Kung Flu

Before we get to our agenda, I’m going to do something I’ve never done as the chair of this board. I’m going to use a point of personal privilege to make a few comments about the events that happened in Georgia this week. Because the events were the culmination of the growing violence against members of our communities. I attended an event hosted by CAAL last week about the fear that growing violence has created throughout the communities we are tasked with speaking for. The fear that exists thoroughly depressed me.

I grew up in Roseville, MN, at the time, a very white Twin Cities suburb. There was one other student of color in my kindergarten class, Sally Murakami, also Japanese American. Growing up through the years, all of our classmates assumed Sally and I would become girlfriend/boyfriend and get married. I liked Sally but had no interest as a kid, in marrying her and resented how our classmates assumed the two of us had a mutual connection just because we looked similar and different at the same time. I’m sure Sally felt the same.

The first time I realized I was a different race from my classmates came when Tommy Hanson teased me about my yellow face. I thought he was referring to how earlier, my brother and I were messing around with my sisters’ makeup, and I must have not washed some of it off my face. I didn’t know what Tommy was teasing me about until he kept teasing me and my Mom gave me my first lesson about racism and a common slur against Asians is having yellow skin.

Over the years through my K-12 experience there were a few other slurs directed at me and some painful micro aggressions directed my way but most have fallen out of my memory, whether deeply suppressed or because they didn’t register enough in my mind to remember. I do remember in college working my part time job at Kmart during a time when the American auto industry was struggling given the growing popularity of Japanese cars when a middle age white woman walked by holding up a package of men’s underwear and said to me, “American made.” Her choosing to use underwear to demonstrate her point made me chuckle, but the hatred in the tone of her voice pierced me to my soul. This was probably the most defining moment of my understanding the extent of how hatred is embedded in racism. There is no separation between the two, they are intricately intertwined in an insidious way.

We all have just endured an existentially life altering year. The turn of the page to 2021 hasn’t exactly gone much better starting with the racially charged January 6 insurrection against our democracy, to what happened this week in Georgia. I’m sure our council will step into a necessary leadership role. Sia helped us take a baby step forward with her statement yesterday. All of us community board members have been appointed because we are seen as leaders within the communities we represent. I would love to talk with each of you individually about your thoughts about how we as the council can best lead those we speak for in state government, out of the fear of violence, physical, verbal, emotional... Because I personally am really struggling with knowing what to do next. It’s exhausting to live in this space.

2020 Hindsight

“They tell me everything’s gonna be alright, but I don’t know what alright even means...”

For 11 years I scooted every scootable day from April through October from my house to the Minnetonka City Hall, a 42 mile round trip. Near the Lake Street Bridge where Marshall Avenue in St. Paul becomes Lake Street in Minneapolis, there’s a building that houses an eye clinic and a psychology clinic. Every time I scooted by the building I thought to myself there’s a joke in there somewhere- how it was a one stop shop for those with a variety of vision problems (eyes and long and short term). 

At the beginning, perhaps the thing I missed most when I switched jobs was that long daily scoot. The scoot to my new job is less than five miles. Now I’m missing a world where I could safely leave my house, where everyday didn’t feel like the world is coming apart at the seams and the dread that seems around every corner.

2020 was always going to be difficult because for the first time in my time in elections there was going to be three statewide elections with the addition of the Presidential Nomination Primary (PNP) in March. I know there was a lot of angst amongst election officials throughout the state about running another election during a presidential election year, one which for the first time, the voter would need to disclose their political party in order to get a ballot. I spent much of the fall of 2019 traveling to all corners of the state speaking with county, city and township election administrators. 

The PNP went surprisingly smoothly statewide. Internally we made a horrible mistake directing voters for a short period of time to a partisan website when our poll finder application was having issues. Perhaps that was a harbinger for what was to follow. The state canvassing board certified the PNP results in mid-March. A few weeks later the pandemic caused everyone who could to work from home. There were horrible scenes of emergency rooms overflowing from people dying, trying to gasp for their last breath. The numbers were staggering. A friend joked that I should be good to go because I’d been practicing social distancing and isolation my entire life.

Then the Minneapolis police killed George Floyd by kneeling on his neck. This led to protests which led to riots and looting as parts of Minneapolis and St. Paul burned down. My scooter route down Lake Street was the epicenter of the worst damage. I sat there watching the news coverage as our city burned with anger and fire. 

A small group of us returned back to the office wearing face masks during the two week candidate filing period for the fall’s elections. One day, we were told by Capitol Security to evacuate the building and go home because a mob of looters was in the area and our safety was potentially in harms way. When the filing period was over we all returned to working from home. 

