What better way to procrastinate?

I'm trying to write the next great Asian American novel. And I'm trying to procrastinate. So I wrote. w00t.

Hard Lines

You have one new message.

“Hey ma. Happy birthday. Classes are good, but, like, I have my first midterm coming up and stuff. Talk to ya later. Bye.”

I started for the bedroom. Enough.
“Jimmy, I’m going to bed. Thanks for dinner. I love you, hon.”
“Sure thing. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. Night.”
“Night.”

I sat in front of my dresser, looking into the mirror. One left a message. One hasn’t called. I bet he’s mad at me. One might stop by later, but he probably forgot.

I continued to stare. Hard lines have gathered by my eyes. Probably from so many years of crying, so many tears shed in secret. I think it’s a Nihonjin thing. I am a Nisei daughter, after all. It’s not my fault. Not my fault that so often, so long, I choose to hold it all in. Maybe it’s a Nihonjin thing. Or maybe it’s a mother thing.

I tried. I have tried so hard to make things right. Maybe this is my punishment. Tears gathering in my eyes, I stare in the mirror and see my wedding picture reflecting from the other side of the room. His side of the bedroom. His side.

I married too young. Or too late. Or maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a bride.

So much older. So much older than me when I met him. I had just left my boyfriend. As soon as Pa-Chan found out, he arranged a date. The nephew of one of his best friends. It was fine enough. He was kinda funny, but not as funny as he thought. Still, he tried. At least he tried.

I didn’t really care either way. I was doing this as a favor. A favor for Pa-Chan. Pa-Chan, who never liked anyone I really loved. One date led to another. And another. Then, I didn’t hear from him for two weeks. I couldn’t stay here. Twenty-seven and not married. Unheard of. All of my girlfriends from Long Beach High had already gotten married. Even had children. I couldn’t stay there, listening to Mom and Pa-Chan berate me about getting married, dreaming of the day that I would have children of my own. And a husband to love me, whose eyes would light up every time I entered the room. A real fairy tale.

I got a letter with a photo of his new farm and a proposal. I hardly knew anything about him, just that his name was Jimmy and he worked on the Orange County farm that his family has owned since they got out of Topaz.

I said yes.

I got married as soon as I could. I had never heard of Fresno before. I knew one of Mark’s aunts had moved there to be married and she seemed pretty happy last time I saw her.

Looking back, I did it all for the wrong reasons. Jim turned out to be cold. He wanted a clean house and dinner on the table as soon as he got home. He wanted his shirts starched and his socks bleached. He wanted sons to carry on the family name, maybe take over the farm. He didn’t want me.

As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I immediately knew what I wanted. I wanted to raise a son. A son with real passion, a son who would work hard, a son who could provide for his wife and his family and show them nothing but love.

When he was born, I knew what I wanted to name him. Richard. I told Jim that it was after Nixon. Nixon was not a crook. He was set up. He was led into making bad decisions by the people around him.

But I didn’t name my son after Nixon. I named him after Richie Rich. Richie Rich, a show that Mark and I used to watch together on Saturday mornings, Richie Rich, the kid who had everything he ever wanted. But more than that. Richie Rich, who had such a heart, who wanted to help everyone around him.

I should get ready for bed. I should jump into my nightgown and slide under the covers. If he shows up, he’ll tell me about how dirty his apartment is. He’ll go straight for the fridge, scavenging for leftovers. He’ll bring a big bag of laundry, asking for his shirts starched and his socks washed with that detergent with bleach. He’ll tell me about his ten year plan, one in which he gets married and has sons.

I secretly hope that his plans don’t work out.

He works. He works hard. He earns his own money and he finally moved out after getting a new job with the county. Senior engineer. At age twenty-eight. He’s extremely proud that he’s by far the youngest at his work. I am extremely proud of him too.

But there’s something about him that’s off. Something too familiar. He works so hard, but he doesn’t date. Sometimes I’ll ask and he’ll get upset. My sister-in-law suggested that I tell him about eHarmony. I won’t. And I will never let Jimmy match him with one of his friends’ relatives, some young and foolish girl who dreams of seeing the world, of having her fairy tale. Some young and foolish girl nursing a broken heart and being over a decade and a half his junior. If I can save some young and foolish girl from living my life, I’ll at least have done something good.

And I have tried to do good. I have tried so hard to do good. When Rich and Sam were growing up, I saw that Jimmy wasn’t happy. Jim didn’t like his kids. It was a routine. He came home from the farm, ate his dinner in silence, and went straight for the TV. Sometimes he would play catch with Rich, but not Sam. He often forgot about Sam or just didn’t want to mention him. Ever since Sam came out not a girl. Sam, for Samantha. Sam, now for Samuel. Jimmy wanted a daughter, but I didn’t. I didn’t want that responsibility. Of raising a girl and teaching her that she wants to get married and have kids and play house and be the perfect Japanese housewife. Jimmy taught Rich how to pitch, how to shoot his BB gun, how to drive a tractor. Jimmy didn’t often look at Sam.

And I think Jimmy grew tired of me. There was no more “I love you,” there were no more birthday gifts – he even forgot our anniversary several years in a row. We would sleep far apart from each other in the same bed. He began to snore. It would wake me up. At first I would shake him. He’d remember and be mad in the morning. So eventually I stopped. I would wake up and think. I would think about how much I used to want. I’d think about how much I had wanted. And I cried.

Enough of this. I rub my eyes to make the water go away. I look at the clock. 9:20. I can’t believe I’ve let 10 minutes go by while I sit here, looking at my wrinkles and my age spots. Rich might come home soon and I haven’t even changed clothes.

I reach for my left ear. I fiddle with the clasp of my earring. Diamond earrings. Diamonds that almost sparkle blue.

“Nice earrings. Did I get those for you?”
“Yep, you did honey.” He didn’t.
“Wow. I have great taste.”

He let it pass. Sometimes I wonder if Jimmy knows. If he did, he probably wouldn’t say anything. No, he wouldn’t say anything. I doubt he knows.

Blue. I’ve come to hate blue.

I wonder if Sam will call. He probably won’t. I wonder if he’ll ever stop being mad at me. He told me, years ago. He told me that he would never forgive me for Drew. For breaking up with Drew. He even told me that he hated me. I don’t know what’s worse: that he said it or that I believed him.

Rich grew up so serious. Even as a child, he was so competitive, so diligent, so tightly wound. Sam always stood in his shadow. Sam, who liked to read and listen to music more than playing baseball and doing math problems. Sam, who liked bright colors and sound and being nothing like Rich. Sam never stood a chance against Rich.

His teachers always told me that he was such a delight, that he was so full of energy, that he was so talkative and enthusiastic about living. I never saw that. He was always such trouble, so forlorn, always talking about what he wanted to be when he grew up and how far he wanted to go as soon as he could. Always so resentful of Rich, always so angry at Jimmy.

It was Sam’s first day of fourth grade. I went with him to meet his teacher. It was the first time that Rich, Sam, or even Dave ever had a man for a teacher. I never expected to see a man in the classroom. Being a teacher was a woman’s job. It’s what women did when they couldn’t get married. Why would a man want to teach fourth grade?

But the way that Drew talked about Sam. He was still Andrew Nichols at that point. Mr. Nichols. It was his first year as a teacher. He talked about how smart Sam was. Is. About all the reasons why Sam should go to college. About how great his drawings were and how he wanted to teach him about art. I felt sparks. Drew shook my hand and, for the first time in so long, I felt sparks. I think the first thing I noticed were his eyes. His blue eyes. His blue eyes, his silver hair, his slender build, his warm smile. Nothing like Jimmy, with black eyes, black hair, a midlife ponch, and a cold, cold stare at his television set.

That was that. It moved so quickly. It had been so long since a man had made me feel this way. Sometimes, we stayed in bed together, talking about getting married, leaving this pathetic town, bringing our families together maybe even having more kids. I volunteered in the classroom to be near him. Not just him. To be near Sam. Sam, who, for the first time, I saw smile big and toothy, like all his teachers told me. Sam, who laughed openly and often.

