Response to owner of Harbor Town Pub regarding offensive name of menu item

Posted by Hoa Quach on Dec 8, 2011 in Her Blog

I sent metformin hydrochloride 500 mg pill the following email to Chad Cline, the owner of the new Harbor Town Pub in San Diego, after finding out he named a sandwich “Pho-King Amazing Sandwich.”

Dear Chad Cline,

Hello, I wanted to let you know that I read the article about your pub and menu items on DiscoverSD.com. As a board representative with the Asian American Journalists Association (which represents 2,000 reporters worldwide and 40 locally), I sent a letter to the Union-Tribune editors ( the parent metformin side effects weight gain company of DiscoverSD.com) but I also wanted to send you a note.

I’d like you to know that your attempt at being clever by using “Pho-King Amazing” to describe your sandwich was unsuccessful. Not only is the name of the sandwich completely dimwitted, the ingredients of your sandwich also fail to relate to any Vietnamese flavor while adding insults to millions of people.

As a Chinese-Vietnamese-American woman I find the name of your menu item to be incredibly offensive to not only the Vietnamese population but all people who strive to treat others with respect. It shows complete ignorance about what it means to be culturally aware and considerate. As a person in the communications industry, I am amazed that a businessperson who is attempting to find success in the restaurant industry would even consider berating 2.5 percent of the population in San Diego and those they associate with personally and professionally

As I state in my email to the Union-Tribune, I encourage you to learn what a “pho” dish is and how to pronounce it. [Hint: "Pho" does not translate to "sandwich" nor is it pronounced "Fuh."]

Thank you for your attention.

Sincerely,
Hoa Quach

Being brave

Posted by Hoa Quach on Nov 13, 2011 in Her Blog

During my freshman year in college, my English 101 instructor required her students to keep a journal. It was easy for me but perhaps, my entries were too personal because at the end of the semester she wrote the following:

“You are able to write down so beautifully exactly how you feel. I would not be surprised to see your book in a bookstore some day.”

As I glanced through my entries, I was amazed at the feelings I poured into the little spiral notebook. The pages were filled with my thoughts on growing up, entering college, dating and my foolish but sweet aspirations.

But I was so proud of my honesty and the bravery it took to allow someone else to read it.

Almost 10 years later, I maintain this blog—sharing my thoughts on love, politics and family. But I’ve yet to disclose my greatest fear that I will soon have to face so I’m choosing to be brave by sharing it now. I’m losing my dad and living a life without him is by far my greatest fear.

I am the stereotypical Daddy’s Girl. I go to him when I have car problems, confide in him when I’m annoyed with work and am the first to laugh at his silly jokes. I try to make him proud too. I overachieve so that he has something to brag to his friends about—whether it’s being the first to break a news story, winning a journalism award or working my ass off to lift the Quách name. I shamelessly tell my friends that I live my life for the man who risked so much to raise me and my siblings in a spoiled U.S.

I remember a time in my teens when I cried in front of him and others. He pulled me aside and told me to stop. He told me to never cry in front of anyone because it was a sign of weakness and that I needed to be strong—brave. I took it to heart and forever forced myself to hide my emotions (as much as I can, anyway).

But now I cry my heart out in front of him. I can’t help it. I do it at the very sight of him if I can’t control my emotions.

My dad is dying.

Diagnosed with liver cancer about six years ago, my dad is in the final stages of his life and the thought of losing the one man who means most to me is terrifying.

It’s terrifying to accept the fact I will no longer have his guidance, inspiration and willpower to enjoy life. It’s hard to swallow the idea that he will not be here or see me live out my biggest dreams for him. He won’t have a signed copy of my first book, teach Vietnamese and Chinese to the children I hope to have one day and, though Chinese have their own type of wedding ceremonies—my dream always included a walk down the aisle with my Number 1 man… him.

I’ve never written about my dad and the cancer we’re battling so candidly before so I’m taking the opportunity (and the gift of being a writer) to be brave to share the story now.

I just hope I’ll have an ounce of that bravery when I’m forced to let go of my selfishness and face that greatest fear.

Abnormal waiting

Posted by Hoa Quach on Sep 20, 2011 in Her Blog

I’d like to believe that C understands why I called it quits but I know he sees something else when he looks in the mirror.

I don’t blame him.

I know when he looks in the mirror he sees an attractive, successful, passionate and brilliant man unable to win over a girl. He’s right on target too and if we lived in a perfect world, I would’ve allowed him to give me the fairy-tale ending like any sane woman.

But we don’t live in a perfect world and I’m far from normal.

Let’s take it back a few months.

I met C in the spring at his friend’s birthday party. My friend was his friend’s personal assistant and she invited me to the bash that overlooked beautiful San Diego in one of Banker’s Hill’s most stunning homes (aka C’s place). It wasn’t long before C made his move and soon stood by my side for the rest of the night. And as we took the party to a downtown nightclub, C kept his eyes on me despite the flood of celebratory alcohol that rushed through everyone and the overflow of gorgeous women.

For the next couple of months, we spent an abundance of time together. He filled my days with fancy restaurants, VIP treatments, sweet outings, tulips and more.

“He treats me like I’m a princess,” I told my friends when they inquired about our relationship.

My friends were intrigued by him too. They joked about how I could soon have my “dream wedding” and that I’d never have to worry about money for the rest of my life. They told me I scored.

But I didn’t feel that way—a sane woman probably would’ve but not me. My feelings were elsewhere. In fact, every moment we spent together my thoughts and heart were elsewhere—even if the feelings did seem unrealistic.

I soon called it off with C. It wasn’t easy. But as any Prince Charming-esque man would, C handled it with class as my guilt shined through.