Over time Diego-San, Theo and I figured out a workable rhythm to this new normal of me being home all the time. Diego-San was particularly skilled at doing everything he could to get me away from working on my laptop so he could sit on my lap. He’d sit on my computer’s mouse, or my hand trying to use the mouse or sit right in front of my laptop. He made appearance in most of my online meetings and made himself heard during phone calls.

And then he died. Just when it seemed 2020 couldn’t get any worse, it did. The days after I fell into a catatonic state. It was all too much. The only thing I could to do to distract my mind and my heart was try to remember all the baseball players I’ve seen play. Who was on the 1973 St. Louis Cardinals? Who was in the 1984 Detroit Tigers bullpen? Who was the third baseman for the 1995 Minnesota Twin? That and imagining the comfort of Marisa’s touch. And there have been days since where I returned to that overwhelming state. The world also became a profoundly sadder place losing two giants of the civil rights movement, John Lewis and Ruth Bader Ginsberg not to mention the over 200,000 Americans who have died from COVID19. The anger in the country and the divide seem insurmountable at this point. What’s next?

I’ve made it a point the past month to take a ride on my scooter to get out of the house. The rides usually take me back to the neighborhood I grew up in, the streets I used to ride my bike during summer days growing up. This wasn’t a conscious decision, I just needed to ride my scooter somewhere. But I can’t help but wonder somewhere in my subconscious I wasn’t looking for a way to get back home again, back to a time when the primary thing on my mind was love and how my whole life and the whole wide world seemed in front of me.

“Once there was a way to get back home again. Once there was a way to get back home, sleep pretty darling do not cry. And I’ll sing you a lullaby...”

Theo misses his feline housemate(s). He cries out a meow every time I pass nearby. We both wonder what’s next and where we go from here.

 

Still Have Our Chopin

There was a time, in a shared dream both of us knew, nothing was as it seemed

Telling good from bad, By wearing a mask Blowing up buildings, Built in the past

Dystopian curfew, Stay home in bed Her ambient music, Stuck in my head

Prisoner Evey, In a museum room Cry me a river, The jukebox tune

She reappeared, from out of the blue asking for money, so nothing that new

Black cats and music, apocalypse edge paid day at the beach, life on a ledge

Trying to live without a muse 

Feelings are gone even the blues

Wondering how when became then

Still we’ll always have our Chopin

I don’t know her, Doesn’t know me social distancing, None of us free

Conspiracy babe, Guy Fawkes day A shaved head, heart turned to clay

It’s a film noir, Bogie and Astor All things wrong, shadows hit the floor

The tube train car, Explosives loaded tearing down statues, history exploded

Masks separate, True self from the rest Taking it off, Inspired and blessed

Mob in the street, do the right thing Her extremist rant, Isn’t how she sings

Poetic in a non lyrical way

just hoping for another day

Wondering how when became then

still we’ll always have our Chopin

Trying to kill us fauchi and gates fascist interference with our fate

Invisible killer, Life came to a halt Ignoring science, Who is at fault

Playing the right notes, At the right time Learning silence, Can sound sublime

Burned down my route, memory refined Chaos ensued, Two of a kind

V for vendetta, Natalie revealed Society crumbles, Our fate is sealed

A movie date, Losing connection Sitting in my room, Worthy of a mention

This is the age of social media, 

Not like reading an encyclopedia 

Wondering how when became then

Still we’ll always have our Chopin 

Three steps forward four steps back, looking for peaceful not crazy and what I lack

With me or against me, forever don’t know for that reason, I know i must go

Burning down my house, In a toaster fire Not knowing what to think, Nothings required

Baldy and pee boy, Extending their claws A brand new world, With much different laws

Licking a lollipop, Sharing ice cream Too much of nothing, Nightmare dreams

In isolation the poet appears Bringing meaning to meaningless fears 

burning books, memories rearranged

what we knew now is forever changed

Wondering how when became then

Still we’ll always have Chopin

Taking it all in pieces rearranged

What happened somehow changed 

What i will forever feel about then

Still we’ll always have our Chopin

Intriguing Maladies and Mysterious Afflictions

I never started off trying to write a novel. Instead I felt I might be at the end of my rope and I knew I had never come close to writing my masterpiece. Still, in my 25 years I had written some things I thought were good. Good not in they were masterful words magically arranged on a page that would change the world. Good for me at the time was having been able to write something that accurately captured the mixture of feelings and thoughts that something, somebody somewhere had inspired me to feel the need to figure things out on paper.

Once I began compiling my favorite examples of my writing I noted there was a pattern to what I considered samples of my best: that all the writing was about how hope was the sum between love and inspiration. And that elusive combination was the most powerful elixir. Finding the moments, memories and dreams that were powerful and unique that I bothered enough and inspired enough to come home and write about. I didn’t understand the inspiration, why a particular person or event was so meaningful not only to figure out what it meant, but to express how it changed me. The common connection was feeling love. I was falling in love with someone; I loved a song, a movie, a book... And what did this connection between inspiration and love leave me feeling? Hope. Hope that I was headed to something better. Hope that someone would be there with me. A shared experience that I felt compelled to share.

