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ASIAN VOICES
============
VOLUME VI: 1993
All people dream... but not equally. They who dream by night in the
dusty recess of their minds wake in the day to find that it is vanity.
But the dreamers of the day are dangerous, for they act their dreams
with open eyes, to make it possible.
- Thomas Edward Lawrence
(Lawrence of Arabia)
- *THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION**
at New York University
THE ELECTRONIC EDITION
======================
Thanks for picking up the electronic edition of ~Asian Voices~.
~Asian Voices~ is the annual literary and artistic journal of
the Asian Cultural Union at New York University. All submissions
to ~Asian Voices~ are from New York University students.
The original hard copy version of this publication was printed in
Spring 1993.
This file is composed in the "setext" format, so if you have an
appropriate reader, such as M. Akif Eyler's ~Easy View~, you can take
advantage of the embedded formatting to browse the issue. Users of
plain ASCII text editors should have no problem reading this file as well,
although you'll have to do more maneuvering to get through all of it.
For best results, use a monospaced font that allows at least
an 80 column display.
We welcome your comments. Please email at the following addresses:
Asian Voices Editor 1993-94: Meng Lin <mlin@stern.nyu.edu>
Asian Cultural Union President: Liliana Chen <lqc5544@acfcluster.nyu.edu>
Electonic Edition Formatter: Francis Chin <franchin@panix.com>
If you would like to write via U.S. mail, please address
inquiries and correspondence to:
- *Asian Voices**
- *The Asian Cultural Union at New York University**
- *566 LaGuardia Place, Room 814**
- *New York, N.Y. 10012**
- *Telephone: (212) 998-4942**
This electronic edition is
Copyright (c) 1993 The Asian Cultural Union at New York University
Permission granted for non-commercial distribution
as long as this notice remains with any copied text and you do not charge
for the copies. All other rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
----------------
The editors-in-chief would like to extend their appreciation and thanks
to the individuals who made this year's journal a success: to all our
contributors for their ideas and patience; the ~Asian Voices~ staff --
Arthur, Benny, Bryan, Dennis, Johanna, Karen, Kellie, Meng, Michele,
and Wanda -- for their diligent efforts; Francis Chin and Josephina Lee
for their advice and assistance; Naft International and ~Outstanding~
~Investor~ ~Digest~ for use of their facilities; Philip Chin and the
~Washington Square News~ for use of their scanners; Anton Chan at
Linco Printing, Inc.; Joseph Park for his perspectives; the ACU
executive committee -- Liliana, Dana, Fred, Joe, Arthur, and Francis --
for their support.
To my grandmother Mary (Kao Sue) Tang: you will be missed very much.
-- Ron
- *Cover design by Larry Lee**
~Asian Voices~ is a publication of the Asian Cultural Union at New York
University, an organization dedicated to serving the social, cultural,
and educational needs of all students. The opinions expressed in this
journal reflect each author's own views and are not necessarily
representative of the ~Asian Voices~ staff nor the Asian Cultural Union.
STAFF
-----
Editors-in-Chief William Chong
Ronald E. Mui
Senior Editors Dennis Chun
Michele Mitsumori
Staff Editors Kellie Tinh Du
Meng Lin
Wanda Lin
Editorial Assistants Arthur Huang
Benny Lau
Johanna Lee
Bryan Quan
Karen Talaid
Advisor Francis Chin
~Contributors:~ Maria Chang, June Chiamprasert, Linne Ha, Cindy Hong,
Alex Hsu, Nadda Kanchanagorn, Kenneth H. Kim, Marc Landas, Margaret Lam
Marc Landas, Margaret Lam, Katie Lin, Gail Montemayor, Saloni Movani
Susan P. Mui, Greg Osborn, Julie Pun, Ivy Sta. Iglesia, Vineel Shah
Ricky Weng, Wendy Wo, Raymond Wu, M. Connie Yeung
Artist Emeritus Larry Lee
- *THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION AT NEW YORK UNIVERSITY**
President Liliana Chen
Vice President Dana Chau
Treasurer Frederick Lee
Secretary Joseph Park
Operations Officer Arthur Liao
Sports Coordinator Francis Hata
EDITORIALS
==========
Ronald Mui talks about the history of Asian Voices after 5 years.
William Chong lets us see a few of his dreams.
EDITOR'S NOTES - I
------------------
Ronald Mui
In the past, ~Asian Voices~ has dealt with topics that concerned the
Asian community, ranging from a family's migration to America and
its unforeseen conflicts, interracial relationships, loss of culture, to
problems such as suicide, alcoholism and racism. Since its creation,
Asian Voices has seen an increasing number of new topics and views.
During the time that I have been with ~Asian Voices~, I have seen a
transition from works addressing the concerns of the individual to
works encompassing societal issues.
In the midst of the pro-democracy movement in China, that year's
issue was dedicated to the Tiananmen Square Massacre. The theme
~Asian Voices~ thought most closely symbolized the massacre was fire
-- a symbol of destruction and conflict that leads to an unknown end.
In that issue, fire represented the images of an imprisoned and
restless nation awaiting to be set free and given equality. It may be
the start of a new beginning or a continuation of what existed before.
For China, the fire subsided but left an unknown end to a suppressed
nation.
In another issue, water was chosen to represent the image of
transition: the inevitable change of climate resulting from conflict to
the ultimate resolution through peace and understanding until it
reoccurs again. As fire is associated with rage, water too can be
associated with this same rage. But water has a calm side to it. It
can be serene and tranquil until it becomes agitated following its
cyclical path.
Our 1991 edition saw a transition from the elements to a need for
growth, learning and understanding. It was during this time that an
awareness for our environment grew. As notions of saving the world
were ever increasing, spillage of oil into our oceans continued, and
dumping of toxic wastes into our rivers and streams became a
reality. In the midst of all the concerns for the environment, Asian
Voices set out and dedicated 1991 to the environment. It was a
chance for all to try to learn and comprehend what we were doing
wrong to the world and how we could possibly assist in righting
these wrongs. From what we know today, we must be vigilant and
careful, for our actions directly affect the environment.
Continuing the learning and growing process, last year's issue was
devoted to none other than Home. In the home -- which some
unfortunately do not have -- warmth, love, security and guidance are
guaranteed to us. It is a haven where we can always return to for
comfort and love. Inside the home we are taught to care and respect
one another. We are nurtured by our parents and family, obtaining a
set of morals and beliefs which are our guiding tools for life. We
will refer to this when making decisions and for direction. It is the
foundation which we take with us to school, work and beyond. Once
learning from this foundation can we then hopefully go out into the
world and learn to respect one another and live in peace.
As we open this next chapter of Asian Voices, we do so with Dreams.
Though dreams can be of fantasies, desires and hopes that are deep
rooted within each of us, they too are a means of growth and
learning. Dreams can also suggest aspirations and goals. From them,
we can set objectives for ourselves by which to live and grow. As we
were taught from home how to cope with the outside world, our
dreams will further allow us to grow as individuals. Perhaps when
combined with our familial guidelines we can use this as a stepping
stone to better ourselves and possibly society as well.
Suppose there are dreams of destruction? How are we able to
mature and grow from dreams such as these? This year's issue holds
many articles depicting the darker sides of dreams. Though they are
very far from being destructive, the images of dreams displayed
here are of misguided opportunities as shown in An Ode to the
American Dream," despair as depicted in "The Shattered Dream," and
madness as presented in "Minutes." We obviously cannot mature
from these dreams but we can learn from them what needs to be
changed in society. We are not immune to these problems, but what
we can do to change them is what is important.
In this issue I hope to get people to start thinking of dreams as a
means of learning and growth. Understanding oneself will allow us
to understand others. We can always dream and educate ourselves.
But what I hope to see with all the dreaming and education that we
are fortunate to have gained, is that one day we will return to society
what is desperately needed -- our efforts to understand, care and
assist so that the peace that we have so long missed could return. So
read it and dream for success!
Ronald E. Mui
Editor-in-Chief
EDITOR'S NOTES - II
-------------------
William Chong
~D R E A M S A R E . . .~
. . . a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions. They are
aspirations, idle fancies, visions, and objects of unreal beauty.
. . . the realm of Morpheus; blinding colors and odd shapes; Jim
Henson's muppets; An American Tail. Dreams are a lazy Sunday
afternoon with Calvin and Hobbes; the cosmic sounds of the B-52's; a
day in the park with Booster, my four year-old labrador retriever;
the '86 Mets.
. . . about freedom and justice. It is a man with the dream and the
courage to protest a state that has oppressed his people for
centuries. It is the many who have challenged totalitarian regimes,
sacrificed safety and security, endured persecution for the dream.
Dreams are all some people have to believe in; some are worth dying
for.
. . . visions of the future. They are the hopes of our youths:
power, equality; wealth, generosity; conquest, peace. Their dreams
will destroy. Their dreams will save. Dreams are about protecting
the environment, being socially conscious, and defending personal
freedoms. They are caring for your brothers and sisters, helping
those less fortunate, and giving back to the community. Dreams are
powerful.
. . . nightmares -- a result of a disturbance in the delicate nature
of our conscious being . . . or bad tuna salad.
. . . of God. Genesis 28:10-13. Jacob left Beersheba and started
towards Haran. At sunset he came to a holy place and camped there.
He laid down to sleep, resting his head on a stone. He dreamed that
he saw a stairway reaching from earth up to heaven, with angels
going up and down on it. And there was the Lord standing beside
him.
. . . of man. Select Eastern philosophies say that our existence,
our universe, is a dream -- God's great dream. And that when we
complete our mortal journey on Earth, He enters into our universe to
wake us out of the dream. But when we wake, we discover that it is
really we who have been dreaming the great dream all along.
. . . a newborn in the comforts of its mother.
. . . listening to Grandma's wonderful stories. She tucks me in -- a
boy of six -- and asks me if I'm ready; I eagerly reply 'yes!' I
wait silently as she ponders. Then she takes my hand and, holding
tight, we begin our voyage to another age, another world. I follow
her, my guide, throughout assorted tales and yarns. I giggle with
joy; or I tremble beneath the covers; but I always plead for more.
. . . thoughts of an old love and the desire to embrace once again.
