Thoughts from the journey… Excerpts from a day in the life of Sherry McLaughlin

True Liberty

The love of liberty is the love of others. –William Hazlitt

As a new immigrant to the U.S., my father traveled to New York City on a quest to view a symbol. Hopping in his car and making his way toward the East Coast, he fought the traffic jams and hordes of people to make his way to Liberty Island. Though he had been in the States for several months, I believe that was the day my father first felt his freedom. Gazing up at the 250,000 lb. statue with tears in his eyes, that was also the day he vowed he would share it with everyone he met.

My dad was a visionary and a “get-it-done-er”. He was notorious for dreaming up grand schemes and making sure they came to fruition. No task was too small when it was a great idea coupled with some good, old-fashioned passion.

In the late summer of 1973, my father was a young physician practicing in Michigan. During his day, he would come in contact with other immigrant Filipinos, many of whom were employed at the same facility. He quickly recognized that the Land of Opportunity was doling out some hard lessons to most of them. Freedom came with a price and many young Filipinos were struggling to make ends meet.

He commiserated with a couple of his fellow Filipino physicians. “It is a shame that people come to this country and never get a chance to really see it,” he said. “I have a great idea. Why don’t we rent three Greyhound buses and take as many Filipinos as we can to the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C.? We can pick up some extra hours moonlighting in the ER to pay for the buses.” I can picture my dad saying it with a twinkle in his eye. I imagine his friends laughed until they realized—he wasn’t kidding.

So, the plan was put into motion. They divided the cost by three and arranged for the buses to be rented. They proceeded to invite every Filipino they ran into—some friends and some strangers—to come along for the trip of a lifetime. As the deadline for the big payment approached, his two comrades realized they would fall short of the goal. They had not been able to work the extra hours they had planned on. It appeared the big trip was off.

I imagine my father sat for a moment, picturing the disappointed looks of all the people they had invited. Not to be deterred, he flew into action. He applied for an American Express card and rented the buses. He shouldered the cost by working even more hours in the month he had to repay his debt, and I imagine he did it with joy in his heart.

The trip must have been incredible. Can you imagine being one of those invited who had never before met my dad?

“Hi. I notice you are Filipino. Would you like to go on a trip to Washington DC?... No…it won’t cost a thing…really.”

Actually, that is my version of how I think the conversation would have transpired. In reality, my father probably greeted them in his native tongue and if they answered back—they were in. Young and old. Professional and non-professional. Old friend and soon to be new friend. All were handed the gift of freedom to move about a free country.

The details of the trip are sketchy to me. I was too young to remember much of it. But at his funeral, someone told the story—and I saw the picture.

If you think you can fit a lot of Filipinos into an averaged size kitchen, just imagine how many you can pack into three Greyhound buses. The picture was worth a thousand words and probably a thousand stories since. A sea of brown-skinned people with cameras slung around their necks, grinning from ear to ear, standing aside the giant vehicles. Happy. Eager. Proud.

I looked at the photograph and smiled. So, that’s what freedom looks like.

Let’s Eat!

I started writing a book in January 2005. I never finished it, but lately I've been thinking about it...about the importance of people I come in contact with...about the lessons learned that I might have missed had I rushed by too quickly. About the places I've been and the people I've met.

So, I thought I'd share some excerpts from the book that will hopefully get finished one day. I am going to call it, Lessons from a Life.

Good food ends with good talk. – Geoffrey Neighor

Born and raised in a traditional Filipino home, I realized something at a very young age. Food is a good thing. No matter what the occasion or who the company, sounds of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen was a common occurrence. It seemed whenever friends and relatives came to visit, food was being prepared, or they were bringing food to be prepared or they were coming to prepare the food or prepared food was brought.

If you know anything about Filipinos, they never cook alone – and you can fit about 20 of them in an average sized kitchen. From a social perspective, preparation is just as important as consumption.

My dad’s two favorite words, “Let’s eat!” often spoken in the tone of a victorious battle cry, would result in hordes of smiling faces gathering around the kitchen table. Even then, he knew a secret that I had yet to learn: Food is our common ground. A universal experience. – James Beard

During my high school years, I attended a boarding academy. My parents would come and visit once a week, and with them would come – you guessed it – food. I had an entire drawer dedicated for my weekly stockpile of goodies. You can imagine how quickly the word spread. In fact, my parents were integral in spreading the message and as hungry kids would flock to my room each week, they would be supplied with their very own stockpile. Once the proverbial stores were filled, my dad would round up anyone – and I mean anyone – who wanted to jump in the family van, out for dinner. At times, we commandeered half of the tables at the local pizza parlor. Looking back, I realize how much my father must have spent on food for my high school friends.

“Dad, how many friends can I invite?” I would ask.

“As many as you want,” he would reply.

I graduated from high school and went off to college. My life became more of my own. I would come home on vacations and spend days catching up with my friends—eating out.

I got a job, got married and had a child and in those years, meals were rushed or “fit” into my schedule. I used to have a motto: if it couldn’t be cooked in less than 5 minutes, than we weren’t having it for dinner.

On the occasions I would visit my parent’s house, my dad would say, “Come, sit down and let’s eat.”

“Sorry, Dad.” I would reply, “I already ate and besides that, I’ve gotta go.”

If I wasn’t so busy, I might have caught the look of disappointment in his eye. But he would just smile and say, “OK, thanks for coming to visit. See you later.” I know he knew where I was coming from. His life had been just as busy as mine at one point, rushing from office to office, seeing tons of patients, being involved in extracurricular activities and raising a family. After all, I was the one most like him.

As I look back on the years before he passed away, I realize the countless invitations to the kitchen table I received from him. Some of them I accepted. I wish now I would have accepted them all. Hindsight is 20/20. The moments with my dad at the kitchen table are where I learned some of life’s greatest lessons.

For my dad, it was never about the food—it had always been about the time. For as busy as we both were, the kitchen table was a sanctuary all its own. A place where we could stop the rollercoaster of life, slow down, catch up and just be in the moment.

Life Lesson #1

The best gift you can give the ones you love

is a good meal at a nice table,

relished with flavor,

time

and great conversation.

It will fill not only fill the stomach,

more importantly…

it will quench the appetite of the soul.