In collecting my writing together in one place I noticed recurring themes of inspiration, love and hope that ran throughout my favorite pieces. I wanted to write the connection between them and it occurred to me I could tie them all together in a novel. That revelation was huge, More enlightening than the most powerful anti-depressants. Realizing the line that separated reality and embellishment was razor thin. By turning nonfiction into fiction, I had the right to express other people’s feelings and thoughts about particular events about me (the protagonist). I could take whatever creative license I wanted to tell the story I wanted to tell.

What story did I choose to tell? How one character (me, on my better days) was watching another character (me in my reality) disintegrate and it equally horrified the witness and disgusted him. He chronicled the wasting of one more talented into a cesspool of self pity and depression. It kinda was like a poor second cousin rewrite of ‘Amadeus.’

For the past several years I’ve been writing a shared memoir with Marisa. The idea was to write about events that made us who we are individually, how we met, and how we’ve connected despite two completely different life stories. The challenge has always been feeling adequate telling her story because I can imagine but I can’t know how a particular event left her feeling. And her life story towers over mine in the drama and pain.

I’ve thought about overcoming these obstacles by turning to the tried and true- turning it into a novel. A piece of fiction. I’ve also thought about turning it into a self help book: here’s what we did, you want to avoid doing the same things at all costs. Lately, I’ve noticed a connecting theme in our shared story is that life doesn’t have a master plan no matter what we were told as kids. Life is a series of forks in the road and you make the best decision you can based on past experience, best guess, best intuition, and how much you trust your decision making at the moment.

It’s not exactly a tale full of love and inspiration. There is a scent of hope that what we’ve shared the past seven years has been life changing for both of us because we were able to share it together. It’s our cubby hole moment.

“Sometimes it's not enough to know the meaning of things, sometimes we have to know what things don't mean as well.”

Mr. Cameron, my high school creative writing class teacher, once asked how I was doing. I said I was doing OK. He said that was too bad because great writing comes from times in our lives when we are struggling.

In the early days of Cheapo, in the wake of the free fall, there was a day I was taking my lunch in the cubby hole built to show kids videos while the parents shopped and dropped their hard earned cash. I was joined by the newest employee, the girl with a limp from a skiing accident who I already had a huge crush on. Stephanie Jane was hired during my hospitalization. She technically might have replaced me during my indefinite leave. I knew she knew I was sad. So as I ate my PBJ and she ate a salad she probed a little, not too far, not too personal. I revealed I was haunted. That my memories turned to demons. I didn’t tell her the doctors suggested treatment was electroshock that they said would probably help with the only side effect being short term memory loss. That tempted me if only for a few moments.

Stephanie Jane then said the thing that will resonate more than anything else anyone else in my entire life has ever said to me: “Then we’ll just have to make new ones to replace the old.” And we eventually did leading to a cross country trip that was the basis for being able to write a novel.  But maybe the cure ended up being worse than the disease, winning the battle only to lose the war.

All this led to my first paid writing gig, the Cheapo Newsletter’s editor. The opportunity was a gift given to me toward the beginning of Bob Dylan’s self denied ‘Never Ending Tour.’ But the spirit of that tour inspired me. Bob was playing gigs nearly every night in smallish venues throughout the world. The setlist changed every night, the arrangements of the songs were fluid. And that was what inspired my Cheapo newsletter columns. If I wanted to be a writer I needed to put my depression, my past, my angst, my baggage behind me. I just needed to take advantage of this incredible oppportunity to do the thing I love doing best, create and express myself and then share it through my writing. Just write no matter how wrong.

The new memories Stephanie Jane promised were meant to inspire me to reconnect with my muse, the thing that balanced me: my writing. I suffered long and hard once that muse disappeared. Hope, the bridge between love and inspiration burned down. Eventually I gave up believing in the myth Mr. Cameron’s lesson. Being a writer didn’t mean being tortured. Being a writer simply meant writing, being willing to share my writing warts and all, and being strong enough to accept the consequences.

They always say fill a room full of monkeys at typewriters and they could produce something Shakespearean. Give me a weekly writing gig for 14 years and once in a blue moon the self conscious filters let my muse express something true, authentic, that somehow manage to straddle the line between intimately personal and universally relatable.

The raw intensity of love inspires me to write something that came out of nowhere, that almost felt like it wrote itself and I just needed to get out of my way. Rereading my Cheapo newsletter columns the best are the ones that were inspired by things like Mr. Max enjoying green beans fresh out of the garden, attending Bob Dylan concerts and Sandra Bullock movies.