I remember watching her as she rested in my arms, sleeping like an
angel. Was it her glimmering eyes or her affectionate smile that
captured my heart? No -- I looked beyond the tangibles and into her
soul, and there I saw a spectacle that was more radiant, more
passionate than even the Northern Lights. I brushed her hair aside
and her button nose twinkled. I held her vigilantly and closed my
eyes and prayed that the moment, that the darkness of winter's
night, would never end. I continue dreaming.
. . . the hopes of the Asian Voices' staff to produce the best
edition yet. Reality check...this is a damn fine issue.
William Chong
Editor-in-Chief
DREAMS
======
Stories and prose based on the theme "Dreams".
Gail Montemayor, **A Perpetuating Nightmare**
Kenneth H. Kim, **An Ode to the American Dream**
Vineel Shah, **Uniform Shade**
Kellie Thinh Du, **Romance**
June Chiamprasert, **Minutes**
Saloni Movani, **The Shattered Dream**
Margaret Lam, **A Farewell to Dreams**
A PERPETUATING NIGHTMARE
------------------------
Gail Montemayor
My mother claims she's had another one of her prophetic visions just
as I'm about to leave the house. "Don't worry, Mom. Nothing will
happen," I assure her before slamming the screen door in annoyance.
+ + + +
Vic finally gives in to our incessant whining and reaches over to turn
on the radio. Eventually, the familiar tunes of depressing love songs
throw us all into a state of nostalgic contemplation. Old loves, buried
fantasies, and feelings of hopelessness for uncertain tomorrows
resurface into our pools of thought. As I sink into the velvety
backseat of Rob's shiny black Nissan Maxima, my hands cradle the
half-empty bottle of Sex on the Beach like kitten's paws. The cozy
warmth I feel inside can only have been created by this wonderful
magic potion that rests snugly against my chest. Flanked by my
closest friend on the right, I can feel the alcohol-induced heat
generated by our pressed bodies. The soothing motion of the car
rocks me gently into a deep sleep . . .
I'm floating in a deep and endless darkness. A path of small,white
tiles hovers before me like ghostly cobblestones. I look behind me:
one by one the tiles drop into oblivion. I watch one fall, fluttering
like a pallid leaf until swallowed by the void, and suddenly feel the
tile I'm standing on begin to sink. I jump to the next tile, only to feel
that one descend as well. I jump and jump and jump, but nothing is
safe, nothing is stable. My eyes dart to the expanse below me, just in
time to see the tiny whiteness of a tile extinguished like a birthday
candle. The fear of losing my balance and meeting the same fate
suffocates me, encloses me as completely as the darkness itself. I
jump again, and again, until it seems I've always been jumping. And
then it happens: I miss a tile. I fall, screaming.
The nightmare vanishes as soon as I open my eyes. Tristan's head is
flying out the window as he yells something incomprehensible at the
driver behind us. Someone has interrupted the blissful, rhythmic
motion of our car, and Tristan is in no way sober enough to rationally
dismiss it. The driver nervously switches lanes, and shortly after
disappears.
Staring blankly ahead, I listen casually to fragments of random
conversation:
"And you forgave her? Does Matt know that you know?"
In the front seat, Rob is talking to Vic about Vic's girlfriend, Julie,
who had cheated on him last week with Matt. Julie is a childhood
schoolmate. She's been sharing an apartment with Vic at a college
upstate. Ever since I can remember, Julie and I have been competing
with each other over everything from academics to physique. In the
fifth grade, Julie accused me of cheating when I beat her fairly and
won the spelling bee. Although she could never accept it, I was
always better than her in spelling, as well as in math and science.
We were vicious enemies then, but our cut-throat competition did
have its advantages. When I delivered the valedictory speech in the
eighth grade, Julie was right there on stage with me as salutatorian.
For both Julie and me, grammar school was a breeze.
But as far as high school went, Julie won in the end. At Truman's
senior prom, she was the one who hooked up with Vic, the biggest
crush of my high school career. Attending the exclusive St. Jude's
Academy for Girls didn't help my social life at all. As I slowdanced
at my senior prom with Tristan, all I could think about was Julie and
Vic and how they were so made for each other that it made me
envious.
After a couple years at college, we came to throw down our arms.
Being equally enthusiastic about separate majors helped us to calm
the competition running through our relationship. As determined as
I was to take up my life-long dream of acting, so was Julie equally
determined to make it as a marketing major. Meanwhile, Vic
graduated from Philips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire and diligently
began pursuing law. Vic is definitely going places. I guess
that's why I'm so attracted to him.
"There is no red in poppy!"
My best friend Marly screams piercingly into my ear. Obviously,
Marly and Hanna are continuing their eternal argument about
whether poppy is a miscalculated red or a richly deep orange. Both
girls are art fanatics who dwell obsessively on the specifics of colors.
A fashion prodigy, Hanna is constantly searching for the perfect
shade, the perfect color. She spends hours scrutinizing innovative
blends of every hue. Fashion design is her life. In the four years
I've known her, I can't recall her ever making a fashion blunder.
Only Hanna can put together an orange and green and make the clash
breathtaking. Everyone says she has great potential. I remember
when she designed the gown I had worn so proudly at the annual
winter formal. She'd enjoyed making me look stunning as much as
I'd enjoyed the glamour of attending a formal evening dinner party.
I must have had over a hundred compliments that night. Hanna has
so much promise.
Marly is a fine arts major who eagerly describes various ranges of
color to us when entralled by a painting or sculpture. She visits
museums religiously, often allowing me to tag along with her to her
sacred institutions. Sometimes she spends hours on end discussing
every detail of just one of her favorite works. Picasso's Three
Musicians is her favorite. She dreams of one day buying that very
painting for a wealthy corporation--her ultimate career goal. Marly
and I always talk about our futures, but sometimes Marly seems to
exist on art alone.
Tristan leans over, seeing my apparent state of oblivion. I turn my
head to examine his lips as he repetitively mouths, "Are you all
right?" Naive enough to focus all my attention on his lips, I soon
realize his true intent is to distract me in order to steal the warm
bottle of Sex from my hands. As he presses the mouth of the bottle
to his smirking lips, I try to snatch it from him, initiating a flirtatious
wrestling match. In a matter of minutes, we end up snuggling
together, sharing the bottle romantically, leaving Marly and Hanna to
sit side by side and argue.
Poor Tristan. He's been interested in me ever since that night we
made love in an alcohol-induced heat of passion. I would never have
a relationship with him. He's too volatile. Intelligent as he is, he
willingly decided to trash his dreams of becoming a doctor three
years ago to be lead singer of a band, one whose members betrayed
him five months ago by replacing him with "someone with real
talent." Yet I can't help but admire his persistent determination to
some day be famous.
As I become more and more smashed, the mesh of conversations
becomes audibly distant, like far-off echoes. As my face lies buried
in the crook of Tristan's neck, I again fall deeply into sleep . . .
Blackness. I'm hopping from one tile to the next, swinging my arms
wildly to keep my balance, to push me forward. I jump with all the
strength I have, but each time my feet land closer to the edge, each
time I seem closer to not making it. The tiles are drifting farther
apart, the distance between them expanding like a black stain. My
heart bangs against my ribs. I jump and jump. The tile I land on
sinks. I jump. The next tile falls even further. I look ahead. The
entire line of tiles is steadily descending, as if someone had just
turned off the power. I reach out to grab something. The tile
beneath me gives way and slips out from under me. I'm falling,
faster and faster, screaming for an end to this inescapable nightmare.
+ + + +
I'm shaken. The hands try to be gentle, but the voice is cracked,
irritation seeping through. "Wake up! You're only dreaming! You're
alive. Nothing can happen to you now. You're safe."
I think I'm opening my eyes, but blackness is all I see. There are
none of the thousands of shades Marly had made spring to life before
me, no poppy of either her deep orange of Hanna's miscalculated red.
Not even the white perforation of tile. Just black.
One night of reckless intoxication.
I stretch my ears, searching for the voices I had so complacently let
wander away from me, but find not a word to relieve my loneliness.
Nowhere is the voice of Vic, who had learned the art of persuasion in
one of his law-related classes and who was always able to convince
or move me with the intelligence of his words. "Nothing below the
torso. Blind as a bat, too, poor thing." Not even a clever, pointless
line from Tristan, who always found some smart and witty thing to
say to get my attention, waiting only for the moment when I'd finally
give into his charm and go out with him. "Do you think I should give
her a tranquilizer?"
Although fully conscious and able to hear an actor enliven the flat
words of a TV script, I know I will never be able to rise from my bed
or look into a handsome actor's eyes with theatrical passion or be one
of those famous voices. "No, she seems calm now." Nothing
glamourous is in store for this once-promising paraplegic.
But I guess I came out the lucky one. Rob, Vic, Marly, Hanna, Tristan.
Their dreams are buried along with their broken bodies beneath cold
and inescapable slabs of stone, whereas I can lie here in the darkness
and dream forever.
I feel a cool, rough hand clumsily push the hair away from my
forehead, feel a wet and wrinkled cheek press against mine. Is it too
late to comfort her? "Don't worry, Mom," I say. I wish I could see
her. "Everything will be all right. Please don't worry. Nothing will
happen."
A screen door slams behind me.
AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN DREAM
----------------------------
Kenneth H. Kim
How mesmerizing and enchanting you seem to be...
Your golden lights attract the desperate and proud from lands beyond;
How seemingly limitless and beautiful you truly appear to be...
Your blinding glare taints the innocent and blinds the foolish of their youth;
But they kneel helplessly before you with lustful eyes and insatiable greed,
As if you were their Second God, as beautiful as He...
The falsehood and worthlessness they do not see, So
They come in herds searching with dreamy eyes for that gilded road,
Only to be disheartened by age and weariness with the passing of time.
As these dreamers pay their unavoidable respect to the shadows of death,
Though their pockets are content with the fruits of that American dream,
They no longer see beautiful visions of that initial dream.
How beautiful you seem to be...
The disappointed and the prosperous are no longer dazzled by the Lights,
For Time and Fate has given them Second Sight;
At old age with newfound wisdom, they no longer dream of wealth, but of life.
When it seems too late to be...
If only They could see beyond what it seems...
UNIFORM SHADE
-------------
Vineel Shah
One day, I bit into my pen and a rainbow spewed out. The vibrantly
colored liquid light quickly flooded my room. It found my open
window and poured out into lower Manhattan.
It found true color in everything it washed over. Grass became
brilliant green, leaves glowed in candy-apple reds and citrus-fruit
oranges. Water in puddles turned blue, mica in sidewalks turned
sparkling silver. All the people turned rainbow.