I made a plan. I was going to introduce him to my family. Tell them about everything for the first time. The nights together with Jim, yet always so alone. The way that Drew made me feel. The times that Drew made Sam and me laugh and laugh like everything was as it should be. Then, I would divorce Jim. Leave him. Find a way to take custody. Maybe watch Sam for bruises. We’d leave California. He’d talked about a brother in Philadelphia. Maybe we could go back there. I loved the idea. I had never been to Philadelphia, never even left the West Coast. After Mom and Pa-Chan left Rohwer, they never were much for traveling.

“But Pa-Chan, I love him!”
“No, you love your husband!”
“It doesn’t matter! I love him!”
“When did you become so baka? He’s hakujin!”
“Mom, why are you crying?”
“What if other people find out what you’re doing?”

She was right. Drew got fired. They said that it was because he swore, once. He swore and spent too much time with art. But we both knew why. People found out. Maybe people saw us in the classroom during recess. Maybe people saw us going home together. Maybe Sam was so excited that he told all of his friends. Drew started to drink. Drew drank so much. He still looked like Drew, but he felt more and more like Jimmy.

Ending our affair was the hardest thing I ever did. Not only did I have to watch his blue eyes grow icy, I had to watch Sam’s brown eyes turn black. Sam became cold. Sam never smiled much, never laughed the laugh that had become so familiar. He wandered through the house speechless, ghostly even. He and Rich stopped talking.

It’s not my fault. I tried. I pushed Sam. I pushed him hard. That would be my gift. I would push him let him go. Let him go and do all the things I never got to do. Go as far away as he wanted. So I pushed. I pushed because I knew. I could smell the smoke in his shirts, under the heavy stink of deodorant and cologne. I wonder if he smoked Malboro Reds. I heard him crawl in his bedroom window, so young, not even able to drive, and I listened to him complain of headaches or nausea the next day. He doesn’t think I know, but I knew. I watched him draw and tell me that he wanted to be a teacher and be nothing more than Drew. So I pushed him. Sometimes I pushed too hard, sometimes I lost my temper … but I pushed him because I loved him.

He hates me. We don’t talk very often. It breaks my heart that he thinks I drove him away. When he told me he wanted to study art history, I knew that he hated me. It was the last time we talked about what he’s doing. So many years ago. When he mentioned that he wanted blue contact lenses, I got so angry. When he told me about Philadelphia, I got so upset. He reminds me because he hates me. He won’t call tonight to remind me what I did. He hates me so much.

And I tried with Dave, too. He was a surprise. I didn’t think that Jimmy could have any more kids. But as soon as I was throwing up in the morning, I knew. When I found out my baby was a boy – another – I named him David. Like David and Goliath. David, who fought so hard to make things right. Just like me. Always struggling. Always.

When Dave was in high school, when I found out that he had a girlfriend, I yelled. I shouted at him. I demanded to know more. I wouldn’t answer. I yelled. Because I knew. I could see it in his face. I could feel it in his shyness. I could even hear it in his voice. After Jimmy and Drew, I was even being punished for Mark.

I could picture this girl, this young and foolish girl that Dave liked. She probably liked punching boys and playing tag and sitting in the dirt. She probably lived down the street and together they would talk all the way to school. She probably watched Dave grow from being a short, chubby kid to a handsome young man, but still with the same silent charm.

And Dave probably did the same. Dave probably looked forward to recess when he could push her on the swing and sit by her at lunch and call her silly names. Dave probably blushed when she kissed him for the first time, walking away from school. Dave probably asked her to the prom, where she would wear a beautiful dress and realize what it’s like to be a woman. And Dave would only break her heart.

I had to intervene. I had to. I had to say something before this girl and Dave planned their future, before this girl stopped dreaming of everything that she wanted to do and started dreaming of everything that she wanted to do with him, before this girl waited and waited and waited for years for Dave to realize how much she loved him without Dave ever making her dreams of love and family and home come true.

So I yelled. I told him that he was too young, that girls were a distraction, that he would never go to college, anything I could think of whether I believed it or not. I didn’t tell him that I knew what it was like to be in love and to have to wait. I didn’t tell him that I knew that he would end up breaking her heart because I hear it in his voice, the voice that probably whispers everything that she ever wanted to hear into her excited, childish ear. I didn’t tell him that I knew she would never believe that he loved her more than she loved him until one day twenty years later when her second son would go for a bike ride around the block and would bring back her first kiss, her first boyfriend, and her first love.

“Ma, he says he’s your friend. I think his name’s Mark.”

As we exchanged tense and awkward hellos and how’ve you beens, I felt it at the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell him that I ran because I loved him. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bear it. That I had waited for a ring, or a sign, or something. That after twenty years of watching him grow up, he owed me that much.

He told me that he lives alone. That he never married and still lived down the street. His parents had passed away, but he still lived in their house down the street from Mom and Pa-Chan’s house. That he had worked in the entertainment industry, just like he told me he dreamed, but now made money as a tennis coach.

I told him about Jimmy. Just the good things. That he keeps a roof over my head and buys me food to eat. That we live in the country and that he owns a farm. That together we had three beautiful sons (even though one reminds me of an old man who only comes home to watch TV and one’s steely black eyes cause me nothing but sorrow).

As we talked, I remembered. I remembered watching Richie Rich every Saturday with Penny the cat as soon as we woke up. I remembered lying side by side on our bellies, chins resting on our arms, my feet dangling in the air. I remembered when he played Sammy Davis Jr. cassettes and he told me about his dreams of being a director. I remembered when he went to the Japanese church and told me all about David and Goliath and I told him that Buddha was way better. I remembered when we held hands and laughed at the thought of picture brides and how lucky we were to be in love. I remembered everything and said nothing. I never saw him again. I never saw Drew again either. All I see anymore is a woman has hard lines from crying, who has spots naming an old age that she never wanted to reach like this.

I think this is my bachi. This is my bachi for not loving and loving and loving too much. But I tried. And damn my sons if they ever think I didn’t. I tried to love them more than I have ever loved and ended up with three men who can’t love. Thirty birthdays later and I am still tormented by the picture of that woman, reflected in my mirror, who held her veil just as she was told, and promised to be a dutiful Japanese wife, and had a sparkle in her eyes for the greatest adventure of her life. Thirty birthdays later and I am still that girl, young and foolish and waiting for her fairy tale true love. Thirty birthdays later and I have tried so hard and accomplished nothing.

A part of me?

A woman
Who's name I can't even tell you
My mother's father's sister
Knowing what she looks like
A woman
With a hoarse strong voice
Demanding Powerful
It made me timid.

This woman who is in my family
I share blood with her
Yet don't know her name

One day
We hear
She had been beaten
In her liquor store
By a man who threw
cash register
at her face
as she lay defenseless on the
ground

Her face unrecognizable
Speech forever lost
tongue powerless

What am I to do?
Parents don't want me to know know
The hospital waiting room
I let them hold me back
I am afraid
I don't know
I want to be gone

What does this mean?
Her son is on the news
History between Koreans and Blacks
around the corner
What does this mean?

How is she doing?
I ask to myself.

"Three Inches From A Wheel" (creative piece)

I saw the moon behind my head
when I blacked out;
a misplaced halo.

This near-dead space was dark and peaceful
except for the noise,
sound-waves sketching the city corner
where I'd been standing;
cars, honking and flashing by
in anonymous red-black-silver-yellow streaks,
green light meanders to red,
one car can't stop, hits another--
and I just happen to be in the way.

When they recovered me
my head
was three inches from a wheel.

I awoke disfigured
and drifted through eight years
as a child cyborg,
a work constantly in progress
and ever mildly in pain,
titanium plates in my face
and bandages on my skin,
cut, stab, paste, wait for healing, begin again.