The lesson I’ve learned in trying to write a memoir is that the older you get you learn new memories don’t replace the old ones. They can add to them or enhance them or make you feel said because they don’t have the same meaning and power. Memories are like waves; they move forward and splash back and in the middle they intertwine. Watching my Dad die from Alzheimer’s/Dementia, it was heartbreaking and illuminating that in the end he could remember things that happened 50 years ago better than he could something that happened five minutes before. It was like the moments that were worth remembering, that initially ingrained themselves so powerfully retained their power or at least because he had remembered them so strongly for 50 years he remembered them until the very end.

Recently, I woke up around 1:30 a.m. and couldn’t fall back to sleep, a lifelong affliction. So I went down to the living room to try and fall asleep on the couch. It dawned on me how many years of accumulated stuff I have. The love seat is Katie’s, her first splurge purchase after finding a new life. The couch is from Niki, Jenny Engh’s former administrative assistant. The piano is from my sister Donna. The coffee table was a gift from us kids to mom and dad on a wedding anniversary. The rug was a housewarming gift from mom and dad. The drapes are from Amy. The TV was the one Pistol Pete and I bought (Stephanie helped move it from Linwood to Raymond). The receiver attached to the TV is the first stereo I got, the one I got in junior high and used to do my imaginary WQSR programming on. I’m made of the memories that the stuff represents.

But what the wave has taught me as I bob back and forth from that day in the cubby hole with Stephanie is a lesson that’s taken me 30 years to learn: that creating new memories and moving forward and not being haunted is a definite must. But it’s that shared singular moment, a true moment of kindness and hope, and sharing it with someone living in the moment, that’s equally important. Be here now.

Down in the Groove

Back in the old days, when I used to walk through snowdrifts up to my hips wearing nothing but bandaids on my toes, there was a ritual known as new release record day. Record companies released the major new releases on Tuesdays. The record store that employed me stayed open past midnight on Mondays just to be the first place in town that people could buy the album they were dying to hear. The last new release I remember buying ‘round midnight was Bob Dylan’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ back in 1997.

These memories came rolling back the past few weeks with the out of nowhere news that Dylan’s first album of new songs in eight years, ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways,’ was about to be released. True to his most Boblike behavior, Dylan had surprised his fans by releasing three songs during the pandemic at midnight on random days with no warning no hype. The timing, with the stay at home to stay safe from a deadly virus apocalypse upon us, couldn’t have been better for those of us who have learned to view the world through the lens of Dylan’s many many many great songs. The three new songs didn’t disappoint (particularly ‘I Contain Multitudes’). They were stream of conscious yet deliberate songs that I can’t think of another songwriter being capable of writing, full of jarring juxtapositions and references to artists and songs and history from all over the place. And all of it seemed intuitively relevant in this strange new world of 2020.

In 2020, it’s no longer necessary to depend on your neighborhood record store staying open past midnight in order to hear a new release when it’s released. The semi-Luddites like me can now download it from multiple music services, and the kids can listen from streaming music services. I bought the iTunes pre-order and actually stayed up past midnight on release day to see that it was now available on my iPhone. I decided I wouldn’t stay up and listen, having a lot of work to do in the morning.

I got up early to hear what Bob had to say. Like 1997’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ all the people who had heard the new work prior to its release had written over the top positive things. The general consensus seemed to be it was unlike anything Bob had done in the past, yet it was connected to everything he has done in his career and could sit proudly next to his greatest works.

I went down to the kitchen to put on my pot of coffee and feed the boyz. I paired my iPad with the Bluetooth speakers in my kitchen. I pressed play and the opening track, ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ began to play. And then it stopped. I did some pigeon I/T work and noticed the Bluetooth pairing was no longer in place. So I ineffectively tried everything I could think of to re-establish the connection. I unplugged the speakers and tried again. Nothing. I restarted my iPad and when I opened iTunes my library was gone and I had to reload it. Seemed like someone (probably Russian hackers) didn’t want me to hear whatever Bob had to say. I remembered the days when listening to music meant dropping a needle into the grooves of a slab of vinyl. Things were so much simpler then.

So does ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ live up to the hype, the buzz? Strangely the two LPs it most reminds me of are ‘Time Out of Mind’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde,’ which really are very different LPs. The sparse arrangements echo ‘Time Out of Mind’ and the bluesy songs with playful and complex lyrics hark back to ‘Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat,’ and ‘Stuck Inside a Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,’ not to mention ‘Blonde on Blonde’ era outtakes like ‘She’s Your Lover Now,’ and ‘I’m Not There.’