I rode down the bridge of light from my window to the street. I
grabbed a passerby by the shoulders. Her skin was white and black
and yellow and brown and blue and green and red and orange and I
said "This is you. Do you understand? This is you!"
She looked into my face, crying. Her tears fell like refracting drops
of oil rolling down a prism. "I'm lost."
"Now you are true," I told her, shaking her a bit to make her
understand.
But the truth was too much for her little mind to bear. I let go and
watched her walk away. Her tears slowly washed away the rainbow
from her face, her skin returned to the color it had been before she
met my dream. Where she walked, colors returned to their normal
drabness. In a few hours, everything had faded into what it had
been before.
I tried to hang on to my colors, to the rainbow in me, but I couldn't
resist the fading. Race left an ugly mark on me, leaving my soul in
uniform shade.
ROMANCE
-------
Kellie Tinh Du
Hand in hand walking slowly across the meadow
We play hide-and-go-seek with one another's shadow
Looking at the wondrous color of each butterfly
Listening to the melodious song of the magpie
Smelling the flowers strewn like confetti all around
Drinking in the magic of this paradise we together found
Face to face sitting in the train
Traveling towards the future we see quite plain
A happy home complete with white-picket fence
And of course a poodle named Romance
Never again contend with the outside world or all its madness
We surround ourselves with only solitude and happiness
Bells toll our cheer to all,
Suddenly from my bed I fall!
No wonder the bells were getting so loud,
My alarm clock was trying to pull me down from the clouds.
Back in my room and the phone won't stop ringing,
Can't believe I was only dreaming!
MINUTES
-------
June Chiamprasert
- *"Paul, stop it! What are you doing?!"**
- *"Come on, Melissa, stop playing games."**
- *"STOP! What are you doing?! I said NO!"**
- *"You know you want to, so stop pretending."**
- *"Paul, I'm serious. If you don't stop, I'm going to scream."**
- *"Go ahead. Who's gonna do anything? This is New York City -- **
- *people scream all the time."**
- *"How can you do this to me? I thought you liked me?"**
- *"That's exactly why I'm doing this...I like you a lot."**
- *"Paul, I'm only going to ask you this one more time. Stop it or else!"**
There. I did it. I stabbed him in the throat with the steak knife I
used for that "wonderful" dinner he promised me. Not just once, but
over and over again. That should teach him. A girl always means no
when she says no.
I can't believe what a jerk he turned out to be. After two months of
Philosophy class, you finally got me to come over to your place, you
bastard. An awesome cook, my ass! And this place, it's so clean that
you wouldn't even let me walk on your precious white carpet
without taking my shoes off first. You're so anal, Paul. Well, now
there are blood stains all over the carpet and walls. It's actually kind
of pretty, like an abstract painting. It's a pity that your shirt got
stained too, I like Perry Ellis. How do you feel? Was it good for you
too, Paul? Perhaps you would like me to pull up your pants for you
now? Or perhaps we can just snuggle together and smoke? What's
the matter, Paul? You didn't have much trouble talking and moving
around before. Are you trying to say something to me? Do you want
me to call an ambulance or something? I don't think so.
Wait -- he moved, I saw it. Oh God! He's still alive. Don't get up,
Paul, or I'll kill you again! I'm not kidding. I've got to get away from
here. What if someone comes or what if some nosy neighbor starts
poking around? They'll blame me for his death. It's going to happen
all over again; they won't understand. Gotta get my stuff and catch
the . . .
. . . train. There aren't many people on the subway tonight.
Weeknights are usually...what's that noise?! Who's there?! Oh...oh
Lord...I'm so tense; I can hear everything, from a rat scurrying away
to that bum's breathing -- boy, he stinks. There's nothing like a ride
on the subway. The roar drowning out reality, the rocking easing my
body. How can anyone not like it? What a crazy world! There goes
some jerk moving from car to car; and another one picking his nose.
Why's that old lady staring at me? Is she scared of me? Just what is
she staring at? My clothes, my hands, they're all bloody. What am I
going to do? I'll...I'll just pretend I have a bloody nose or something.
Get a tissue and -- the steak knife, I'm still holding the knife! I took
it with me --?what was I thinking?! What have I done?! I've got to
get away, I've got to get . . .
. . . home. Hmm...the shower felt really good. Funny how blood
comes off so easily with a little soap and water. Hope it comes out of
my new outfit, though. I'll see what's on the idiot box, then go to
sleep. Ross Perot's in another one of his stupid infomercials.
Another rich guy trying to pay back his debt to society...right. Hope
Bill Clinton wins. "Basic Instinct" is on HBO tonight. I'll have to
remember to catch it sometime. Wait! There's Paul on TV, what's
going on . . . .
"Thank you, Jack. The breaking story in tonight's newscast is the
bizarre murder of Paul Brooks in his apartment here on East 10th
Street. He died apparently from multiple stab wounds to the neck
and chest. Neighbors say they saw him with a young female earlier
tonight. However, there are no suspects at...."
I really killed him. Oh God! What did I do? But he deserved it,
bastard that he was. But why did it have to be me? Why do these
things have to happen to me? I can't think straight; so exhausted, so
tired. I should rest, sleep.
"...Anyone with information regarding the murder of this man please
contact...."
+ + + +
Melissa....
What? Who's there?
Melissa....
Who's there?!!
Why are you shouting Melissa? I can read your thoughts. There's no
need for you to shout.
Where are you? What do you want?
I'm right here, Melissa. I'm part of you. I don't want anything. I
know everything there is to know about you.
Liar! Stop it!
Why, don't you know me, Melissa? I've always been a part of you.
It's just that you haven't been able to hear me before -- until now.
Go into the bathroom and see.
Fine! Now, where are.... Oh my God!! What are you?
You're...you're...horrible. Dear God, please tell me this isn't
happening.
Look at me closely, Melissa. Tell me what you see.
You...you seem so familiar. Your eyes are so bloody red, so cold, so
hard -- like the marbles I used to play with. I can see my reflection
in them. It feels as if I'm drowning in its darkness.
I saw what you did tonight. You didn't think anyone would see, did
you? Well, I saw it, Melissa. I see everything that you do.
Stop looking at me like that! Get away from me!
Why, Melissa. What an awful thing for you to say. After all the
things we've been through.
Shut up! Just shut up! This isn't really happening. It's just a dream.
Any minute now I'll wake up. Just relax, Melissa, any minute now.
So, how did it feel to kill a man, Melissa? Did it feel good? Right
now, Paul's having a popsicle in the morgue. How did it feel to put
your knife into his flesh? That steak was a lot tougher to cut than he
was, wasn't it?
You're not real.
Why are you acting like I don't exist? That really hurts. I'm part of
you. We're closer than any friends or lovers could ever be -- and I'll
with be with you until the very end. So tell me, what did it feel like?
He deserved to die. He didn't stop when I told him to. I did what I
had to do. Guys like that shouldn't live.
Oh...that's exactly what your father did, didn't he? He didn't stop
when you told him no, either.
How do you know about that?!
Melissa, how foolish of you. I was there. Remember that morning
when you were playing with your marbles near the top of the stairs?
And you pretended to forget to put them away? Didn't your father
always tell you to put away your marbles? Well, he sure was mad
when he fell down the stairs, wasn't he? He didn't even want to talk
to you...though, he couldn't say very much to you or anyone else
anyway.
That was an accident! Why can't anyone understand that? It was an
accident!
Sure it was.
Oh God! It's coming back to me. I can see it all happening again.
Daddy's at the bottom of the stairs, laying lifeless on a bed of
marbles. Mommy's yelling at me, what did you do?! I'm sorry.
Forgive me, Mommy. Forgive me, Daddy. I didn't mean to hurt you,
but you hurt me.
Damn you! Stop tormenting me! Go away, please, go away. I can't
bear it any longer. I will not go through it again. I will not be
tormented ever again. The steak knife....
Melissa, what are you doing? Do you realize what you are doing?
Shut up! Leave me alone. Oh God....
+ + + +
"What happened here, Bob?"
"I'm not sure, Sarge. Poor girl, looks like she stabbed herself all over.
Did it with that steak knife. Look at her eyes! I've never seen such
eyes before. Blood red. I wonder what could've possibly run
through her mind for her to stab herself like that."
"It's a sick and crazy world out here. Sometimes things like this
don't even shock me anymore. Okay, bring in forensics and let's get
Homicide on this one, just in case. And Bob, it's about noon -- Italian
or Chinese?"
THE SHATTERED DREAM
-------------------
Saloni Movani
Born in a land where struggle presides,
when life is a burden and sorrow fills young eyes.
This place where man and beast are but one,
and none can distinguish, but the color of one's tongue.
As poverty and crime pollute homes and streets,
terrors of abuse and neglect cripple young feet.
When hunger and disease destroy all forms of life,
and a quest for food and shelter is a continuing strife.
Where drugs and filth are found in school,
as the forces of terror and fear prevail in rule.
In a world where peace and harmony are unknown,
and every young creature fights a war of his own.
Even a mother's love no longer exists;
yet the curse of money no man can resist.
And if this child will survive in this game;
Heaven is his savior as Misery his name.
A FAREWELL TO DREAMS
--------------------
Margaret Lam
Those bare footprints upon the beach --
Perfect toes pointing forever forward;
Pairs of feet burning their imprints
Upon a field of silken sand.
The waves pounded in from the ocean
And lapped gently toward the shore.
She danced nimbly in the icy waters
As they twirled about her legs
Only to swiftly retreat in playful taunt:
A game of tag inviting the grown-up child.
The tide crashed upon the rock-like sentinels
And sprayed a fine mist of golden diamonds under the sun.
She laughed and is once more a child --
Braid flying and teeth flashing a gamin smile,
Sturdy legs tottering after seagulls
Offering the hot dog cupped in her hands.
Giant breakers hurtled from the depths
And daintly approached in frothy lace.
Five again in the heart of childhood --
Building fairy-tale castles from pails of wet sand --
Carefree and unhindered,
Her imagination shapes drawbridges and towers.
The ocean thunders across the beach
And sweeps its mighty hand across her playground
Yesteryear's footprints are smoothed away
As the castles of youth crumble into sand.
FEATURES
========
Marc Landas, **The Asian American**
An Asian American's view of the Los Angeles riots.
