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.