The 10 songs on ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ contain connected themes referencing pop culture from the beginning of time yet applying name drops and inscrutable couplets to the contemporary world of a country coming apart at the seams. A friend called the lyric writing method “intertextual.” That’s perfect. Some have likened the lyrics as a continuation of Bob’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech where he referenced Moby Dick and Lou Reed and everything inbetween that had inspired him.

Early favorites are ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ (“I play Beethoven’s sonatas and Chopin’s preludes, I contain multitudes...”); ‘My Own Version of You,’ that sees the singer collecting body parts like Dr. Frankenstein to build his soulmate. It’s probably the darkest yet funniest song he’s ever written; and ‘Mother of Muses,’ which hit me personally as I’ve been thinking a lot, during the social distancing I invented throughout my life, about what the connection is between the handful of muses I’ve met in my life. “I'm falling in love with Calliope/She don't belong to anyone, why not give her to me?/She's speaking to me, speaking with her eyes/I've grown so tired of chasing lies/Mother of Muses, wherever you are/I've already outlived my life by far...”

Perhaps my favorite Dylan album (depending on my mood) is 1978’s ‘Street Legal’ that is Bob at his most confused. ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ is Bob at his most assured. There is a swagger, a deliberate obtuseness mixed with startling insight. He ain’t no false prophet (yet the timing of the release is another example of his observational finger on the world’s pulse similar to releasing ‘Love and Theft’ on September 11, 2001). The ten new songs prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he has always contained multitudes.

Oh Brother

Mankato was my 49th Bob Dylan show. If that seems like an impressive number, the woman who sat next to me, who had to be at least 20 years younger than me, and saw her first Dylan show in 1996 (mine was a decade earlier) was attending her 55th show. She overheard me talking to the guys next to me on the other side answering the question what is my favorite Dylan album? “Street Legal” which is the most effective documenting of a nervous breakdown ever. The young woman chimed in it also was her favorite Dylan LP. She fell in love with Bob’s music after hearing “Changing of the Guard” on his Greatest Hits Vol. 3 LP. I just about proposed to her on the spot.

After the show I got on my hotel’s elevator with a guy I’m guessing was a bit older than me. I asked if he had been at the concert. He said he had. I asked him how many times he had seen Bob. “Over 200...” He flew in from Germany for this leg of the current tour.

What is it about Dylan that creates/causes such devotion among so many? For me, the answer my friend, was my favorite moment in the concert, his performance of “Lenny Bruce.” Prior to this tour, the song hadn’t been performed in over a dozen years. After the first few songs, the woman next to me whispered to me that the setlist was different than the past few shows. I gave her a thumbs up and said, “I really hope he still does ‘Lenny Bruce.” She smiled. And so when he strummed the opening chords on his upright piano, she touched my arm in a shared understanding.

“Lenny Bruce” is not a great Dylan song. It appeared on what’s probably my second favorite Dylan LP, “Shot of Love” the last of his born again trilogy. He performed the song during his 1986 tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers acting as his backing band. He performed it at my first Bob show at the HHH Metrodome and I remember I smiled throughout. The impetus behind the song is seemingly obvious; both are Jewish performers who pushed the envelopes of their genres. The line that currently kills me is “he was the brother that you never had...” What does Bob’s brother David think of that line? What would my brother Bruce think if he heard me sing that line with heartfelt conviction? (I once sang Bob’s “Congratulations” to my soulmate Stephanie Jane, “Congratulations for breaking heart... Congratulations for tearing me all apart...” and Stephanie Jane told me not to sing with so much conviction.)

The Mankato show, this leg of the never ending tour (a label Bob once bristled at, the false naming of his impressive touring, all things end... over the past 30+ years) could be dubbed his “Time Out of Mind” tour. “Time Out of Mind” was released in 1997 and was considered a comeback at the time, a startlingly clear document of death, depression, blues, and insight after years of seemingly lost efforts. He performed four songs from that LP and all were stellar.

I automatically dismiss any best of Bob songlist that dosen’t contain any song from “Time Out of Mind” because there are so many brilliant to chose from. If I had to choose what to include on his greatest song list I would choose “Tryin to Get to Heaven (Before they Close the Door)” and “Not Dark Yet.” Both Mankato performances were really terrific. The arrangements were offbeat and strangely effective. Turning the recorded versions inside out and leaving me as a witness feeling outside in. Both songs absolutely moved me beyond my current struggles into a better place. And that’s exactly the reason attending a Dylan show has for me consistently has been a transformative experience.

Another definitive highlight was “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” I long considered this a minor song in the vast Dylan catalog but he’s been performing it on a regular basis the past few years. And it has so many great lines: “Train wheels are running through the back of my memory/When I ran on the hilltop following a pack of wild geese/Someday everything is gonna sound like a rhapsody...” and “Newspaper men eating candy/Had to be held down by big police/But someday every thing's gonna be different/When I paint that masterpiece...”