M. Connie Yeung, **Anti-Asian Sentiments in the 90's**
Katie Lin, **Beneath the Surface**
A student teacher tries to get though to her students.
Greg Osborn, **Higher Education: Asian Stories**
Tales of students from Hong Kong, the Phillipines and China.
THE ASIAN AMERICAN
------------------
Marc Landas
I'm sitting in the dark of my living room, tired from studying for
my up-coming finals. I rest my aching back on the soft cushions of
the sofa, searching for a comfort denied by the wooden seat I had
been sitting on all day, and gaze blankly at the television set.
Flashes of light shoot from the screen and dance chaotically on
every object in the room.
On the screen, a city is burning, building upon building set aflame
by an angry and mistreated people. A white truck driver is pulled
from his vehicle and beaten to a lump of flesh: the image lingers
throughout the newscast. The commentators express a disgusted
shock, seeming to have forgotten the centuries of similar beatings
handed out by their ancestors. Although they say nothing verbally,
I can tell that for once they know how it feels to be a "minority"
in America: their glamourous faces shine with a nervous sweat, and
their eyes which usually stare so confidently out of the screen now
seem to be pleading with the viewer, searching for compassion. For
once, they feel helpless. The tables are turned. Los Angeles is
being destroyed and there is nothing anyone "in power" can do about
it except flee to the churches and pray for it to be over. For an
entire day, democracy and law lie beaten and bone-crushed like the
white truck driver. Anarchy stands triumphant, a Black fist that
frightens a nation to idiocy.
Suddenly, a Korean man runs out of his store. He runs not in fear,
but in anger. Yelling something I can't make out, he lifts his
arms, in one hand the cold, black steel of a 9mm Gloc. Calmly, he
lets off a couple of shots, his arm jerking back from the kick of
every shot as empty shells spit from the side of the gun fall to the
ground.
Finish.
I'm sitting in shock. The scene plays and replays in my head in an
endless loop. The grocer running out, shooting. The grocer running
out, shooting. I have to smile. Nowhere to be seen are the rank
stereotypes I have always detested and which had even turned me
against my own. For once, the wise Oriental man wearing a hat and
slippers, the slanty-eyed gangster, the nerdy, astronomically
I.Q.'ed Asian scientist are gone, and an Asian man stands pointing
a gun at his tormentors. He stands a man, holding a gun and commanding
respect. True, some of the respect is for the gun, but the true
respect is for its user. In my mind, the spinelessly obedient Asian
man has been banished forever, replaced by a powerful Asian man.
A violent Asian man.
I stare at the screen for another few minutes, hoping to see
something -- anything -- of the Korean grocer. Nothing. The future
has come to me like a bullet to its target. It is a future which
looks shaky and uncertain, one with possibilities of harmony, but
only after an inevitable period of violence. What I see of the
future bothers me: I see the Asian American standing alone against
non-Whites on one side and Whites on the other. One side glowers
with animosity for the "condescending minority group", the other
demanding the return of their "stolen" jobs. When this time comes,
the obedient Asian need not show his face, for there will be no
place for him and his "peaceful nature. " There will be no place for
meekness, only action.
Slowly, I rise from the sofa, stretching my arms to the ceiling,
hoping for my back to loosen up. But the muscles are tense like the
strings on a guitar. A miserable future and a miserable back.
Lethargically, I drag myself to the bathroom. Time to sleep. Sleep
will be the remedy of all my pains.
I turn the faucet. Water gushes out violently, slamming itself into
the white metal of the bathroom sink like a miniature cataract.
Images. Feelings. The grocer running out. Calmly. Shooting.
Throbbing. Damn, my head hurts. I cup my hands to catch the
falling water before it can be lost down the dark swirl of the
drain. I splash my face. No throbbing. The cool water offers a
temporary solace from the incessant pounding of my mind. I reach
for the towel and rub it into my face, catching my own bloodshot
eyes in the mirror. Perhaps there is an alternative to the future I
have seen. The future demands change, change on our part. The
future demands a realization of who we really are as Asian Americans
and where we stand in this society dominated by Whites. In America,
all non-Whites are "minorities" before any nationality, non-White
before being African, Hispanic, Native American, or Asian. What we
are, is not White. Sadly, most Asians have forgotten this fact in
their attempts to assimilate into the White man's society, an
exclusive society we will never belong to and should not want to
belong to. Blinded by the decent position alloted to him in the
social strata, the Asian American has become a domesticated animal,
the freedom, self-reliance, and dignity of his past lost in the
mental stupor of the American Dream, thankful and ever so faithful
to the White hand that feeds it, the White foot that kicks it, ever
hoping to someday be like his gleaming master. We have adopted the
mental shackles other oppressed groups have ripped off.
Pathetically, the Asian American wears these manacles with a
senseless pride that I simply cannot understand. WAKE UP! I fling
the towel into some distant corner. It hits the wall and slides
crumpled to the floor. The future is still one of violence before
peace. History dictates this be so. It is inevitable. But we need
not stand alone. Strength comes with numbers. The condescending
attitudes must go. We must . . .
The thought is interrupted by the steady throbbing of my brain.
Sleep. I inch my way to my room, one hand cradling my tormented
temple, the other comforting my aching back. I crawl beneath the
blankets, the pain within my skull unaffected by the cool softness
of my pillow. The future makes my head hurt. Asian Americans make
my head hurt. AmeriKKKa makes me sick. I curl up like a dog and go
to sleep.
ANTI-ASIAN SENTIMENTS IN THE 90'S
---------------------------------
M. Connie Yeung
- "The Chinks are all right if they remain in their place. I
don't mind them working in the laundry business, but they
should not go any higher than that. After all, there aren't
even enough jobs for us whites, without them butting in."
(Takaki, p.240)
- "Japs Keep Moving -- This Is a White Man's Neighborhood"
(Takaki, p.240)
- "It's because of you mother-fucking Japs we're out of work!"
(CAAAV Voice, p.2)
(CAAAV Voice, p.2)
Certainly not isolated remarks, the striking similarity of these
four statements both characterizes the attitude many Americans
towards Asians, and also highlights the lack of progress made
towards the acceptance of Asians in America: whereas the first two
statements were made in the 1920's, the third was expressed in the
last decade, precipitating the fatal beating of Asian- American
Vincent Chin, and the last was expressed three years ago on a flyer
circulated at the University of Santa Barbara, CA, three years ago.
Beginning with the early arrival of Chinese immigrants in the
1800s, manifestations of anti-Asian sentiments took shape in the
form of racial slurs, physical harassment, economic and moral
deprivation. However, despite the growth of Asian-American
communities and the supposedly democratic melting pot idealogy
unique to American society, bias against Asians has not decreased.
On the contrary, a recent study by the U.S. Justice Department
reports a 62% increase in hate crimes against Asian-Americans over a
period of one year. (The Monitor, p.13) In an article in The Korea
Times, Charles Kim notes that physical violence against Asians in
America "has gone beyond just being on the rise," that in fact, over
the past five years, it has increased by at least 680%. In an era
of political correctness and an increasing awareness of diversity
and cultural identity, why has there been such a drastic increase in
racism against Asians?
One of the major reasons cited as a cause of anti-Asian attitude is
threatened economic interests. In a period of economic turmoil for
the U.S. -- while Japanese imports appear voluminous and takeovers
by Japanese companies cover the front page -- Japan-bashing as a
defensive reaction seems inevitable. Nonetheless, Japan-bashing
should, not be tolerated not only because of the negative
consequences it brings to the Asian-American community at large, but
also because of its underlying assumption that Japan is the leading
cause of America's economic problems. The current economic slump is
largely of our own making, due to of a huge national deficit
accumulated through years of overspending by our federal government
and as a result of our low national savings rate -- the average
American saves only about 3% of his or her income.
But the causes of Japan-bashing are not simply due to the general
public's ignorance of economic realities. The Japanese, and
subsequently, other Asian groups have become America's scapegoat not
merely as a result of their economic success, but also because of
their race. While Mitsubishi Estate's acquisition of Rockefeller
Center caused an uproar, the possession of the World Financial
Center by a Canadian company is largely unknown. Similarly, the
fact that the Dutch own as many American assets as the Japanese, and
that British investments are more than double Japanese holdings in
America have evoked little objection, or even attention (Garner,
p.4).
While the Japanese have been helping to boost the American economy,
they have been construed, with large support by the media, as
hostile foreigners whose main goal is to take over the country. The
same was true in the 19th Century when jobs became scarce for
Chinese laborers after the completion of the railroad on the Pacific
Coast, and Chinese laborers were forced to compete with white
settlers. The influx of Europeans at the same time aggravated the
competitive atmosphere, transforming the Chinese, who had once been
welcomed when work was plentiful, into objects of racism who were
treated worse than the newly arrived Europeans.
This unremitting hostility towards Asians is due first of all to our
obvious differences not only in physical appearance but also with
respect to our cultural backgrounds, both of which are not as easily
assimilable to Westernized, white American culture as those of
European immigrants. Obviously, it is easier to attack those that
stand out from the crowd than those that blend into it, and so
Asians are more vulnerable to animosity arising out of either a
sense of economic disparity or simply xenophobic tendencies.
Second, the common stereotype of Asians as the "model minority" not
only pits them against white Americans but also against other
minority groups. The perception of Asians as diligent and
successful provokes other groups to question their own standing in
society, and the apparent differences in areas such as academics and
financial status ultimately create tension.
Third, these stereotypes and the antagonism they provoke are
encouraged to a large extent by the media, which does nothing to
combat society's ignorance of the realities of Asian-American life.
Negative aspects, such as the population of Asian refugees living on
welfare and the numbers of Asians living in crowded slum areas like
Chinatown, are either downplayed or completely overlooked. The
media blackout on violent crimes against Asians has not been due to
a lack of front-page material, either. Consider the following
stories from New York City alone:
- In March 1990, a Hong Kong immigrant was stabbed to death on a
crowded N train. The murderer yelled, "Hey, eggroll! What are you
looking at?", killed him, and then calmly stepped off the train at
the next stop.
- In Bensonhurst, flyers were distributed warning that Koreans and
Chinese acting as drug dealers and drug lords planned to take over
the community by 1992.
- An Asian man was beaten with bats and rocks by thirty African-
American and Latino youths calling him a "fucking Chinese."
- The truck of an Indian family living in a predominantly white
neighborhood was blown up while parked in their driveway.