New names--
ugly, weird,
"get away from me, freak
your intelligence makes me insecure
and surely all of that junk in your face
sets off metal detectors
and scares the boys
which makes you a loser
HAHA"

I still have the red silk rose
that my first boyfriend
gave me for valentine's that same year.

these days I like to live on the edge
(timidly looking over)
because there's nothing
like looking death in the face
to show you that the world isn't safe

and there's nothing
like laughing
at your own life story
to make you feel alive.


-- by Claire Palermo

Creative Writing

You are special.

Thanks.

But that doesn’t work anymore.

I know your trick.

Weird, strange, different;

replaced by ‘special’.

That’s okay, though.

We all like to be lied to.

I had friends

But I got awkward looks, too

For some reason

It is still something I think about

We talk about it

How I changed so much

And lost so much because of it

Sometimes I cry and cannot explain it

I feel as though I am missing something

Confidence, an identity

Growing up with rejection on the mind

There is no exact when or why,

but the ‘energetic’

(translation: obnoxious)

girl lost it,

that spunk.

Looking back,

I admire that girl.

People are not too kind, though.

Rejection of who you are,

there was not enough spunk to clean that wound.

The scar is still there;

it aches from time to time.

I like to hear of the time before the loss.

I think that little girl could have really been something.

The leftovers of the vitality that once existed

are like a riverbank,

eroding away with time.

The water is unforgiving and unmerciful.

It has its own rules

and those who can’t play the game either sit on the bench or leave the team.

Which is better?

On the bench is painful,

you witness the good players

and wonder why you can’t be one.

Those that leave preserve the essence,

but lose connection and face being alone.

Then those that play, is it just show?

Over time a mask develops.

Imitation.

Look around,

pick the strategies you would most like to use

and be known for.

At first it’s unnatural,

but over time,

it is like a well-worn glove.

Pride in learning the rules and playing the game.

No longer special.

Just a normal kind of weird.

It’s okay, there is some happiness.

When alone the mask can drop,

it can be work at times,

but it has almost entirely taken over

that essence.

I wonder what it thinks.

It would probably disapprove,

but then again,

it probably understands.

Once in awhile there are snatches of that girl,

or at least I like to think so;

it might just be a part of the show.

Even with the show’s cover it is hard to connect.

Have meaningful relationships

Rejection, never been able to get over it.

Continue to keep people at a distance.

A surface person.

Jaded.

Sarcastic.

Emotionally detached.

But they just don’t see my tears,

I don’t let them.

I don’t want them to see it.

The thing that causes rejection.

I like it.

I don’t want it to be hurt again.

It’s mine.

There’s enough happiness in that.

There has to be.

As long as they don’t see me.

115

Does it make you cry?
When you see, do you fight back the tears?
I've been trying to wash away all my fears.
Would it be better if I lied?
I've thought and tried everything I can afford
and still you hold my life without accord.
Why won't you set me free?
Remove me from this world so I many flee.
Bring me to salvation
and end my forsaken dreams.
I think of Death Kindly,
and with my last breath I embrace it blindly.
I throw my hands out to you
but too late! I'm a fool.
As crimson rivers flow within me
and I fall I see you clearly
while this frozen grip tightens in my chest
and my eyes dim upon me
I hear you laugh, so taunting
so driven.

The dream

I’m not too sure how poetic this piece is.  I consider it more like an extreme version of the basket of dirty laundry in my room – unsorted, unwashed, un-ironed, and more or less a spew of crap (although meaningful crap).  But that’s how my mind is. 

 

 

When I was younger I dreamt

            with eyelids slightly parted

                        like a dead lover’s lips

of bits of bone and flesh leaping, bursting

an open slough spilling

            a dear grandfather’s bloated corpse overripe with cancerous growths, lain

across the hospital cutting board

            a faulty pair of eyes that refused to leak even as

            my grandmother’s wavering trembling anguished

            fingers passed me a napkin to dab my unsmeared mascara

from their confines within the fore of a crushed skull-

erratically propelled by the force with which our grasping

            the tense clinging of a newborn

                        the wishful clasping of my father’s hands around a feeble rice-paper shell

                        that no longer constrained great-grand-mother to her goose feather prison

hands, our clutching fingers

crescent scythes etched in child-flesh with pink painted nails

            metallic sheen smoothslide glint in pale cowering relief

and the hollow echo of pounding feet

reverberating guilt

against that dank underground lot

            cemented urn

had swung my sister’s laughing face

into the unforgiving pillar.

 

I drop my twitching wrist

and wipe the cold flecks of blood from my cheek, only

to peel away a clump of hair with onyx strands

 

far longer and sleeker

 

than mine.

recurring themes probably have some underlying reasons.

i went to Manzanar today
and i tried to connect with my roots
but, can i when i don’t even know my family’s history?

a lady accosted me in the gift shop bathroom.
she proceeded to tell me her family history
back to her Issei grandfather. i was silent
because i didn’t know mine.
where was my family interned?
well, some were in Utah right?
that’s why we got those Mormon JA cousins.
that's why we're all scattered.
i know my grandfather fought in WWII
but was he in the 442^nd? pretty sure no.
maybe i’ll just buy this book in the gift shop on how to make sushi.
(because that’s what internment is all about? - thanks commercialism)

authenticity. what does that mean?
who passes these judgments?
why do i have to earn my place
while others are handed it.
sorry i don’t speak Japanese.
sorry I don’t arrange flowers, pour tea, go to jtown all the time,
watch anime, listen to j-pop, or whatever you define me against.
no i don’t look like you. yes my best friends are not asian.
but fuck you very much, this is my community too.

who are you to call me white/-washed? how dare you define my identity?
telling me what’s asian and what’s not.
if anything, i fucking embody the JA community: hyper-assimilation.
so who made you a fucking cultural authority?
the worst part is i believe it.
its bad enough we have to compete as a collective in these oppression olympics
do we really need to judge our own?
authenticity? “you got to own it”.
oh okay.

Final Blog Post

It's Sunday.  We're all together, all of us- eating, laughing, gossiping.

It's Monday.  I get a call and minutes later we're at the hospital- around him.  We're crying, praying, hoping.

Intracerebral hemmorhage in the brain parenchyma.  What does that all mean?  What it means is he might not make it.

It's Tuesday.  Medical tests.  We're hoping.

It's Wednesday.  He's taken off life support- doctors say he's already brain dead.

It's Sunday again and we're at the funeral.  There's too many people, unfamiliar faces.  I just want to be with him.

I would give anything to rewind to last week and take back all the stupid arguements I had with him, tell him to take a break from work and treat him to his favorite buffet.  If I knew something like this would happen I would have stayed home from that party and spent an evening watching movies with him.  I would have told him every detail of my life just to bring us closer together.  I owed him at least that.  After all,  he was the one that bandaged my knees, snuck in candies without mom knowing, taught me to swim, ride a bike, rollerblade, and he was the one hat pulled me in a wagon when i was too lazy to do al of that. 

Of all the things he's taught me, the biggest lesson I've learned from him is that life goes on.  It's a elsson I haven't completely grasped yet, but it's something I continue to learn everyday.

creative writing!

untitled because i'm really bad at titling things

How can I cry

for something I’ve never had?

Why am I forced

to face this now when I should be worrying about

homework and school and living my life

But none of it matters anymore

My dreams of a family I never knew I had are gone

FUCK the doctors for not telling me sooner

FUCK the doctors for not giving me enough time

FUCK the doctors for not giving me the support I needed

Thanks to whatever god is up there for giving me enough time

Thanks to my parents for making enough money to let me do it

(and a big FUCK YOU to the insurance companies)

My future family will be reeking with privilege

There’s no way around it

Test tube babies vs. adopted babies

Money money money

But who says I even want kids anymore?