In my current visit into the abyss, “When I Paint My Masterpiece” has become my theme song. I’ve been thinking a lot about my legacy, both my professional career, and my lifelong need to write something life changing. For any of you out there who has ever has, or currently is, wondering how you’ll leave your mark in this world, I invite you to attend my next session with my latest therapist because I’d love to share thoughts.

At 78 years old, who knows how much longer Bob is willing to give to us, his fans? There’s a credible rumor he is going to cutback on his touring. Will I be able to see him for a 50th time? I truly hope so.

“They say he was sick 'cause he didn't play by the rules
He just showed the wise men of his day to be nothing more than fools
They stamped him and they labeled him like they do with pants and shirts
He fought a war on a battlefield where every victory hurts
Lenny Bruce was bad, he was the brother that you never had.”

My MnDOT MusiCares Moment

My name is David Maeda. In January, I was given the dream opportunity of being appointed Minnesota’s director of elections by Secretary of State Steve Simon. I’ve been involved with election administration at the county and city level off and on for the past 23 years. In a way this is what I’ve been working toward my entire career. I’m proud to be the first Asian American to serve as the state’s Director of Elections. The job comes with such a humbling amount of responsibility. I’ll touch on why I feel it’s such an important milestone a bit later on.

I began my government career many years ago when I was hired as a clerk typist 1 job with the Secretary of State’s office. As you probably know that is an entry level job. I had taken a typing test and that led to an interview. I didn’t get the first job I interviewed for but did well enough to get another interview for another open clerk typist 1 position. To come back to the same organization at a much higher level feels like completing my career circle. It feels a little like coming home.

It’s great to have this honor to speak to you today as we celebrate another Asian Pacific Islander Heritage Month. I’ve been given an hour to talk to you today. That’s a lifetime of speaking for me. I’m known as the quiet one both professionally and personally. It’s rare I’ll say much if anything at all at family events. This past winter I had the privilege of being the emcee at the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans’ Day at the Capitol rally in the rotunda. My niece brought her three year old daughter to the event. My job was to introduce the speakers at the rally. So when one person was finished I got on stage to do a short introduction of the next person. On the drive home, my great niece Imogene asked her mother, “Why does Uncle David talk so much?” That’s literally the only time anyone has ever said that about me.

A little history about how API Heritage Month came to be. It actually began as API Heritage Week and was established back in 1978 with the passage of a congressional resolution. Twelve years later Congress expanded the observance from a week to a month. In 1992 another resolution was passed designating May as the month to celebrate API Month. May was chosen because the very first Japanese immigrants arrived in the United States on May 7, 1843. Also, the transcontinental railroad was completed on May 10, 1869. The majority of workers who laid the tracks were Chinese.

I have served on the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans since 2014. I’ve been the board chair for the past three years. The council is a state agency charged with being the bridge between our communities and state government, both the legislature and the governor. We are one of three state ethnic councils along with the Council for Minnesotans of African Heritage and the Minnesota Council on Latino Affairs. My work on the council has been incredibly rewarding. Hafiz Munir, who works for your department also serves on our council and has really been a great advocate for his community. I have really been impressed with his insights.

Minnesota is the home to over 316,000 Asian Pacific Minnesotans. By far, the Hmong are our largest community followed by the Asian Indian, Chinese and Vietnamese communities. Ours is the fastest growing minority community and the most diverse. Our state is the home to people from over 45 different Asian countries.

Minnesota’s Asian Pacific community has changed over the years due to many variables, the most obvious being the makeup of the community. Prior to the late 1970’s, Asian Pacific Minnesotans consisted of mainly those who came for educational degrees and work opportunities. After 1975, Minnesota experienced an influx of Southeast Asian refugee groups – the Hmong, Vietnamese, Lao, and Cambodians. Between 2000 and 2010, Minnesota saw a dramatic increase in its Asian Indian community because people came from India seeking opportunities in the tech and science sectors.

I grew up in Roseville, one of two Asian Americans in my grade school class. The other was also Japanese American, Sally Murakami. Our classmates just assumed the two of us would get married. By the time Sally and I reached high school we had a few Vietnamese classmates too. Someone told me not too long ago that the Roseville School District now has over 50 percent of its students being students of color.

Growing up in such a white community, I always felt separate from my classmates. Sally and I looked different from our white classmates and I always sensed, knew this difference was significant. At some point I matured enough to see that it wasn’t a weakness feeling I was always going to be different from my classmates just because of my race. In a way it was a blessing to feel the freedom that comes from being different and not needing to find a way to try and differentiate myself, I could just be me. I’m sure there are many in this room that have faced this interesting duality.