In comparison to the Howard Beach and Bensonhurst cases, the
publicity given to these incidents of racism was miniscule at most.
Even when cases involving Asians are mentioned, the media influences
public perception of Asians through the focus and timing of the
article. The 1991 rape and murder of Konerak Sinthasomphone by
Jeffrey Dahmer called the public's attention to bias against the
black and gay communities, while the 1989 shooting of Southeast
Asian children by Richard Patrick Purdy resulted in an outcry for
gun control. But not a word was spoken about racism against Asian-
Americans in either of these cases. At other times, incidents of
anti-Asian violence are covered only to fault other groups. As
Miriam Ching Louie reports in Asian Week, the media's focus on the
fight between blacks and Vietnamese, just when the verdicts for the
murder of Yusef Hawkins were about to be announced, was only to
divert the public's attention from Bensonhurst and show that blacks
are capable of racism too. In this regards, then, these media
actively contributes to the growth of "another American racism."
(Zia, Helen)
Thus, anti-Asian racism is more than merely a reaction against a
perceived economic takeover by the Japanese, nor will it disappear
simply when America's economy recovers. Anti-Asian racism can be
overcome only if the myth of the model minority is abandoned as the
ultimately negative stereotype that it is, and the broad reality of
the Asian-American experience is fairly and responsibly explored and
reported. Racism and the hostility and violence caused by it will
continue to exist as long as we are perceived as foreigners in
competition for limited resources, rather than as the Americans that
we are, as equally and as unconditionally any other group in this
country.
REFERENCES
Garner, Al.
"Why are we picking on the Japanese?"
Pacific Citizen. March 18, 1992.
Hashimoto, Ben.
"Stop the bashing on both sides, he says."
Pacific Citizen. March 28, 1992.
Kim, Charles.
"Asians Increasingly Targeted in Mounting Waves of Ethnic Violence."
The Korea Times -- New York. August 3, 1991.
Louie, Miriam Ching.
"New York Group Fights Growing Wave of Anti-Asian Violence."
Asian Week. July 6, 1990.
Takaki, Ronald.
Strangers From a Different Shore.
New York: Penguin Books.
Yamauchi, Deni.
"For Asian Americans, U.S. climate of 90's is more hostile."
The Monitor, Center for Democratic Renewal. May 1990.
Zia, Helen.
"Another American Racism."
The New York Times. September 12, 1991.
BENEATH THE SURFACE
-------------------
Katie Lin
"I would like all of you to sit in a semi-circle, I have a surprise
for you." As I spoke to my tenth-grade English class they slowly
walked into the classroom and seated themselves. "We're going to do
a 'Donahue Show'." As I'd expected, this new idea stirred some
excitement in the class. Curiously discussing the idea among
themselves, they formed a semi-circle with unusual promptness.
The "Donahue Show" came to mind when I was sitting in front of my
computer trying to think of a creative lesson plan for the next
day's class. I vowed to myself to come up with something
interesting, something special that would make the students excited
about Amy Tan's ~The Joy Luck Club~. I can still remember the
pressure I felt at that time since her book was the last I would be
using before my term as student teacher ended. After the
discouragement of my initial days of teaching, I needed some
reassurance that I was a capable teacher, that I hadn't chosen the
wrong profession.
My experiences using other materials for class prior to Amy Tan's
book were not successful. I remember panicking over what materials
to choose when looking at a class that consisted of mostly
Hispanics, some Afro-Americans, one Asian, and a few others whose
nationalities I wasn't certain of. My cooperating teacher, a
certified teacher who worked with me on my lesson plans and observed
me while I taught, suggested I teach a grammar lesson for my first
class, and in my confusion, I took her advice. Though the class
seemed successful in that the students behaved well and seemed to be
learning something, I had a feeling that they were bored.
Furthermore, I didn't like spending a whole class period on grammar.
So I decided no more grammar lessons and chose to do short stories.
From then on we spent nearly half of the semester on short stories
such as "The Birds," "The Most Dangerous Game," and "The Lady and
The Tiger." The first few weeks were terrible. Attendence worsened
as the days went by. Class discussions were dry and unproductive.
Most of the students either didn't want to do their homework or
would hand it in weeks late. I would threaten them with zeros if
they didn't do their work, but that only made the atmosphere of the
classroom more unpleasant.
"What went wrong?" I asked myself whenever I had a bad day in
school. At first I blamed myself for the uncreative lesson plan.
Then I blamed the students for not being motivated. I blamed my
cooperating teacher for discouraging me from using more progressive
methods such as group work. I even blamed NYU for feeding me so
much of the newest teaching theories without preparing me for
dealing with the students and teachers who were firmly entrenched in
old habits and approaches.
Desperate, I tried to make my lesson plans more fun and creative.
Without telling my cooperating teacher my plan, I asked the students
to write stories in groups. Althought most used the time to
socialize, a few worked on their own to create wonderful stories.
Class dicussions became livelier and my relationship with the
students improved.
But this was not good enough. I still felt that everyone had to try
too hard. I had to try very hard to enjoy teaching, and the
students had to try very hard to stay interested. After some soul
searching and meeting with my classmates at NYU, I decided that the
main problem was the curriculum. Did the students find "The Most
Dangerous Game" intriguing? Could they relate to the horror of "The
Birds?" Did they find the treatment of love in "The Lady and The
Tiger" meaningful to their lives? And did I as a a teacher care for
these subjects? Did I show enthusiam when I taught? Sadly, I had
to answer "no" to these questions.
~The Joy Luck Club~ was my last hope in my quest for meaningful,
interesting material. When the bookroom teacher informed me of the
arrival of the books I was overjoyed, but yet also worried. Would
the students be interested in learning about a culture that they had
almost no knowledge of? Would exposure to the suffering in Chinese
society have a negative effect on how they'd view Chinese people and
culture? Would they understand the family values that were deeply
rooted in each character? Most of all, would they label me as the
Chinese-American teacher who liked to teach from Chinese books?
With these questions, I began the first chapter while comforting
myself that nothing could be worse than it already was. To my
surprise, a controversial issue came up in the very first story.
The mother in the story had to abandon her baby girl when running
for her life during the Sino-Japanese War in the 1930's. Some
students reacted quite emotionally to the abandonment. Some
sympathized with the mother and agreed that she had to do so in
order for both of them to survive. One student said that the mother
should not be blamed since even today, during times of peace, some
parents still have give up their children. Another student bitterly
described his own abandonment when his parents divorced and he was
left with his grandmother. After this, a few other students spoke
of similiar instances, some of which I suspected were from their own
personal experiences.
By the end of ~The Joy Luck Club~, I was so surprised and moved by
this outpouring of emotion that the idea of the "Donahue Show" came
to mind. I saw a need for them to get into the characters more, to
find their common grounds, perhaps, even to find a voice within
them. I asked a few students to be guests for the show by taking on
the role of some of the characters from the book. As the host of the
show, I introduced the students by the name of the characters they
were portraying and asked them to tell their stories based on their
understanding of that character. Almost all the students were able
to adopt the personality of their respective character and answer
the questions raised by the audience comprised of the rest of the
class. The discussion often got heated when we came upon a
controversial issue. One special moment occurred when we were
discussing the "shou" (a Chinese term for honor and respect for
parents, in-laws, and elders) in the Chinese family. Some felt that
shou was blindly given by the daughter to her mother-in-law in
~The Joy Luck Club~. I responded by explaining to them that at that
time, people were expected to have shou for older family members
unconditionally. Most of the students understood my point.
However, when relating this issue to their own lives, some shared
that they did not feel that their parents had earned their respect.
I saw a great deal of anger, resentment, bitterness as the students
shared more of their personal stories. The characters' experiences
seemed to provoke many hidden feelings, feelings that were strong
and that had been buried for some time.
From the very first day I'd come to class, I noticed and was shocked
by the students' backgrounds. Most of them were from broken
families. If they were fortunate, they had at least one parent.
Very few lived with both of their parents. That day, for the first
time in my life, I wished I had suffered like they had so that I
could tell them that I understood. But I couldn't.
I didn't plan to use the class as a therapy session. Traditionally,
as I remembered, teachers didn't like dealing with their students'
personal lives. Though I didn't understand why, I felt the need to
get involved. I could not heal their pain or solve their problems,
but I wanted at least to be able to see the person behind the face,
to recognize and understand their suffering. I could no longer
simply blame the students for not being motivated.
I still don't know what to do as a teacher when the reality of my
students' lives surfaces. I didn't know how to respond when one of
my students came up to me with court papers, after a two-week
absence, explaining that she had testified against her mother's
boyfriend for raping her. By the time I realized that it was a rape
victim standing before me, she had already gone back to her seat.
What is my job, my duty, as a teacher? I don't quite know yet.
However, I do know that there is a person behind every face, and I
as a teacher, have to see that person.
HIGHER EDUCATION: ASIAN STORIES
-------------------------------
Greg Osborn
Residence hall prank fire alarms at 2:05 in the middle of the night
. . . Food fights in the cafeteria . . . Typing the term paper at
four in the morning while on the twelfth can of 'Jolt' . . .
Ah, the plight of the typical American university student! It's as
if our entire world rotates around each semester's events and
particular requirements. It certainly seemed that way to me anyway,
at least until I spent three years living and working in Hong Kong.
In August of 1988, I boldly journeyed where no member of my family
had gone before and took a position teaching at Hong Kong Baptist
College in their business and education departments. My second year
there, I also worked as a Student Affairs Officer, teaching English
conversation both years in my spare time to Chinese students eager
to improve their grasp of the "international language." My third
year found me working in Hong Kong's international garment industry,
a job which brought me into contact with customers from all over the
world.
While working in Hong Kong, I had the opportunity to visit many
other Asian nations. In my travels, I often visited foreign
universities and met many students. The contrast between what I
experienced here in the States and what I witnessed in many of these
places is truly sobering.
- *HIGHER EDUCATION IN HONG KONG**
One of the most striking contrasts, generally speaking, is the
difference between how Asian students look at education, especially
higher education, compared with how American students look at it.