I’m going to be the best damn doctor anyone’s ever seen

and I’m not going to fucking wait until the last minute to tell them,

CANCER CAN MAKE YOU FUCKING STERILE

So infertility isn't something I talk about a lot whenever I tell my cancer story, mostly because I don't know how comfortable I am talking about it and I don't know how comfortable others are talking about it. There's definitely more that has happened that I've chosen not to elaborate on, but I am willing to talk about my experience as a cancer survivor to anyone who is curious. You can always email me or find me on facebook or however else you would like to contact me by :) And there is no such thing as a stupid question!

Silence

I wrote this in reference to the story “A Song for a Barbarian Reed Pipe” in Woman Warrior, when Maxine is talking about the silent girl.


The hate steams off the page
I feel intimidated by this child—
worlds away, in another time, another place,
in another’s imagination.

Yet her words and her disgust resonate
I’m transported to that room.
Scared and silent
Staring into those hateful eyes.
Staring into those frightened eyes.

Every poke. Every pinch. Every scream.
I feel the frustration.
I feel the fear.
I am, simultaneously, both girls.

Quieter by nature
I find comfort in quiet
listening
observing
Oftentimes perfectly content to sit on the sidelines.

The internal bullying continues.
My brain screams at my mouth to move,
Screams at my voice to speak up, say something.
Anything.
The pressure builds in my head,
Forcing any intelligible thought out,
To ease the pain. To ease the pressure.

There’s nothing left to say.
No thoughts.
No theories.
Just frustrating silence.

It's GO Time

I just wanted to say that I straight-up give you all massive props for sharing parts of you - even though I'm definitely keeping your personal thoughts private, I wanted to let all of you who have posted so far know that I have found your narratives deeply moving and entertaining to read. So, to try and do one of my own:

Shapes that Look the Same

In a sudden decision to commit to something great, I found myself with only a few weeks to pack up my life, tie up some loose ends, and head eastward.

When I say “pack up my life,” I don’t mean to parrot the cheap sentimental cliché. When I say “pack up my life,” I really mean that – throwing my possessions into some boxes I found behind the Albertson’s. Moving out always means the sorting of “things to keep,” “things to donate,” and “things to toss,” being as detached and unfeeling as possible throughout. I mean “pack up my life” in the least hyperbolic sense, because I don’t have a home-base, a place where I can keep my extra clothes or can store my truck while I decide on the parking situation or can chill a few days between rent agreements. All I have at any given moment is whatever I could fit in my truck.

And when I say “tie up some loose ends,” I don’t mean that other cheap sentimental cliché. Well, maybe I do. I don’t believe in much, but I do believe in those Victorian concepts of closure and resolution. Or maybe they’re Aristotelian in form. Well, whatever the case may be, I’m pretty sure they didn’t have me in mind when they were making their decisions … but I’m getting off the point. Before putting thousands of miles between me and California, I knew that I had to make symbolic gestures of departure, concluding hanging story threads that have run throughout points of my life narrative – because if life isn’t just one long story, then I don’t know what it is.

Get drunk with first-year friends – check.
Have nice dinner with funhouse friends – check.
Make arrangements for safety deposit – check.
Resign membership to Finer Things Club – check.
Let momella know that I’m leaving …

I show up at my parents’ house late on Friday night. Really, it’s more Saturday morning. I spent the hours before my departure typing everything that came to mind, cursing myself with each passing jumble of words that I have to call a sentence. Why did I wait to do this until finals week? Why did Mother’s Day have to be this weekend? Can I ask for another extension? I even took thirty minutes at a trashy rest stop to read some poststructuralism by interior lamp light. Maybe I should turn around …

I wait outside the gate for several minutes, rummaging around the backseat of my truck in vain to find the gate clicker. I can just leave my truck outside … but I won’t be able to bring the box in. And I’m not sure how Nipper will like me hopping the fence. I wonder if he knows who I am. I find the clicker – the remote, the button, whatever you want to call it, I never really paid attention – in my glove compartment.

That being done, I find a place for my truck in the unpaved section of the yard. I’m not really sure where to park – my kid brother’s car blocks the driveway, but he’s off at college … and I don’t want to block in Momella’s suburban. At least I’m inside … I throw my truck into park and grab my duffle bag and a single box from the passenger seat. Luckily, Nipper doesn’t suspect anything’s amiss. I’m just another Asian body as I pass his sleepy yet watchful eyes into the garage.

Once in the garage, I’m greeted by something a little more like home – old fluorescent lights illuminating a locked door. I set down my bag and my box and wonder if my parents rely on their same tried and true logic. As I let my right hand search under the doormat for the spare house key, my left greets my old cat Daisy as she sniffs the box. Girl, you might be the only person happy to see me … When I finally find the key, I stop and wonder if Garfield’s right – do our pets really understand what goes on around them? I wonder if she secretly knows why her master never comes by these parts anymore.

I try sneaking soundlessly through the unlit house on a moonless night – it’s 30 steps from the back door to my room, yeah? Wandering with my eyes closed, imagining everything as I remembered it from the first seventeen years of my life. Six steps, turn right, go twelve through the kitchen and the dining room … I am almost led to believe as though my memory of this place is still as vivid as when I left.

Nope. My head bounces off a corner. Dammit, just five steps left … I hear rustling coming from the darkness – clearly, the sound was as loud as I had imagined and I had woken someone up. I brace myself – Momella or Dad? Or did Randy really never move out?

The hallway lights suddenly snap on and Momella, squinting her eyes as they adjust to the light, begins walking towards the scene of the accident. My first impulse is to run, to wave goodbye to the cat as I leap into my truck and to speed away as far as its four cylinders will allow. Abort mission, forget it, never mind. But I’m too busy rubbing the center of my forehead to actually do it.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Hi! I came for the weekend. For Mother’s Day.”

“Sure. What’s in the box?”

“Oh, just some stuff. Like picture frames from college, gifts from my residents, knick-knacks from vacations and such. I was wondering if I could leave it here for a few weeks.”

“Well, if you leave it too long, I’m going to throw it in the shed. Or just throw it out. It doesn’t seem like you have important stuff in there.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll be just a few weeks.”

“Whatever. Don’t make too much noise or Dad will be pretty fucking pissed.”

“Fine. Good night.”

Momella walks away before the silence becomes too tense and the hallway darkens as soon as I make it to the guest room. I shut the door and rub around the walls in search of a light switch. Once I find it, I tentatively flip the switch with a feeling of unease at what I will find.

I take a long moment looking at the room that was once my own. Hasn’t been “my” room in seven years, though the start date of my exile from the house might have started long before. Yearbooks, trophies, plaques, and ribbons piled in a dusty corner by the bookshelf, half-filled with the yellowing pages of a few titles that I thumbed as a kid, dreaming of making it big with the Saturday Night Live band or getting my creds as a piano rocker or first chair of the L.A. Phil. I take a few steps toward the desk, weighed down by Momella’s newest computer, and run my fingers across the surface. Though it looks the same, it feels nothing like my desk, the completely smooth surface forgot the topography I built with cigarettes put out in haste, etchings of my latest tattoo, teenage vodka left to soak.

I rifle through my bag to look for my toothbrush when I realize that I forgot to bring another pair of jeans. I go to the dresser – which I grudgingly remember Gramps built for me – and see if any of my old clothes are still tucked away in any of its many drawers. Nope. I drove away with only what I could stuff in a suitcase – a large suitcase, but just one nonetheless … Where there were once ratty jeans, flannels, and torn T-Shirts was now Wranglers, Fruit of the Loom, and my kid brother’s forgotten love of all things Quiksilver. Nothing was where I left it.

