Year-End Wrap Up
We took the annual drive home to Cincinnati and spent six days shuffling between family, friends, Skyline, coffee shops. North, south, north again. One day, we unearthed boxes that housed a whole other lifetime. It was the Christmas of Legos: everyone started building each of their own worlds—Minecraft, Star Wars, automobile universes, tranquil gardenscapes. We missed key members of my family, who recently moved down & celebrated in Florida, but we made the most of our time in the Queen City that raised us.
One day, we visit my paternal grandmother on Christmas Eve. We drive past her old house in Old Milford, next to all the brightly colored Victorian homes that line the street, and down the hill to her residence at Memory Care, by the snaking Miami River. She still has her wits about her, interacts, walks to the river, reads the Bible, does her makeup each morning, pulls her hand from mine when she thinks I will mess up her fresh nails, greets the other residents, pets the cat, comments on the ghostly nests in the barren maple tree, asks us what time it is, have we eaten, how old is she, will we stay awhile? She comments to my father that she’s cold, but when I ask, she tells me she’s fine. She wants to hold KG’s hand, the other man’s hand, and I wonder if she feels safer around them than me. She touches his elbow and smiles mischievously when he looks at her. I told her about how I married the blond man next to me in the sweetest part of summer. She grasps my father’s hand tightly when we’re outside, and he doesn’t let go. I miss her saying, whenever my dad appeared annoyed by her antics, “Goodness gracious, a hug. Can you imagine that? Grandmas are never a bother. That’s what grandmas are for.”
As we walk to the overlook of the river, I tell Grandma the story of Skyline Chili: About how we’d meet there for lunch and she’d order a single plain cheese coney with a glass of water, no ice. About the time she was a little girl and came home from school one day and her father told her to don her best outfit. We’re going out, he said, and he was taking her to a nice dinner. Great-Grandpa was frugal, lived through the Great Depression, and so this was a treat, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She wore her fanciest red dress and where did he take her? Skyline. Across fleeting time and memory and space, these stories connect us and with each re-telling, something shifts inside me. I hold onto the fact that I will keep re-telling her stories, our stories, because I can and because she is here right now, listening, waiting, remembering.
I think about a line from Dobby Gibson’s collection of poetry Hold Everything: “A mirror you look into to see / another mirror that shows you / your own butt from behind. / There isn’t much I’d do over /not even the previous line.” After after Dobby’s reading in downtown Minneapolis, over crispy tofu and pork belly, KG told me that this poem reminded him of his grandma, too.
When back home in Minneapolis, I spend the day reorganizing all my books to absorb KG’s books we inherited from the space over his mother’s garage: soil constructions, foundations of business principles, accounting for dummies. When I pull out a dusty copy from an architectural class, he comments, “Oh, now that’s a great book.” For someone who is normally not impressed with books (despite that I’ve basically made my life about books), it was endearing to see him drawn to the books of his youth, of his foundational understanding of how the world ticks. There were a few fictional oldies: Farenheit 451, Tuesdays with Morrie. A hand drawn portrait of Kid Cudi. No poetry. Old letters from ex-girlfriends stuffed in forgotten notebooks, with pages and pages scrawled: eye <3 u. I begged him keep the letters, along with the model cars he built with his grandfather. Old protractors and staples and baseball cards that untethered from their binder and floated helplessly in a box. We found the oversized architectural designs and layouts of the children’s hospital he helped build. Where I would later be treated in & receive my chemo shots—rooms he knew intimately from studs up—and I flipped through the pages to find the cluster of hospital rooms I occupied during my many stays there.
Looking back at this year: saying goodbye to loved ones, witnessing old friends get married in my mother’s homeland, getting married to my longtime partner, saying hello to new bbys, waiting for new bbys to make their appearance. Taking our yet-named canoe for her maiden voyage up north & a lil reunion on Elder Ridge. Pressing send on my manuscript to a few sweet souls willing to read my work in exchange for work or out of pure love for the umpteenth time. This still rings true: This Is Our Year!!! Applying, waiting, applying. Traveling soon.
Why Mumu Stories?
I’ve been blogging off and on since 2004, hence my love-hate relationship with the digital long-form essay (more on this in a future post). However, it remains my go-to after all these years. I have essays published here and here. While I plan to hibernate for most of this winter, I yearn for connection, to listen, to read good shit, and get inspired in my own practice and goals. I plan to update this space monthly, perhaps more, perhaps less.
My research into my familial and cultural histories have evolved my understanding of the Mumu—a figure from Filipino folklore. The newsletter is called Mumu Stories, the name inspired by one of the original ghost stories I remember being told as a kid: if I didn’t behave or listen or go to sleep on time, the Filipino bogeyman was invoked to come get me. Where would it bring me? Apparently to some shadowy, unknowable & unfindable place, away from my parents, away from my home. In 2016, I came face-to-face with my own illness and wrestled with the Mumu within me. During that time of medical upheaval, I relied on my writing, family, friends, strangers, to keep my mind, enthusiasm, and pen sharp, while my doctors worked on the medicine & keeping me alive part. At 26, I considered: what kind of legacy do I want to leave behind? What do I believe?
I seek to reimagine & reclaim the name Mumu and both sides of myself: the people, stories, myths, and beliefs of my Filipino, German, and American ancestors, in order to learn more about where I’m from, and perhaps, where I’m headed next. We always have the capacity to see the beauty in between the strangest of places.
I was recently awarded a 2025 Creative Individuals grant by the Minnesota State Arts Board to edit & publish my first memoir book about my experiences with cancer as a young biracial woman & the power of community; start a related newsletter/podcast/documentation project of interviewing BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ creators and entrepreneurs; and host an accessible and inclusive reading to elevate voices on the margin. Hence, my tiny kernel, seedling of an idea for a community space germinated and sprouted leaves. And here we are. I hope to partner with local nonprofit organizations on these events and reach even more underserved, vulnerable communities.
Thank you to the voters of Minnesota, the Minnesota State Arts Board, and a legislative appropriation from the Arts And Cultural Heritage Fund for making this activity possible. Shout out to Substack for bringing me back to the early aughts with this blogging platform.
The podcast is where I’ll branch out from my own experiences and seek the words and insights from others. I’ll interview BIPOC writers, artists, creators, entrepreneurs about their craft and creative/professional journeys, talk myths & monsters, and how we can stay inspired together. I hope to create a bit of accountability & structure for myself & my fellow readers & writers, now more than ever. I’m not scared of the dark. Even in the shadowiest of places, there will be light.