In Hong Kong, only about 3-4% of those young people who have
recently graduated from secondary school (or "high school" for us)
have the opportunity to attend a university. This percentage might
now be slightly higher now with the recent opening of the Hong Kong
University of Science and Technology. Only another 9% are able to
attend polytechnic and trade schools. This is in sharp contrast to
the United States, where nearly a fifth of its youth attend colleges
and universities, with still more enrolled in trade and specialty
schools or attending as part-time or evening students. What's more,
these percentages could be higher if America's youth was more
inclined to take advantage of these great opportunities. There are
hundreds of thousands of colleges available in the United States,
many with entrance requirements that are relatively low, but a large
number of these are not functioning at full capacity. In contrast,
there are so few colleges and universities in Hong Kong that the
other 87-88% of Hong Kong's youth can never attend simply because
there is not enough space to accomodate them.
This situation is very similar to those of the other Asian countries
I visited as well, and because of the difficulty of getting into any
institution of higher education, by far the majority of the students
I met took their studies very seriously. The spirit of the students
is remarkable. Just pondering the things they go through on a
regular basis leaves me mentally drained. Many of their lives
touched my heart, and I'd like to share a few stories about some
young people I met whose experiences and personalities changed the
way I looked at higher education, the United States, and my life.
- *EMILY DE LA CRUZ, FROM THE PHILIPPINES**
Emily de la Cruz is a young Filipino woman who is currently working
as an amah -- or domestic helper -- in Hong Kong. Of the six million
people living in Hong Kong, nearly 60,000 of them are Filipinos,
making this ethnic group the largest non-Chinese population group in
the colony. (Americans comprise the second largest group, with
about 35,000 living and working around the isles.) Probably 90% of
these Filipinos are women who work as domestic helpers. A small
percentage of the Filipino men who are there, and an even smaller
number of Filipino women, work in the entertainment industry as
singers, musicians, dancers, and other professions. These are
considered as the "Elite Filipinos" because they enjoy the prestige
and financial reward that come with their positions. Still others
work in prostitution, which is rampant in many parts of Asia.
Working and living conditions for most Filipinos in Hong Kong are
extremely poor. The average Filipino worker makes approximately
HK$3200 (about US$400) per month, most of which is sent back to the
Philippines to support the family. Many Filipino workers have
children at home, often infants. They are allowed to return home
only once every two years, usually for about two to three weeks at
most.
Most domestic workers live in the home of their employer, but their
living quarters are generally about the size of an average American
bathroom, if they're lucky. The room is usually too small for a
window or a regular-sized bed, has limited storage space, and no
air-conditioning. The last is especially significant in Hong Kong,
where the humidity level is above 80% for nine to ten months out of
the year, and well over that figure, with correspondingly high
temperatures, in the summer. In Hong Kong, you can literally turn
wet from sweat just walking down the street.
In most cases, amahs are treated as second- or even third-class
citizens, literally as modern-day slaves. As well as cooking and
cleaning, they care for all the children. They do all the household
shopping, run errands, wash and do laundry -- sometimes by hand -- as
well as iron. Those even more unfortunate do this as well as work
in their employer's factories, and some are even sexually abused.
But these women generally do not or cannot complain for two reasons.
First, it usually doesn't do them any good as it is extremely
difficult to win such a case in the Hong Kong labour tribunals and
courts. Second, it is a loss of "face" for someone to either fail
or have problems on the job. To be fired or to quit before
finishing their contract is a disgrace to the family they are trying
to support financially, and no one at home really tries to
understand their situation. Thus, the large majority of them choose
to suffer silently and survive the best they can until their
contracts end and they can move on to another position.
One of the saddest parts of this story is that most of the Filipinos
who come to Hong Kong are educated. Emily, for example, studied
engineering at the University of Manila, the most prestigious
university in the Philippines. Finding her savings running low and
limited financial aid opportunities in her country, she decided to
come to Hong Kong and work as a domestic helper for a short time to
save enough money to complete her final year of study. However, for
various reasons, after more than three years, she is still in Hong
Kong working as an amah, and has sadly even lost her initial
ambition of going back and completing her degree. Unfortunately,
her case, and her broken dream, is all too common.
- *ZHAO PANG ZHANG, IN BEIJING, P.R.C.**
Pang was a graduate student at the University of Beijing, the most
prestigious university in the country. (It is important to note
that the university has lost some of its preeminence since the
Tiananmen Square crackdown due to their mandatory requirements of
military training for all new students.) The university accepts
only about 100 graduate students each academic year in all fields
for all of China. In a country that has over one billion
inhabitants, acceptance into this school is an honor highly coveted
and almost impossible, and only the most talented, the hardest
working, and the best connected can get in. When I met him in April
of 1990, Pang was a Ph.D. student studying law, and he dreamed of
someday being involved in history-making events.
But despite being at the "Harvard" of China, Pang lived an extremely
humble existence in the men's dormitory. His hall was, at best,
disgusting. I have worked in college dorms for many years and seen
numerous others, but I have never seen one so lacking in modern
conveniences and so run down in basic facilities as Pang's dorm at
China's "premier" university. The entrance of the building greeted
one with overgrown bushes and a generous scattering of lunch boxes,
cups, and newspapers. Inside, the hallways were cluttered with old,
rusting bicycles, the occasional trash bins were all overflowing,
and the windows were often either partially broken or boarded over
completely. On his floor, the combined kitchen and community
bathroom were both filthy and foul smelling, obviously cleaned very
infrequently. His room had a cold cement floor and walls that were
dirty and peeling. He slept in an old metal bunk bed on a worn-out
mattress. He made the best of it, however, and was pleased to have
the opportunity to be there.
In other ways, too, the University of Beijing reminded me of a river
whose surface calm belied the strong and turbulent currents below.
The university campus had a quiet peacefulness to it and seemed in
fact to consist of a series of water scenes. I particularly
remember the islands which had traditional Chinese pagodas
tastefully speckling their landscapes. ?There were always lots of
people meandering around, riding or walking their bicycles or
strolling with their hands clasped behind their backs, and their
faces generally appeared open and cordial. There were more than
just students on the campus. Elderly men played card games on park
benches near the water, and fathers bought treats off vending carts
for their children who were jumping rope in the streets. The campus
buildings were functional in design, not very fancy but sufficient.
Construction took place at various points throughout the campus, but
it appeared to me that many other buildings in need of general
maintenance were being ignored.
But beneath this apparent tranquil beauty are students who, if they
dare open up to you, will reveal that they feel extremely bitter,
hopeless, and lost inside. After all, this is the university that
inspired those protesting "hooligans," and where, in June of 1989,
thousands of pro-democracy demonstrators were suppressed by the
People's Liberation Army, a military "for the people." These people
are now very careful with what they say and whom they associate with
these days. No one really trusts anyone else, since everyone is
potentially a government informant. The place we stayed at on
campus was quite possibly bugged, and the students often turned on
the radio to drown out their voices when they did open up. These
students, including Pang, know what really happened and what is
truly going on within the government, but they are powerless to do
anything about it.
The majority of China's one billion inhabitants, however, have no
way of learning the "truth" other than the information that is
controlled by the Party. They believe what little they hear because
it is from the government and because, isolated from all other forms
of communication, they have no reason not to believe. Particularly
in northern and internal China, most people have limited or no
access to the outside world, and rarely if ever do they get to know
foreigners well enough to hear differently from the party's official
version of the world. The communists learned a long time ago that
if you control the media, then you control the people, and those
presently in power are determined to hold onto one of the last
bastions of communism. These and other social and economic
injustices drive many students to schools in the United States and
other countries freer than their own.
Pang served as our tour guide for many of the worthwhile sights in
Beijing during my trip, and both he and I shed tears when we had say
good-bye. I wanted so badly to help him. It's very frustrating to
know that my letters probably will never reach him . . . .
- *YIM CHI SHING, FROM SHENZHEN, P.R.C.**
I first met Chi Shing in Shenzhen, a growing city right across the
border from Hong Kong. He was working at a relatively new and
modern university, but he wanted desperately to come to America for
his master's and eventually his doctorate degrees. He made friends
with all Americans who crossed his path, practiced his English
diligently, and seemed open to the religion that many of these
people believed in. At this time, a good friend of mine was working
in China on a six-month sabbatical from a university in
Pennsylvania, and he befriended Chi Shing and arranged for him to
come to Hong Kong. This was the first time Chi Shing had ever been
outside his home country. He stayed with my roommate, a fellow
American, and me. I talked with Chi Shing about Christianity and
took him to a Chinese Christian fellowship in Hong Kong. He
appeared very interested and made a friend at the church, a Chinese
girl who teaches in Hong Kong and has a fascination for things in
China. After Chi Shing returned to Shenzhen, we wrote to each other
often, and Chi Shing's English constantly improved.
Meanwhile, my friend, upon returning to Pennsylvania, worked hard to
open doors for Chi Shing to go to that state for graduate work. It
seemed his only obstacle was getting out of his own country,
obtaining the all-important and much-sought-after exit visa. I did
what I could for Chi Shing by channeling forms to him which were
extremely difficult to get in China through a private service in
Hong Kong. In the meantime, Chi Shing made friends with two
American missionary teachers in Shenzhen who immediately took a
liking to him. They spoke about Christ with him often, and
eventually paid for his plane ticket over to America.
My friend from Pennsylvania was very excited when Chi Shing finally
arrived in Pennsylvania to go to school and work on his master's.
After two weeks, however, Chi Shing showed that he had other ideas.
He went to Washington, D.C., to visit several Chinese students, some
of whom were old friends and others who were acquaintances of people
he knew in China. He loved it there and was able to secure a job
working immediately in a university lab thanks to a last-minute
opening, and he was also able to go to school there with his Chinese
friends. He had already applied to this school before leaving
China, but had decided against it due to the high expenses involved.
Because my friend was able to do so much for him at the Pennsylvania
university, it had seemed the better option at the time.
Since arriving in Washington, Chi Shing has seemed to go his own way
and not be too interested in doing much with those who helped him
get there. This whole experience has been quite disheartening for
my Pennsylvania friend. Some people familiar with the situation
have even questioned whether Chi Shing may have simply used all the
kind-hearted and helpful Christian foreigners to facilitate his
departure from the repressive P.R.C. They question whether he was
ever truly interested in their friendship and religion.
- *WHERE DO THESE STORIES LEAVE US?**
It's important to remember that life is a journey pieced together by
various experiences. These stories and the lives they depict are
certainly in no way concluded. The experiences and dreams of these
students continue today, influenced by the people and changing
political climates around them. After personally sharing in them, I
for one will always have a much greater respect for what others go
through daily in other parts of the world, as well as an
appreciation for what I have in the United States.
