’s much more than that. As I was getting off the phone with him the other day, he told me to tell my sister and brother-in-law to take care of their little girl. He then added, “They’re taking care of grandma, you know.” So, in other words, no pressure.

– Shannon Goss

A continuing series by former ER writer and Audrey contributor Shannon Goss on life as a modern hapa Asian American woman.

Last year I attended a party that was held at a private residence in Beverly Hills. The guest list was dominated by agents, that is people whose very job it is to schmooze. One could argue that as a writer, my job is also to schmooze. Unless I want my audience to consist exclusively of my parents, then yes, networking, schmoozing, whatever you want to call it, would help.

And while I can carry a conversation, engage in witty repartee and generally avoid being a social moron, I do so only when absolutely necessary. My first instinct is to stand in the corner and eat every passing hors d’oeuvre. The food usually serves as my main talking point, “Did you try that prosciutto and goat cheese pizza?” It’s okay, I’ll say it. Sad.

Looking back, I realize that as an affable creature I peaked at age twelve. In animal terms, it went like this: As a third grader I was in the chrysalis stage, tucked away in my cocoon. I was so shy that while on a trip to Disneyland, my parents, in an attempt to raise a confident girl, wanted me to ask Mickey Mouse if I could get a picture taken with him. I was too shy, resulting in the photo seen here.

Yes, that’s my sister and me getting our photo taken with Mickey’s back.

But then as a middle school student I blossomed into a social butterfly. Every day after basketball practice while my mom was patiently waiting in the parking lot, I was busy striking up conversation in the locker room. I may not have been the best basketball player, but I was a champion chatterbox.

It does seem that the next stage for this butterfly is to slowly, but surely, turn into a hermit. That is a recluse. Oddly the second definition of hermit is: a spiced molasses cookie. That actually sounds better.

But before turning into a delicious cookie hermit I decided to give it one last go. Social or bust by way of joining Facebook. I harbored an unjustified resistance to Facebook or any other social or professional networking site. I illogically covet my privacy. Illogical given my extremely low profile. The only explanation for this behavior is, “Because I’m weird.” So I signed up only to realize a very plausible result would be that Facebook will become my great enabler. You mean I can keep in touch with people without leaving my house?

Back at the party, I was about to dig into some steak on polenta when an agent friend did what any good agent (and friend) would do. She dragged me into the middle of the party, forcing me to be social. Hermits are nimble creatures, though, and a short while later I was able to slip off to the side. After all, I caught sight of the dessert trays. Was that pana cotta in a Chinese soup spoon? Couldn’t miss out on a second talking point.

– Shannon Goss