Annoyed that I am doomed to be wearing the same jeans that I stained with roadtrip coffee the entire weekend, I suddenly remember my purpose. I tear open the closet and scan desperately for a place to put my box. If I can find a place on the floor, Momella’s dresses will cover it. Maybe I should bury this under some of those other boxes. Maybe I can give kid brother some pizza money to send it to me before she gets it …

The box? I call it my memory box. It doesn’t seem like you have important stuff in there. I don’t. Ever since the first time I successfully ran away – and the first time that they let me disappear – I’ve just been collecting memories. New memories. Overcome by nostalgia, I sit myself on the floor and begin sorting through the contents of my memory box. Old memories of the new me. A doortag from my first year dorm. A rock from that camping trip when we were still friends with Kevin. A hotel key card from that post-finals week party in Vegas junior year. A postcard I bought when I visited Sissy … I mean, Maria … in D.C. A scrapbook my residents made for me the best RA ever. A paystub from my first month in a career I was told I'll be good enough for. New memories, always new ones being made as I try to hold on to something, something, as everything around me continually falls apart and reassembles in shapes that look the same but are never as I remember. I just need a place to put the memory box for a couple of months while I figure out where I'll be next. My memories have become a burden ...

There’s something I need. Something to add. A memory I don’t want to lose. I sort through some junk boxes, rip open some drawers, prying at the darkest reaches of my own brain, trying to remember … where could it be? All I can remember is that it’s gold. It’s a gold tassel. With a gold band. It was a gift from Momella’s old boyfriend. My stepdad. Not really my stepdad. It was a gift from Pops. He gave it to me. He gave it to me. It was a parting gift. I guess he didn’t know it was a parting gift. It was from his graduation. It was his gift to me. To me. His son. I don’t know. I don’t know where it is. Maybe Momella threw it out. Maybe she saw her infidelity and threw it out. Maybe she found it and cried and remembered what it was like to feel, to love … and destroyed it. Maybe she stumbled upon it and hated that I kept it because I still remember, you can try to forget, but I’ll always remember Pops. Or maybe I just lost it.

Tired, formulating speeches in my head, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark. Momella’s going to be mad when she sees this – Momella, my mother who was never quite a mother. Dad, my father who never wanted to be my father. Pops, my father who wanted but was never allowed to be my Dad. Maybe this is what Jhumpa Lahiri meant with her final scene of The Namesake. This place isn’t home. I know that now. A part of me has always known that. And maybe I’ll never find a home. I’ll always have places to live: places to pay rent, places to sleep, places to hang out with friends, places to dream of something more, places to live and love and cry and laugh and hurt and all of those other great things that make you feel you. But, right now, as I run my fingers across the spackle in a dent I made when I learned that I could hit back, as I feel the cold of the walls that for so long I wished would just burn, as I realize that I really am just a guest in the guest room, I feel something start to make sense, I feel something start to mend.

Maybe the whole point of going home is to recognize – to deeply and truly know – that this house was never my home. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe home’s something that I don’t get to have. Maybe I already said goodbye the very second I came out of Momella’s womb and maybe she said goodbye the very second she saw my twisting, screaming face. I know you’re only gonna hurt me. I know I’m gonna wish you stayed in. I know I’m gonna fail you …

Maybe my resolution is the lack thereof. Maybe this story full of letters, clichés, tropes, empty words – maybe these shapes that look the same as all the ones before actually mean something because they're the only thing that's mine. Maybe this story ended long ago …

Creative Writing (as part of final exam)

*My creative piece is about an experience I had a few years ago that is very personal and private; whatever anyone infers from the piece, I’d really appreciate if it remained private. Thank you! :)

Starbucks

Heart racing, fingers shaking, toes tapping.
11 am: tall coffee please.
11:37 am: grande coffee please.
12:40 pm: excuse me, you’ve run out of Splenda over at the counter.
2:16 pm: iced coffee please.

Could you do a splash of milk? Maybe? Yes?
No, of course not. Absolutely not. Would ruin the whole day. You’d be thinking about this for the next seven hours, wishing you could erase it, undo it. Is that what you want? No.
Tea. That’s what I need. Hot tea.
Dizzy, light-headed, walking over to the counter.
Judging the larger blonde woman who orders the blueberry coffecake, experiencing that mysterious wave of evil and mistaken self-confidence, narrowing my eyes, shifting my weight, placing my hand on my hip, my haughtiness at being able to resist. I can’t help it. I feel terrible. I shouldn’t think these things. But I do.

She does look happy.

Is all this worth it? Am I happy?

Last night I dreamed of the pastries inside the glass. Lemon bars, blueberry oat bars, cranberry orange muffins, apple fritters, cinnamon danish, coffeecake, maple nut scones, lemon scones, pumpkin scones, vanilla scones. Bagels. Cheesecake.
They tell me this is not uncommon.

You could have a muffin. Yes you could. Just a muffin. How many times have they told you that it goes to your insides first? To your heart (slow heart rate). To your joints (running, falling, bloody and bruised knees).
You could do it.
Yes, I could.
The cost: complete, total, absolute mental and emotional torture. A regret so intense I’d die to escape the voices just for a minute. Maybe a run. Maybe a decision—unchangeable—nothing in my body until 6 pm tomorrow. Maybe something I haven’t even come up with yet. A punishment.

So this time, I can’t. Pass on the muffin.
2:54 pm: black tea, please.
I wish I could, but I can’t.

Back at my table near the entrance, fingers poised over the keyboard.

Who could you talk to when you’re really have a tough day? Maybe your mom? Olivia? Doug?
No. No one. I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I don’t do that. I couldn’t. Realistically… just…no.
Do you keep a journal?
No.
Well, maybe you’d consider trying to write down some of your thoughts when you’re having an especially difficult day. How would you feel about doing that?
Maybe. I guess. I could try it.

So I’ve been here for four and a half hours. Writing. Apparently I do have a lot to get out.
Get it out.
Out. On paper, documented, not lost, but not part of me.
I won’t have to carry it around. I can relax. Get it out.
And breath deeply.

three poems about my mom ...

... because i'm never satisfied with my poetry and want to make up for lengths. and because no one comments on my youtube posts and i doubt anyone's seen it, click here to watch some kickarse asam kids i know spit good spoken word ...

-----------------------------
sonnet

the silence between us pierces my heart
frustrated tears leave my eyes blurried
i force a quick breath but pain restarts
and time leaves this space in a hurry

we exit the car, startled and doors ajar
slouching love into an embrace
heaving sighs signal relief isn't far
but how to relieve the numbness in my face

God and money are killing this love
slowly recognition appears in her eyes
a silly smile spreads across the lips of
my mother, and she pushes the tears aside

she says, it must be blatant but now i see
you, my daughter, really love me

-----------------------------
(untitled)

cold nips at bruised bones
stinging reminders of the past
arduous years away from home
maybe she forgot to look back

stillness shivers throughout the room
embraced by metal warmth
reclined and hidden from the moon
her heart’s a weak star in the dark
-----------------------------
mother (sonnet).

nightmares slap her awake
to the sunrise smudging shadowed skies
removing dreams from drowsy eyes.
with her first thought she doesn't hesitate
to pray to God to keep her safe
as gravity pulls her to her feet
adrenaline agitates her arteries
to the beginning of another dazed day.

no bargains could add an hour of sleep
she won't eat food if there is no time
although she's an hour early to work.
half awake she rushes to the driver's seat
speeds off with morning chill still on her spine
to the morning service at the farthest church.

Motion to strike that from the record

So I've been up about 20 hours and it seemed like a good idea to post a creative rambling on this blog - one that was risky and personal. And gave me something to do besides write about urban theory.

Then I remembered the difference between risky and career suicide. And then I remembered that I can't really delete my entry on this blog.

Once I've finished this final, gone to my last class, and slept a couple of hours, I think I'll try again. Risky like pushing yourself to finish the 26th mile of a marathon, not risky like dropping some ex. And then playing chicken with oncoming traffic. While smoking a bowl.