POETRY
======
Ivy Sta. Iglesia, **The Unwritten Will**
Vineel Sha, **Landing in Love**
Alex Hsu, **The White Horse**
Dennis Chun, **Archaeology**
Michele Mitsumori, **Sightseeing**
THE UNWRITTEN WILL
------------------
Ivy Sta. Iglesia
i caught scraps
from the table of our
conversations
father wait . . .
woven in imagination
I'll leave you
dreams, he said
chickens scratched at patches of brown earth
the whistles of workmen wandered
along the road
a week's laundry flagged at
passing birds
the stones in my hand
thrown
to splash in the murkiness of a pig's trough
father please
i don't see . . .
a webbing of words,
of his time-eaten memories
whispered in
an afternoon doze
collected in puddles left by
a mid-day shower
seeping into freshly-dug holes
and creeping out in the
wheezing labored coughs of a
passing train (of thought)
father slow down
i can't hear . . .
the silence he wrapped
around himself
dribbling gibberish
in the fading brightness
of twilight
onto the clinical white of
his hospital gown
dull stares from dark pupils
non-words that seemingly saw
only me
i held my breath
he forgot to take his
and when he left
it was quiet
i had his images
but father kept
his eyes
and i
i lost my hearing
long ago
LANDING IN LOVE
---------------
Vineel Shah
They swore to be together forever. When forever came, they were
alone.
They stood at the edge of time. Should they jump and risk their
souls? Or should they stay safe and sound in our reality? In the
end of their beginning, they kissed, grasped hands, and leapt into
the abyss. They fell....
Falling, slowly their bodies melted, slowly their minds dissolved.
They became essence spirit emotion, their projected souls spun about
them in a swhirling whirl of color light shadow. Their emotions
coalesced into a circle of solid gold, revolving and holding them,
binding them. Was the fall forever? They dared to hope.
The gold gradually turned to green. Their love turned to fear.
They hit forever, hard. The landing shattered the gold green band,
their bodies lay in the dust of their emotions.
They picked themselves up, and, standing on eternity, looked at each
other. Saw, in each other's eyes, isolation.
Forever,
alone.
THE WHITE HORSE
---------------
Alex Hsu
If God doth truly guide and walk with me
Then why am I entrapped in this Abyss?
Excessively I grovelled for life's lees.
I lived my life as purely hit or missed.
When saddled up I ride without restraint.
Dismount and stakes doth once again ensnare.
And so I dance and cry in this black rain,
Why loved ones blind to promised land so rare?
Oh why can no one see this light but me;
Why allies censure, scold in name of care?
Prosaic life doth come alive with steed,
Why family weep and leave with hatred bear?
I laugh and sneer at thoughts of "slave" with bliss
Just please, white horse, just give another kiss.
ARCHAEOLOGY
-----------
Dennis Chun
What lies behind those eyes of yours?
Those eyes that can lay waste to my world
with only the barest flicker
Or when you smile
and those eyes of yours glint and gleam and crinkle
Don't you know what that does to me?
Then let me tell you:
I am a child again
just a child
and that world is not so dark after all
When you are silent
buried beneath words too strange to utter
those eyes of yours contain depths unknown
like fossilized sheets of earth
I know there are flames and volcanoes within you
I've seen them
But don't you know that your silence burns me so much more?
It's true:
words are just "clothes for our thoughts"
but I am naked
so naked you'll never know
I could rush on and on with these thoughts from a discarded night
hoping to reach you beneath your layers
But my fingertips are wet with blood
from scraping at the ground
And my voice has grown thick with scars
Because you won't listen
Or will you?
Yes father:
it's me
only
me
SIGHTSEEING
-----------
Michele Mitsumori
The tonsured monk closed his eyes
and chanted slowly,
his arms swinging like censers,
splashing himself with fuel.
The serenity of his blackening form
amidst the snapping banners of flame
caught their eyes and imagination:
How he must be drifting
cut loose from sensation
by incense and sutra,
even now dissolving among the lotus
and the sounds
of one hand clapping.
They watched with awe
as the flames took hold,
wished for themselves
such transcendant resolve,
and turned away
finally,
sighing,
regretful,
envious.
FICTION
=======
Dennis Chun, **Mia's Serenade**
Michele Mitsumori, **Fear of Housewives**
Linne Ha, **Cage**
Wendy Wo, **Coty**
MIA'S SERENADE
--------------
Dennis Chun
In this busy Seoul street, where the traffic and people swarm by in
a faceless tide, where one feels either an intense loneliness or
intense belonging, where nightfall brings with it a mysterious
beauty, Mia looks around the room she is standing in, which opens
directly onto the sidewalk and street -- the front wall having been
torn down -- and fidgets nervously. Her fingers pass restlessly over
the cracked, peeling plaster of the side wall. Everything -- the
chairs, the stained carpet, the hanging strings of bamboo beads
which guard the entrance to the back room -- is cast in a fiery, but
strangely cold shimmer: the result of the red light bulb which hangs
from the ceiling. She notices that all down the road there are the
same red lights, the same open rooms, so that the entire street is
bathed by a blood red glow, like one big, gaping wound. She can
feel that red light on her bare skin, and even through her clothes --
the blue denim shirt with the sleeves cut off and her skin tight
shorts. It reminds her, she thinks, of the time she got that rash
from some plant, and the way it spread all over her body, until it
nearly consumed her. This red light too, burns all over her body,
like some fierce disease.
Keep calm, she scolds herself. You'll get used to this. She thinks
back to the time when she was a little girl -- even though she is
still a little girl -- when her grandmother set up a bathtub of
scalding water, and how her grandmother had entered first, then told
Mia to get in.
"Hurry up stupid! Get in before it cools off." And how she had
dipped just her one finger in, testing the water, and said, "I
can't, it's too hot! I'll burn up into smoke and disappear!"
"Ya! Do what your grandmother says, otherwise you'll get a beating,
you silly fool! Besides, the hot water is good for you." So that's
why you have all those wrinkles, Mia thought to herself. All this
hot water has dried you up like a prune!
But she knew the beating was not just an empty threat. So she put
her right foot in first, carefully watching for tendrils of smoke to
drift out of the water -- in which case the beating would have
sounded much better -- then slowly her entire leg went in, burning,
screaming, feeling as if she would surely die. And when she was
completely immersed, it suddenly happened: she couldn't feel the
pain anymore.
She remembers this now, as she has done before in moments of
darkness, to draw from it that strength which in childhood seems so
majestic, so invincible. A few days at the most, she thinks to
herself. A few days, and I will get used to this too.
She can recall other moments from her dark past, if she allowed
herself to, when she would huddle in the thick, night air outside
her house, with her arms crossed tightly against her flat chest,
like the straps of a strait jacket, feeling the sting of a rebuke
from her father -- the venom of his words -- and at other times the
familiar, but vague, feeling that she belonged elsewhere, in another
time, another place, that wherever she went, she would always feel
the part of the stranger, the imposter. And she would cry to the
night sky. She would wonder why God had made her so sensitive, so
fragile, so weak, in a world that demanded strength and the sweet
numbness of indifference in order to survive. She cried often,
feeling her emotions rage within her like an inferno, uncontrollable
and chaotic, dangerously fierce, and because her young mind could
never find the words to explain or describe these feelings, she
suffered from not knowing WHY..."Why do I feel this way?"..."Why am
I here?" And when she couldn't find the answers, she learned to numb
the pain, to anesthetize it with injections of cold indifference.
She learned to wipe the tears with the back of her hand, inhale
deeply, scold herself, curse her tears, her weakness, and allow the
numb vacancy to spread its tentacles throughout her body, calming
her sensitive spirit into dull, sleep-like submission.
Mia can feel her belt bite into her waist, printing a raw strip of
flesh. She sucks in her stomach, and wedges her thumb into the gap,
trying to be as inconspicuous about it as possible. She breathes a
sigh of relief. Her eyes pass fleetingly over each passing person,
some of them men and women on their way home from work, or just
strolling about indifferently, others, businessmen with a lusty
glint in their eyes. She does not call out to them, not like
Chunsa, Jinyae, and Eunyoung -- her "co-workers." She does not strut
around in long, slinky strides, or, like some of the more aggressive
girls down the street, forcibly grab unwary passers-by, taunting
them with a seductive drawl, "Come into my room and talk with me."
She wonders how long it took Chunsa and the other girls to act so
casually desperate, so calloused. A part of her admires these
women, for their raw, sexual honesty, but another part, the utterly
frightened one, sees her own mirror reflection.
"Ya! Mia!" It is Chunsa. Her Korean is harsh and informal, not the
deferent form usually used by strangers. "Ya! Why do you look so
scared? No one's going to want to be with you if you look as if
someone's trying to kill you. Here," she says, placing her hands on
her hips and gyrating them in a sensuous grind, "move around like
this, and you'll have men coming to you on their knees!" Chunsa
erupts into laughter and turns to Eunyoung and Jinyae, who shriek
back their approval, bending over and slapping their thighs.
Mia turns her face away and leans her cheek against the doorway.
She thinks of another not so distant memory. In this one she is
walking home with her mother, helping her push the large wooden cart
her mother uses to sell the rice dumplings filled with sweet black
beans, the dried squid, and other snacks. Mia's short arms can
barely reach the handles, but she feels proud in helping to ease the
burden off her mother's tired shoulders. Some day, she dreams,
she'll go to school and make something of herself.
Her mother abruptly stops the cart. Mia pokes her head around, and
sees in front of them an injured magpie, its right wing clipped,
tattered and bloody. It hobbles around in a drunken dance, futilely
flapping its one good wing and squawking a high pitched scream. It
is just a baby.
Both Mia and her mother stand above the fallen bird.
"Mommy, what happened to it?"
Her mother does not answer, and instead clucks her tongue in
sadness.
"Can we take it home? Maybe we can fix whatever's wrong."
Her mother bends down and gently places the bird in her palm, softly
stroking the slope of its beak with her finger, until it finally
calms down. It looks quiet and peaceful, and for a moment, Mia
thinks that it's dead, until she notices its breast rising and
falling in a weak, soft rhythm. She also hears a flutter of sound,
the tiniest trace of a song, escaping from the bird. Her mother
raises the bird up to eye level, carefully examining its wing, which
is streaked with caked blood. Then, she wraps her two fingers
around its tiny throat, and, with one swift jerk, breaks its neck.