My favorite song as a kid was Sammy Davis Jr.’s “I’ve Gotta Be Me.” Many of you in this room are too young to know who Sammy was but I would regale my family with my version of his song... “Whether I’m right, or whether I’m wrong/Whether I find my place in this world or never belong/I’ve gotta be me...”

I’ve been to Japan once in my life. I visited there in 1998. My most vivid memory of my trip was standing in the busiest subway station in downtown Tokyo during rush hour with waves of people rushing all around me. Usually being in that type of environment would cause anxiety within me so it was weird to feel so calm. And reflecting up on it I realized the reason why: for the first time in my life I really felt like I blended in with those around me. I truly was different being an American among the Japanese, but it wasn’t evident just by appearances. I had never experienced that before. Looking the same as everyone else made it easier to judge how I fit in. I was a bit taller than many. I had wavy hair where most of the people I saw had straight hair.

I moved out of my parents’ house for good when I graduated from Macalester College. I was 23. My parents bought the house when my mom was pregnant with me. They thought they needed a bigger house when I joined my four siblings.

I was almost born at a Chinese restaurant. On their way home from somewhere, my mom went into labor so dad called the doctor to determine how much time they had. The doctor apparently told my parents they had time to stop at home first. Mom and Dad decided to pick up dinner for my siblings at a Chinese restaurant at the corner of Snelling and Larpenteur Avenues in Roseville, about ten minutes from their new house. While ordering, mom told dad that he had better get her to the hospital. He did and I was born a short time later. There’s a joke about Chinese food delivery somewhere in that story but I’m haven’t figured that out yet.

After graduating from Macalester College, I bounced from apartment to apartment, I bought my own house when my career finally seemed to be on track. It seemed like a good investment not to be throwing away rent money every month but instead to be paying down a mortgage.

My own house is a few minutes away from that corner of Snelling and Larpenteur. After I moved in, and after my mom passed away in 1999, I made it a point to celebrate my birthday at Chins’ Kitchen until they closed down.

I saw a lot of pride in my parents’ eyes when I told them I was buying a house. They knew how much I struggled after college and I think for them the American Dream milestone of being able to afford a house meant I had found my way. I think I frustrated my realtor because I had expected to finally walk into one of the places we looked at and feeling this was my new home. None of the many places we looked at caused me to feel that way. I ended up buying a house because I liked the location. I remember before I closed on the house I was allowed to go in and remove the carpeting because I planned on having the hardwood floors sanded. My mom joined me in the arduous task of using needle nose pliers to remove the carpet staples. This strange house didn’t feel like home to me but I pictured the possibility of owning something I could make my own.

I now have 23 years’ worth of great memories in my own house meaning I have now lived as long in my own house as I did in my parents house.. Hitting this mystical milestone has made me philosophical about the concept of what “home” really is.

There’s the obvious answer of home being the place you feel safe and secure and are currently returning to every night. But home can be about nostalgia. It can be about those vivid memories of a time of true happiness.

My late father had to sell our family house when his Alzheimer’s/Dementia forced a move to an assisted living facility. That was over five years ago and it still seems really strange that there is someone else living in our house and I just can’t go waltzing into what was my home for so many years. There are so many vivid memories that happened in that house, times that established my personal foundation.

Growing up, I fell in love with the game of baseball. That’s all my brother and I played summer day after summer day. We literally wore out the grass in our backyard into base paths, a pitching mound and a batter’s box. In order to talk with me my sisters had to learn about baseball. Remarking about how many baseball statistics I had memorized my sister Donna once said if I had only devoted my attention to something important, I could have really made something of myself. There’s something very comforting in the ultimate goal in baseball: in order to score you have to go home.

I never asked dad what he thought was his true home. Dad grew up with his parents and his sister Jane and new born brother Larry, in Seattle, Washington. Dad often spoke fondly of Seattle, and we took a couple of family vacations there when I was young. Dad proudly showed us where he grew up.

On December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. On February 19, 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 that authorized the Army to evacuate any persons they considered a threat to national security. As a result, over 120,000 Japanese people were forced to relocate to one of ten different internment camps around the United States. Dad’s family was among the 120,000 Japanese Americans that were incarcerated by the American government. Dad’s family ended up in Minidoka located in Hunt, Idaho.

Growing up, my dad seldom spoke about this time in Minidoka. He was 18 years old and he said many of his friends were in the internment camp as well. He was on the coal crew that would deliver coal to the many barracks. Dad had a lifelong love of driving so getting to drive the truck was one of the memories he spoke about.

The other was also driving related. Right before Pearl Harbor was attacked, Dad bought his first car. When his family was ordered to the internment camp, Dad had to give up his car to his white friend. His friend would visit Dad at the internment camp but would have to park the car, Dad’s car, outside the barbed wire fence. Dad said it was really hard seeing his car parked where he was not allowed to go.