To make this post worth the 0s and 1s of the binary code ... "sometimes I just gotta Orientalize myself": http://www.sinfest.net/

Anatomy in a Nutshell - Add'l April post

Sorry for the late post, I’ve been fairly special these past couple of weeks. I enjoyed reading Anatomy of a Fish Store by Ishle Yi Park for multiple reasons. I think it envelopes a lot of the themes we’ve discussed in class: silence, internalization, race relations as well as reiterating and using the Asian American stereotypes. The story may be based on personal experience, which Frank Chin would give an earful about Asian American literature based on non-fiction…but the feeling of division and identifying as the other is prevalent throughout the story. A few short lines say a lot about the ideas in the short story.

In the description of Suja, she is depicted as an intelligent girl growing up and “she has healing hands” a magical quality generally associated with Eastern countries, then with a jolt, after reading a fairly positive description, it says she is beaten by her husband. Then the husband was a ‘once famous’ back home and his status is now that of a fish store owner and he follows a boring, hard-working, every day routine. The son is also very smart – high SAT score – something usually seen as an Asian American quality. It is interesting when they mention that he is part of a gang, a Chinese gang. Were there no Korean gangs? Perhaps there is more history there, but I thought it strange when reading it. Then the son also internalizes the prejudices as a child, joins a gang and calls himself a “chink.” Some examples of the themes and stereotypes in the story include:

Theme – Silence: The wife and the husband are not talking, son not able to talk/express when younger, (important) topics left “unspoken” (between leo and narrator).

Stereotype –Intelligence: Suja was smart, her son Seung Ho was smart, he received 1400 on hi SATs.

The role of whiteness in the story is seen in the white characters. Nick acts like he owns the store when he does not and is a very prejudiced individual; he is not well liked. “He is a necessary evil.” On the surface he may seem good, but he has a rotten core. In addition, his presence may be necessary to act as “white” protection in such a way that his presence alleviates the majority’s fears of the ‘other’. It is very interesting how the author the white other as the audience, painting white people as materialistic, selfish, fake, and prejudiced.

I also found her phrase interesting when introducing these ideas, “Let me tell you about you.” For a long time the majority has been describing the minority and by doing so placing them into certain roles of society, so now here is the retaliation to those statements. As a white woman it was interesting to be put into this place, I kept looking in the descriptions for the author’s version of white stereotypes and which ones I didn’t consider me a part of. Then again, it was sad to see how many of the examples actually rung true for many white people. The last sentence seems to echo my feelings that the fight against prejudice is never ending and fruitless. “Inside: a frozen heart, stocked and emptied every day. Inside: a dark, constant hum.” When and how can there be change, the question that never seems to have an answer.

Rephraseology

Negation fails us at the most non-opportune times
The atrophy of language, the destruction of anguish
Reducibility is not an illusion – remember that and you’ll be fine
Well, that’s not the whole story, but let’s not dwell on details
Because then what prevails? The non-big-picture,
that is, nobody winning, that is, everybody not quite winning,
which is not exactly nihilism but it’s not exactly far off.
Permissible hyphens have been known to let us down
In other words, not-up, unsatisfied

But chances are you never were.
Last time I broke down and cried
it was not about you, which is to say,
your part in it was small, which is to say, you didn’t factor in at all,
Which is to say – who the fuck am I kidding?
My handwriting’s too small. Non-adequate. Failure in all its forms.
Morphologies one might say.
Or not. You learn how to settle for what you’ve got.
Bad aphorisms never excuse good aphorisms.
Or is it the other way around?
Un-profound.

I guess you’re not exactly letting me down.

Are things really that pathetic?
I wouldn’t call this feeling un-energetic—no, it’s more like
anti-anti-enthused, i.e. not quite giving shit, i.e. radiant hopelessness,
i.e. the anesthesiology of the English language
All of which are better than not feeling un-used.
Token phrases are not really interesting,
which differs not unimportantly from
really uninteresting, like heterogeneity, like fracture, like liminality,
which, when you think about it, are not entirely un-ridiculous terms.
Falling in love with someone who doesn’t return the feelings will not
kill you
In fact, it may not even make you weaker, which is not unlike
certain Marine hypotheses
which may or may not point directly to
everything-that’s-wrong-with-the-entire-fucking-world.

The day I got into a non-mediocre law school I called at 3 in the morning
to tell you that I’m not exactly un-in-love with you,
which is to say, I’m not apathetic,
or in other words, Fine! I still love you
Though still implies continuity, i.e. non-novelty,
i.e. more than just random emotional outbursts made up at 2:45 AM

[It’s not easy to come to the realization that rules of thumb aren’t really rules at all, much less thumbs,
much less the two combined ]

Unfortunately, increased syllabic content won’t mitigate the pain.
In fact, it’s probably the opposite
Screw it, I abstain,
i.e. not participate,
i.e. you think you know but you have no idea, i.e. shit!

In this world of negatives, how can it be that you have no opposite?

Social Adminstration and Religiosity

In films such as Terry Gilliam’s Brazil—not to mention actually-existing corporate-capitalism and state –socialism—the production of convoluted bureaucratic systems indicates an almost fanatical belief in the constitutive ideologies of the social arrangement in question. No wonder Zizek argues that bureaucracy harbors the final vestige of genuine belief in so-called “secular society”: insofar as “such encounters [offer a] glimpse of another order beyond … everyday reality,” moments of absurd, officious social administration enable the “only true contact with the divine in our secular times.” Indeed, over and against the common position that bureaucracy replaces governmental legitimacy, we should emphasize that, in fact, it ensures such legitimacy. The underlying logic of bureaucracy is akin to the Jewish theological doctrine in which the affirmation of “law over spirit” becomes “spirit in spite of law”: it doesn’t matter how ludicrous the channels of red tape become, the power structures that ensure their implementation will continue to dominate. In fact, all the better if the regulations cease to demonstrate any semblance of intelligence—hegemony only calcifies as bureaucracy lays bare its senselessness.
In this vein, consider Zizek’s example from Pinochet’s Chile in which citizens were actually required to provide “certificates of survival” to bureaucratically substantiate their existence (i.e., it was not enough that you be physically standing in front of a government clerk jumping up and down screaming “I exist”— denied basic social services would be denied unless proper documentation was presented). Is this not proof that amidst hyper-administrated social conditions, veritable rupture occurs when bureaucracy comes to impede the most basic and “reasonable” of daily practices? Or, as Zizek phrases it: “Are we aware that this is our only true contact with the divine in our secular times [since what] can be more ‘divine’ than the traumatic encounter with the bureaucracy at its craziest—when, say, a bureaucrat tells us that legally, we don’t exist” ? Although our first inclination is that the state has no business questioning, e.g., our existential status, the paradox here is that our basis of objection—the fact that existential status is a lofty metaphysical question, not a crude bureaucratic one—is precisely what the absurd bureaucratic intervention guarantees. The properly “divine” dimension of the implicit question, Do you exist?, only becomes clear once bureaucracy attempts to appropriate the question to its own, banal ends; divinity is effectively introduced by the very intervention that underscores it. In other words, we need the bureaucrat to question our existential status in order to enliven us from the nihilistic stupor of contemporary life and thereby realize the truly awesome, divine aspects of life as such.
Was not something of the same logic at play when, in 2007, China decided to mandate that all citizens who wish to be re-incarnated as the Dalai Lama register themselves with the government beforehand? The general response to this maneuver, even more than indignation, was sheer incredulity: Can people possibly be taking this seriously? How did the Chinese government manage this without causing widespread uproar and revolt? Needless to say, the cynical-rationalist reading—that people understood it as an obvious (and unsurprising) power-grab on the government’s part and simply decided to play along (because, hey, that’s how politics works)—missed the point entirely. Did the Chinese state’s mandate bastardize the legitimate spiritual forces at play in the socio-cosmological dynamic of reincarnation? We should, in fact, risk the opposite proposition: that it is only once the government meddles in such an overtly “non-governmental” matter that its divine, other-worldly quality can be restored. Therefore, in some sense, we should welcome the Chinese state’s seemingly ludicrous intervention: far from destroying the sanctity of re-incarnation, the mandated registration program actually re-vitalizes the properly religious dimensions of a practice that had long since become dominated by petty, egotistical power-grabbing. Indeed, might bureaucratic intervention in the processes by which people articulate their religiosity be the only way to ensure that such religiosity not become another site of business-as-usual politicking?