He texted me after the Dear-John Conversation to wish me well.

“I look for worthwhile people,” it read. “You are one of very few. You deserve happiness even if it’s not with me.”

After the inevitable break-up, I sought comfort in a good friend. And, like any good friend, she told me exactly what I needed to hear:

“Congratulations on having the courage to break up so you can wait for the right guy to come in,” she said.

It’s been months since I’ve spoken to C and I haven’t accepted any date invitations because I know who the right guy is.

I know to realistic people my anticipation seems hopeless but I don’t think so. So, I wait. I wait with the courage I have.

The best summer

Posted by Hoa Quach on Sep 19, 2011 in Her Blog, Uncategorized

“Do you remember the best summer of your life?” read the first line of Marjorie Hart’s book, Summer at Tiffany.

“Do you?” asked Marjorie who sat next to me at a recent fundraiser. Marjorie, the author of the best seller, wrote about the best summer of her life that took place when she worked at the loved jewelry store years ago.

I asked myself her question and I do.

It involved 110 degrees of heat, 40 percent humidity, axes, hammers, a ton of sweat and an ambitious belief that a few people could make a difference in a city torn by one hurricane and millions of turned backs.

It was, by every definition, the very best summer of my life.

And I remember it well.

It began shortly after Hurricane Katrina devastated the greater Gulf Coast area. I hopped on the trolley at SDSU and met fellow student Adam who was recruiting volunteers to join him in a summer volunteer trip in New Orleans.

It took a 20-minute discussion with Adam and about an hour of internal pondering to convince me to join him in his efforts. Within weeks, I landed in New Orleans.

My first week in “Nawleans,” as we so lovingly called the city, was filled with gutting homes, tutoring kids and packing food boxes in the area that was comparable to a third-world country—only the area existed in the U.S.

I remember the passion that emerged from my peers and the equal amounts of frustration and concern. I remember how I felt landing back home in San Diego too. I remember the tears that filled my eyes and the guilt that overcame my heart for leaving so many behind.

I remember other moments too. I remember the feeling of strength after knocking down walls in a ready-to-rebuild home. I remember the names of each child we worked with and I remember the stories, dances and laughs.

I had never worked so hard in my life.

It’s been years since that summer in New Orleans that ultimately kicked off the treasured College Students for New Orleans, but the fervent feelings remain because the necessity of assistance and the camaraderie built remain. The memories are so fierce they’ve been documented in a number of stories.

So yes, I remember the best summer of my life, Marjorie.

I remember my first time at Tiffany too.

Acceptance at 23

Posted by Hoa Quach on May 9, 2011 in Her Blog

It took about 23 years for me to accept my curly hair.

As a child, I had the normal, straight, silky Asian girl locks. It was during my earlier years (and far too early for me to fully enjoy it), but plenty of photos testify that I indeed, at some point, looked like a normal Asian girl.

As I grew, my hair became a blistering mess.

I remember a time when I was frustrated that parts of my hair stuck up. With my Type A personality, I decided to chop the pieces that got in my way. I ended up giving myself a minor buzz cut and wore the large ’90s-style headband for weeks.

Then high school came. Still not knowing how to do my ‘do, I went through an extra strong gel phase. Tubs of gel filled my teenage years as I donned the crunchy hair look and begged my mom to splurge to take me to get my hair permanently straightened. My mom, believing in natural beauty and frugal spending, said no each time … sometimes before I’d finished asking the question.

And there were questions asked of me too. People often asked me whether I was full Chinese and Vietnamese because they’ve never seen someone with my locks before.

“Yes,” I’d say. “I am full Chinese and Vietnamese.”

It didn’t help that I’ve always had a curvy body, too—something else that’s “abnormal” for an Asian girl.

“But you have an ass,” a guy once said to me (classy I know).

“I know,” I said. “But no, I’m not mixed. I’m full Chinese and Vietnamese.”

Finally, college came (big, deep breath). Freedom. With a part-time job under my workin’ girl belt, I spent the dinero to get my locks straightened and touched up as often as possible. I went through my phases with this too—from brown to light brown to blonde with highlights and all. I slowly killed my hair as I worked toward completing my higher education.

A few days after graduation, I gave my curls the break they deserved. I realized with a more than full-time job in hand, I could no longer afford to spend the a.m. hours flat-ironing my hair to typical Asian girl perfection. Instead, I spent a couple hours researching products that worked best for my hair and discovered which would keep my curls engaged without the crunchy-hair look.

I was 23, and it was the first time I accepted my hair for what it is—large, bouncy curls—far from “normal” and definitely far from “perfect,” but it was (big, deep breath) finally free.

As I think about this time almost four years ago, I’m dumbfounded by the amount of hours I invested into destroying my hair, and ultimately, my being. I recall the mornings I woke up at 5 a.m. to spend an hour burning my hair and the smell of smoke that came scorching out of the flat iron. Or the late night hair appointments as I sat under the salon hair dryer with foil piled on top of my poor head and charging hundreds on the Amex. I’m amazed at how hard I tried to fit in to this image of the silky-locks Asian woman—how I allowed stereotypes to define beauty.

Moreover, I think about how acceptance is far less time-consuming than denial. I think about the hours I spend investing into noteworthy endeavors like teaching my niece the moonwalk or organizing a Rolling Readers fundraiser.

Now at 26, days away from the Big 2-7, I admit I still relish the time I get my hair did, but I no longer feel pressure from within to fit into this mold. In fact, as I spend no more than 10 minutes on my hair each morning, I know there is no such mold. We’re all different.

The difference in me is just a little more noticeable, and you know, a little more frizzy.