My dad’s family left the Minidoka when World War II was coming to an end. They ended up in Minnesota because Dad’s sister, Jane got a scholarship from Hamline University. Both Hamline and Macalester College were very progressive and welcoming in extending scholarship offers to Japanese Americans.

In 1980, Congress established a commission to investigate the legacy of the Japanese American concentration camps. After extensive interviews and personal testimonies from victims, the commission issued its final report, calling the incarceration a "grave injustice" motivated by "racial prejudice, war hysteria and the failure of political leadership." In 1988 Congress approved reparations to the Japanese Americans who had been incarcerated along with an official apology. My dad, along with others in the community received a check for $20,000.

There’s a poetic ending to this story. Dad used his check to buy a brand new Honda Accord. I’m guessing it was a much better car than the one his friend parked outside the barbed wire fence.

Another significant thing about my family’s story is my dad lived through a nightmare of having a government and country who didn’t see him as a true American and deemed it in the national interest to take away his freedom. It’s obviously a significant step forward that his youngest son, is now in a position, as the Election Director, a job that is responsible for ensuring and protecting one of our democracy’s most important rights, the right to vote. I know both Dad and Mom would be impressed that their son got an important enough job that was reported by the Star Tribune.

Here’s the reason this is a special API Heritage Month. Last November five members of our Hmong community were elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives. They joined Sen. Foung Hawj for a record number of Asian Americans serving in our Legislature. This is a true example of how our state is moving forward.

We also have a record number of Asian Americans serving as judges in our court system.

Still, when we think about our current events there is no doubt we still have a long way to go. If you have the time I would highly encourage you to read the book, “The History of Asian America” by the Minnesota author, Erika Lee. It really is a good history of how those from different countries ended up in America. There are a lot of common experiences, those who are new to this country have always faced so many challenges in being accepted. But there are always differences. Serving on the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans has shown me that there are huge differences in the immigrant experience and the refugee experience. The most interesting thing I learned from Lee’s book centered around the Chinese exclusion law that eventually led to the exclusion of all Asian immigrants to our country in 1924. Because the Chinese and Japanese could not enter this country legally they eventually began to enter the country “illegally” across the Mexican and Canadian borders. Asians were literally the first “illegal immigrants” in our country. The attempts of the government to secure the borders way back in the early 1900’s is eerily similar to today’s news.

There is a common human need to find a safe and secure place to raise your family. We all want that. We all want a place that feels like home. Often, where we come from is less important than where we are going.

The most eye opening and heartbreaking thing I’ve learned as the Chair of the Council on Asian Pacific Minnesotans has come from hearing from members our our newest refugee communities many who can never return to their home countries because of war, oppression, and political circumstances. I’ve spoken with parents in their 30’s and 40’s who know they have little chance of succeeding in their new country due to the language and cultural differences. What they have told me is all they want is a better life for their children. Again the concept of “home” takes on so many different meanings depending on your life experience.

Thinking of my Dad, I think his true home was his love of cars. To him his car represented freedom. Freedom to go anywhere he pleased. One of the great things about my new job is every year Secretary Simon tries to visit all 87 counties in the state and this year he has included me in many of these visits. It has been inspiring to see different parts of our state. And it has somehow made me feel closer to late parents, who spent many weekends just driving around Minnesota and seeing different sites. It was what Dad and Mom loved to do. For the first time, I really understand that love.

For me personally, I don’t think I consider my true home either the house I grew up in or the house I now live in. Looking at the many different phases of my life, it is music that  has often been my true home. Great songs mix thoughts, feelings, memories, hope and inspiration all together in a magical way. A song can transport me to another time and another place. Music is my lexicon, my inspiration and my comfort. It is my true home.

One of my favorite contemporary songwriters is Josh Ritter, a folk rock singer. He recently came out with a new album that has one extraordinary song called “All Some Kind of Dream.” In the best American folk tradition, the song is an incredibly astute commentary on our current times, specifically about how there are those vilifying all immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. Ritter sings:

I saw my country in the hungry eyes
Of a million refugees
Between the rocks and the rising tide
As they were tossed across the sea
There was a time when we were them
Just as now they are we
Was there an hour when we took them in?
Or was it all some kind of dream?

It’s a great song.

I’ll finish with this. I am so proud to be speaking to you today because it shows how far Minnesota has come during my career in government. You are all to be commended for your finding your way to a career in public service. I’m convinced there is no greater calling. It’s not always easy with the demands of our customers and the expectation of taxpayer dollars paying our salaries. I really respect that MnDOT takes diversifying its workforce so seriously. Hopefully you feel a sense of home from your work and career accomplishments. There’s a great quote from the British writer, Pico Iyer, that finally made me realize the true meaning of “home.”

“Home is not the place you are born, it’s the place you become yourself.”