Atomic Aztex & "What Is Asian-American Lit?'

To be honest, I was surprised at first to see Atomic Aztex included on a syllabus of Asian-American literature. My brain followed this thought sequence: "The Aztecs were from South America. How is that anywhere near Asia? Wouldn't this book be considered Latino/Hispanic/Latin American literature?" Being an inquisitive soul, I couldn't stop wondering how it connected to or fit the category of Asian American lit.

First idea: similar experiences. Our history is full of instances where 'colored' nations have been invaded, taken over, or had their people enslaved by 'white' nations. People that identify as Asian or Asian American and those who identify as Latino/Chicano/Hispanic can relate on this basis alone; a common oppressor. But how does the South American experience of oppression inform the Asian American experience? Possibly through sympathy for one another, similar struggles and ways of coping with racial prejudice or cultural assumptions, similar goals as people of color. It seemed far-fetched that this book would be on the syllabus just to emphasize solidarity, but it's possible.

Second idea: a spirit of subversion. Other authors we've read, such as Ishle Yi Park, confront and explore the reality of their ethnicities and their associated stereotypes by reclaiming pejorative words and redefining them, rewriting history, reminding readers that there is more than one version of the "truth" when it comes to history. Including this book in a course of Asian American lit subverts an expected notion that Asian Americans can only be those who were either born in China, Japan, Korea, or Vietnam and emigrated to the U.S. or children of immigrants from those countries. Although sub-categories remain, such as "Pacific Islander","South Asian", and "Middle Eastern", immigrants or children of immigrants from the Philippines, India, Indonesia, Laos, and even Iraq (notice the presence of Amitava Kumar) can self-identify as Asian American.

Third idea: what the text itself addresses. To me, if issues of race and ethnic identity are addressed within the actual text of a work written by an author who identifies as Asian American, then the work itself is "Asian American lit". If a person who happens to call themselves Asian American writes a book about something and does not intentionally draw attention to their identity or to race/ethnic issues, it isn't necessarily Asian American lit. I wouldn't say that all scifi/fantasy novels written by Asian/Asian-American authors qualify, for instance; beyond a name, the reader might never be informed of the author's identity. With Atomic Aztex we have an interesting case, because although the text clearly addresses issues of race, cultural identity, and social structure, it doesn't appear to have a distinct connection to either Asia or America, beyond its critique of American society.

I guess this is the spirit of subversion yet again...the harder it is to categorize, then the harder Asian American lit as a whole is to stereotype. Categories do little but create divisions, which are what cause many of the global problems that Atomic Aztex describes.

April-ish Post

I thought that I'd add some more of my thoughts on Amitava Kumar's poem "History", because it actually relates to my experience with reading Atomic Aztex. I wish that I came to more specific conclusion, but these are important questions for those of us involved in activism of any kind to think about.

Clearly, violence plays a huge role in whether a culture is wide-spread or repressed. Since the governments of European and American nations decided that owning more land and controlling more resources was worth massacres and the hatred of several generations of native peoples, colonization increased dramatically, and as a result, many of these colonized cultures are permeated with what many call 'whiteness'. Imperialism decided how culture was going to develop, how "history is taught in schools" according to Kumar's poem; but Atomic Aztex invites us to imagine a world in which the Aztecs of South America defeated the Spanish conquistadores and set about conquering Europe. Notice that the imperialism hasn't changed; only the group doing the colonizing has.

What I'm wondering is: do either or both of these works offer a hypothesis as to why humans feel the need to ensure that their culture becomes dominant? Is is narcissism, simply because it's theirs? Or do they percieve that their way of life is somehow more effective? The new history of Atomic Aztex is just different, not necessarily better. Christianity, in this revised world, is a minority religion thought inferior by those in power, who are polytheistic. How much does this really contribute to reducing conflict, bringing people together, making trade fair or envisioning a better world, though? It doesn't. Superiority/inferiority complexes create tension, and tension begins this battle for dominance that colonization of 'colored' nations by 'white' nations represents in our global history.

Kumar's poem seems to be suggesting that we can slowly begin to combat inequality by ensuring that both sides are heard, that a more complete history is taught in schools. This emphasis on the power of education; people usually become racist because they are taught such beliefs by their parents. Racism will end when it is no longer taught, but there's a Catch-22; people have to stop believing in it to stop teaching it. The poem also suggests that a lot of this drive for colonization is economic by illustrating a "conflict of interests" between a peasant and a king, which of course is executed through violence. However it leaves us there, with the questions and no suggested answers; it points out a reality that appears unsolvable.

Atomic Aztex supplies a possible resolution by illustrating how important religion and the power of belief are. If all of humanity, regardless of religious doctrine, believed a few simple things (such as that all humans are equal as a species, color is not relevant, merit is; violence solves nothing) then the epidemic of superior/inferior and colonization might be avoided. It subverts not only history and the very idea of what a "novel" is, but also somehow evokes the question: how are human hearts and minds really influenced? and why is difference such a thing to be afraid of?

Missy's post

Crazy Woman Upstairs

She is always there

Whispering, yelling, manipulating

Why do I always have to listen?

She runs back and forth, nonstop

Constantly switching sides

Never letting me stay happy with the decisions I have made

In every situation she is in charge

I know I shouldn’t listen

But there she is again in my ear

Driving me crazy and yet so logical

Can I control my own actions for once?

Never letting me get a word in edgewise

Boys or girls, interactions with either

Often leads me to tears and frustration

With her bad advice

My soul just wants to be happy

Dance without a care, she frowns

Never letting me just be myself

I look in the mirror and there she is

Behind my eyes, turning and pulling

Tugging every which way

Forcing me to reign myself in

Keeping me hostage

Never letting me be in control

instead of studying for the final or posting my poem

i wanted to do my last non-creative post on a bunch of spoken word by asian americans to share w/ the class so you can watch these as distractions during reading days :)

my friend pathanapong's piece, nong

adriel luis from ill-literacy's piece slip of the tongue. his current performances of this piece link make up to colonization more than in this video

the beautiful suheir hammad reading the piece we read at the beginning of the semester "First writing since"

my friend harry from nyc reads his piece "i eat spam" ... ignore my yelling in the beginning of the video

and beau sia :)

i expect a good discussion in comments ... yes?

Awoken-Creative Writing Piece

I abruptly awoke to the sound of my mother screaming. Her high pitch shriek pierced through the wall connecting my parents’ bedroom to mine and my instinct told me that something was amiss. I ran into my parents’ room to see my dad collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath, and my mother crying, “Morty, Morty, are you ok?” I could hear him trying to suck in air, but he couldn’t. He looked scared. I was scared. She yelled, “Call 911!” I reached for the phone and dialed, 9-1-1, and in panic, yelled back, ‘I can’t. You call.” She called. “We need an ambulance! My husband can’t breathe. He collapsed and can’t breathe. Come quick!”

We each took an arm and assisted my dad into a bent over standing position. My mom and I each gripped one of his arms and we slowly walked with him to the front porch where maybe, she thought, the fresh air would allow him to breathe. “You are going to be ok, dad,” I pleaded, while he continued to gasp for the fresh air that we thought would be so healing. His shoulders were caved in, his chest contracted and mouth wide open in a vain attempt to breathe normally. He was struggling for breath, struggling for life and crying because he was vulnerable and helpless.

I had never seen my dad in such a helpless state before and I was scared. My dad was the core of our family unit. So I was caught by surprise when the center of our family suddenly could not breathe. Instinctively, I assumed the position along with my mom of the caretaker, emergency medical team, and doctor while we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive but inside I was scared that my role model and father would not survive.

No ambulance came-just fire trucks and police cars. The firemen approached our front porch and asked, “Sir, what is wrong?” Couldn’t they see what was wrong? My dad could not talk, so my mom said in a rushed voice, “He woke up to go to the bathroom, crashed into the closet in our bedroom, fell to the floor, and started gasping for breath. He’s never done this before.” One fireman calmly said, “Ma’am, can I see a list of his medications and any medical history that your husband might have?” Another stated, “Sir, come with me and let me take your blood pressure and pulse.” I was so afraid. I wanted to be helpful, but I didn’t know what to do. The firemen proceeded like this for about 15 minutes until they hoisted my dad on a yellow stretcher and carted him into the newly arrived ambulance. “We will take him to the emergency room,” one said. “Dad I love you,” I cried. For the first time in my life, I really meant those three short words.

My parents had never discussed their medical problems with me before, so I was caught oblivious and thus scared for my dad’s life. I always thought that he was perfect and untouchable from anything harmful but this episode shattered that belief. Maybe my parents wanted to shield me from the vicious world of reality growing up and let me bask in the pleasures of imagination and endless childhood. They might have wanted to protect me from the ever present issue of disease and death, but at the time of the episode I was seventeen and was oblivious to the problems that caused my dad’s episodes.

By the time that he arrived at the hospital, my dad had regained his breath and to the onlooker, nothing appeared abnormal. As my dad was immediately given a hospital bed because he arrived by ambulance, we waited vigilantly beside his bed for a doctor to examine him. He was not an emergency case now, so we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, at five o’clock in the morning, a doctor pushed the sterile white ER curtains aside and stepped into the room to begin her assessment. My dad retold the events as he remembered them, through the victim’s eyes and since he was a doctor, through a doctor’s eyes. She nodded a few times, asked a couple of questions, sent him for some tests and finally sent him home with an inconclusive diagnosis and a large hospital bill. To her, nothing appeared severely wrong; to me and my mom, her diagnosis was incorrect; she did not witness the frightening episode and I could not understand why she would send my dad home when he was obviously sick.

Two nights later, he fainted again, crashed into a different closet, and had an even more severe breathing episode. We called the ambulance for the second time and they rushed my dad to the hospital. He was examined by a different doctor this time, transported by hospital bed to have many different tests conducted, and once again they concluded that nothing appeared to be wrong. The scary thing was that these highly trained doctors, who spent eight or more years in medical school, could not diagnose their patient, my dad, and by doing so, they were inferring that he did not have a medical problem.

By the end of this two month medical fiasco, the doctors finally produced a diagnosis for my dad: vasovagal response which triggered coughing syncope-a nervous system reaction to coughing which caused him to faint. I could have diagnosed that. They spent a total of two months testing my dad to discover what he didn’t have and they finally diagnosed what my mom and I observed the first night of his episodes.

My dad’s coughing episodes woke me up to the scary reality of disease and aging. Much of medicine is unknown. Doctors and researchers are still trying to find cures for many diseases and even minor diagnoses are not certain. Therefore, the episodes that my dad was subjected to made me understand the role that medicine plays as well as the value of life and the reality of disease and death.

Jenna's April post

Mulan - the Cross-Dressing Extraordinaire

Back when I first saw the movie about 20 consecutive times, bought the soundtrack, memorized the lyrics, and yanked the DVD from a store shelf, Mulan was a truly enjoyable movie. Mulan was noble, pretty, and kicked “Hun-ny buns”; Mushu was Eddie Murphy trapped in the body of a tiny dragon, and Shang…personally I hold him in highest esteem in regards to male Disney characters. The bad guys lost, the good guys won, Shang the adorable idiot develops a bit of a stutter when he falls for Mulan and of course, you just know that he “would like to stay forever.”

However, Disney has always had a problem with identifying with the “other” and, in order for the story to work with Western audiences, Mulan is pitted against the vile misogynistic forces of ancient China that seek to limit and demean all women. The film does this in many ways, including the use of humor. Humor plays a more subversive role as well, commentating on modern American culture along with the backwards Chinese culture.

To comment upon the misogynistic and oppressive Chinese culture, the film humorously castrates the men by portraying them as awkward, unhygienic Neanderthals that have little character development other than their realization that women have more purpose on earth than to look pretty, worship men, and cook. (Spoiler alert! In the sequel, Chien-Po, Ling, and Yao all hook up with – oh my! – imperial princesses that are incidentally cute, love the lowly soldiers, and like food. But as a consolation prize, while the women revert to being lotus blossoms, they at least get to choose their men and escape from their Chinese arranged marriages. Fight that backwards system! But I diverge.) To poke even more fun at the bumbling and misled soldiers, they arranged the whole delusional sequence into a song and dance routine in “A Girl Worth Fighting For,” that even the little kids in the audience can learn and enjoy on their own. Amusing, I know. I’ve thought it to be fitting that the song abruptly ends mid-lyric when Shang’s army stumbles across the desolate village and completely demolished Chinese army. Anybody else see their ideological and idiotic fantasies of perfect women come grinding to a halt and exploding like an A.C.M.E. rocket when the men are finally confronted with cruel reality?

Most importantly, however, is that they realize the truth only after Mulan, their trusted comrade, is revealed to be a woman. The perception of what defines a man and woman are jousted around, most bluntly by Mulan’s attempted portrayal of manly soldier, but also by Chi Fu, the emperor’s counsel, and the village matchmaker. Mulan makes a fool of herself by engaging in poorly coordinated pantomimes of manly behavior, but the laughing soldiers in turn are also made fun of, because she is simply mimicking them, albeit poorly. Chi Fu screams like a woman, talks with a lisp and the other characters have the impression that “the only girl who’d love him is his mother.” Nevertheless, the womanized Chi Fu is the actual enemy, not Shan Yu, since he represents Chinese law and custom. He is only made fun of when in an equal position among the men, but the moment Mulan is forcibly unveiled as a woman, Chi Fu violently berates her, calling her “treacherous snake.” The humor is gone, and the power-play between genders visible once more. On the other hand, there is the masculine matchmaker who unconsciously draws an ink mustache on herself and manages to light her backside on fire. Laughter abounds, but the overbearing and scrutinizing Dragon Lady persona is likewise being demeaned. The strong-willed and righteous Mulan is welcomed, but one step over the line and persecution awaits.

Alas! Alack! China is saved by a bunch of cross-dressing soldiers parading around the Forbidden City with fruit down their fronts, led by a girl who takes down the Minotaur-like Shan Yu with a fan, guardian spirit, lucky cricket, and about fifty fireworks! Ha ha ha! What fun! And now back to reality, boy what a good movie.

The antics of Mulan’s sidekick-trio along with the spectacular firework finale enhanced with little bitty Hun parts, not to mention Mushu’s key role in Mulan’s victory, allows for the obligatory happy ending but in such a way that realistically, it could never happen. The humor and Disney charm are used to mislead the audience, thus fulfilling the goal of creating a proud and westernized heroine without actually supporting the feasibility of a woman such as Mulan existing.

I realize that this post has so far had little to anything to do with the literature we have read. However, humor is apparent in many of the works, though not as blatantly as in Disney movies. Humor, irony, and satire – or even the little things that are only funny in your own head – are perceived as such for a reason, be it to disguise, disarm, make a commentary, deconstruct, or just to break the monotony.

(I first heard this from Kevin and may have butchered it. Apologies!)

There was an Asian man dying in the desert, when a genie appeared before him.

“Young man, I will grant you three wishes!” said the genie.

The man rasped, “I want water, a lot of water everywhere!”

“And your second wish?” the genie questioned.

The man answered, “I want women, tons of them!”

“And the third wish?” the genie chuckled.

The man thought, then his face brightened. “I want to be white!”

“Your wish is my command!” replied the genie, and the man was promptly turned into a women’s restroom toilet.