Mia gasps in horror. She looks first at the motionless bird, then
at her mother, the first cries of anger rising in her throat. But
she is silenced. Her mother's eyes contain not the satisfied gleam
of the kill, but that of the defeated, of the hopeful turned
despairing. Mia has never seen that look before and is frightened.
When did she become so old? she wonders.
She is suddenly distracted from her daydream by the appearance of
two men, one an older gentleman wearing a tattered gray suit, the
other considerably younger. They are both standing in front of the
room occupied by Mia and the other girls, and it is immediately
apparent that the older man knows these girls well.
"Ah, Chunsa! It's been much too long since I've last seen you. But
you know, I'm not such a young man anymore, and certainly not what I
used to be." He pats and prods Chunsa none too affectionately, but
she laughs nevertheless.
"God knows, none of us are," she replies. "But people are like
~kimchee~. As we get older we become more flavorful." She traces her
fingertip down his left cheek delicately. "More spicy."
He laughs and draws her hand away from his face. "You don't have to
convince me, you know that. We've shared some very good memories,
you and I..." His eyes turn glassy with the thought. "But anyway,"
he says, with a sudden burst of energy, "I'm not here for myself.
Where are you?" He turns around to the other man, who has been
anxiously looking up and down the street, the whites of his wide
open eyes tinged red from the lights. Mia looks at the young man,
and notices in glimpses his closely cropped hair, the mole on his
left cheek, the brightness of his green and white checkered shirt,
but her eyes rest finally on his hands, and the way they clench and
unclench silently, like lips mouthing empty words.
"This is my nephew," the uncle says, pulling him by the arm to draw
his attention. "He leaves for military service tomorrow, and,
well...he is still just a boy, if you know what I mean." He smiles
slyly, as if to say, "He's only my nephew, don't blame me? for his
'condition'."
"Uncle, please. Let's go. I want to go back --"
The sound of flesh meeting flesh -- a backhand swipe to the face --
flashes like a crack of the whip, and Mia, who had all this time
been listening, feels her own hidden bruises clamor for attention.
She can feel her eyes welling with tears and she struggles fiercely
to control the fire, to douse the flames, to soothe the burn.
"For the last time we are not going back," the uncle says angrily.
"We're here now, so just do this and I'll drive you back home. You
should be thanking me for making you into a man." He turns to the
women and chuckles uncomfortably.
The nephew is surprisingly calm, his hand slowly tracing the red
track under his right eye left behind by his uncle's wedding ring.
But Mia keeps her eyes on his free hand, which is now clenched
tightly, the veins raised in stark relief, and she can almost feel
his nails digging half-crescent trenches into his palm. "Which girl
do I go with?" he quietly asks.
"There, that's better." He turns to Chunsa. "Take him and show him
a good time. Make sure --"
"I want to go." It is Mia. "Let me go with him."
At first, both the uncle and Chunsa look at her angrily, but
starting with a low, soft chuckle, Chunsa erupts into hysterical
laughter, which is soon joined by that of the other girls, a chorus
of cackles. The uncle looks confusedly at Chunsa. When her
laughter ebbs, she leans over and whispers something into his ear,
and now it is his turn to burst into laughter.
"It's settled then," he says. He grabs his nephew's arm and pulls
him toward Mia. "Go with her, she'll take good care of you." More
laughter.
Mia leads him through the hanging beads, barely listening when
Chunsa says, "Remember what I taught you!"
They both enter the back room, which is sparsely decorated, with one
hard mattress placed in the center of the room, a bureau with a
mirror by the far wall, and hanging on the near wall, a traditional
Korean painting of mountains rising out of a mist. The one naked
lightbulb sends a bright, harsh light from the ceiling, so that both
Mia and the young man squint when they enter the room.
She undresses quickly, and does not hear him when he says, "I'm not
so sure about this. Maybe we can just sit here and talk. My uncle
will never know." She does not see his trembling hands, as her own
steady ones unbutton his shirt tenderly and take off his shoes and
pants. Nor does she feel him, as he enters her, gasping in
alternating fits of fright and ecstasy: a sunset seen for the first,
or last, time.
She feels and hears only the squawking of the magpie, the one who
couldn't fly, whose song of pain reaches her even now, and she is a
part of that melody, has become a strain of that music: a mournful
serenade that lingers with the finite grace of an echo, only slowly
bowing down to silence.
And when he is done, expelling one final, heaving breath and
collapsing in a heap on top of her, she rolls to her side and
quietly tells him to leave. Put the money on the bureau.
Outside, the red lights burn all down the street.
FEAR OF HOUSEWIVES
------------------
Michelle Mitsumori
One recent Sunday afternoon in Hong Kong, a record number of housewives
packed themselves into the Shatin New Town Plaza. I emerged from the
railway turnstiles only to be jostled, poked, squeezed, and ultimately
lifted off my feet and carried past the KCR bell and the music fountain
by a vast and irresistible current of marshmallow bodies. As I was
taken past the middle of the mall, I beheld a sparkling exhibition of
brand-name kitchen appliances. My eyes glowed, my liver twinkled: for
far too long our flat had needed a blender, and here at last was my
chance. I fought my way through the crowd, shoving and squeezing past
pretzeled couples, schoolgirls linked like barricades, and little old
men with cages of lucky birds, until, bruised and dishevelled, I crossed
the cordon.
Within the cordon was a small island of peace, order, and enticing,
state-of-the-art time-savers. The din and clamour of the crowd swirling
madly just five feet away from me faded to a hum, and my ears were
caressed by a youthful voice lauding the company's line of microwaves.
The air was fresh and clean, and all the salespeople were dressed in
soft, white fabrics. I stretched my arms above me, reaching for the
bannered ceiling, and spun on the balls of my feet. Freed from the
dictates of the crowd, I wanted to rejoice, I wanted to dance.
"Hey, Miss Gym Teacher!" growled a nearby security guard. "You gonna
buy something or teach a class? Wai!" His attention was arrested by
someone on the other side leaning across the cordon in an attempt to get
a better view of the displays. "Keep away, keep away!" He jabbed the
trespassing shopper fiercely with his baton. The offender staggered
back, clutching the area where a bruise the shape of a dumpling was
already emerging through his shirt. His girlfriend wrapped a velvet arm
around him and shot a painted scowl at the security guard before they
disappeared together into the swarming hordes. The object of their
grievance took no notice. His duty done, he tottered to his stool,
where he settled himself down and slowly deflated.
Confident that the exhibition area was safe from the gawking, uncouth,
window-shopping masses, I now began my search for a high quality blender
at a low, low price. One reason I was so excited by this exhibition was
the manufacturer. Sure, there were dozens of blenders on the market
made by the likes of Sanyo and Molineux and Toshiba, but nothing I saw
ranked above a ho-hum. Just as I'd been about to resign myself to a
life of blending by hand, a former insider trader now turned appliance
salesman clued me into a company new to the field but, thanks to the use
of space-age technology, was revolutionizing the world of culinary time-
savers. Toodle-oo, Inc., he said in a low voice, if you're serious
about blending. That had been two months ago, and now here I was,
salivating before a glistening display of Toodle-oo blenders and spice-
grinders.
I had only just begun testing my eighth blender when a deep and hate-
filled growling snaked around me and forced me to turn around. At the
table next to me, two women were in fighting stance, each with one hand
clenched in a fist and the other gripping the same food processor. The
one closer to me was tastefully draped in a Diane Freis, the flower
print complemented by a pair of Joan and David heels.
"I believe I reserved this particular model by phone in advance," she
said, the tones of her Cantonese euphonious, the consonants distinct yet
mellifluent. I gasped, dazzled.
"So get another!" snapped the second lady, her body a collection of
spheres and ovoids sheathed in gray-blue polyester. "This is mine! I
had it first!"
"It's the last one in stock. Pray give it to me and find another model.
My chef simply must have this one."
The housewives around them watched, spellbound by the musical sublimity
of the first woman's voice. Who was she? How did she learn to speak
that way? Could she teach me? And how much of a discount could I get
if I brought along ten or so of my friends?
"Chef? Wah! You dirty capitalist! You imitation foreigner! Go learn
how to cook! This food processor is mine!"
"Imitation . . . ! How dare you! You educated-at-home, loose-
intestined rice bucket! You moon-eclipsing, cancer-causing . . ."
"You call me what? You unwashed, turtle-eyed, cloud-farting toilet-
cleaner of fornicating elephants! You . . ."
So it went. Slaps were exchanged. Opinions were aired. As the first
woman began cursing and yelling, we forgot the former beauty of her
speech, entranced as we were now by the descriptive power of both
combatants. Around me housewives repeated the phrases to themselves
quietly, memorizing them for future use. As the slaps became scratches
and punches, three or four housewives tried to pull the two women apart,
but because they tried to do this by wrestling either opponent to the
floor, they, too, were sucked into the skirmish. The altercation
quickly escalated into a war between those who believed in first-come-
first-served and those committed to the right to reserve, and soon
everyone on both sides of the cordon was yelling and slapping and
scratching and shoving. Displays were knocked over. Children were
slammed against walls. Egg-beaters and toaster ovens were used in
distinctly anti-social ways. The clerks ran around panicked, trying to
calm the crowd, right the displays, protect the appliances, and guard
the cashbox. I was terrified. I climbed onto a table, still clutching
my blender lest some frenzied housewife steal it from me, and tried to
keep out of the fray. I noticed that the two women were still battling,
but now the polyester housewife had picked up a friend or two, and the
three of them were really pounding into the dress suit. Her right ear
was bleeding where an earring had been ripped out, her coiffure had
fainted, and the flower print was soiled and tearing. I knew I couldn't
simply stand by and watch.
"Stop! Stop! This is inhumane!" I shouted in English. They ignored
me. "Not good! Not good!" I then yelled in Cantonese. My pathetic
American accent caused them to halt momentarily to see who was speaking.
Even the small clusters briskly whacking each other with electric
rolling pins stopped mid-whap to investigate.
"ABC," sneered someone nearby.
"Educated-at-home, loose-intestined rice bucket," jeered another. Her
adeptness at using the new insult won nods and a murmur of approval from
the crowd. Other housewives, thus encouraged, rolled up their sleeves
and appeared ready to fling out a few insults themselves, only to be
distracted by a stuttering whimper from the flower print, who was lying
on the ground in fetal position.
"Unwashed, turtle-eyed, cloud-farting toilet-cleaner!"
"Cancer-causing, bed-hopping, sale-missing imitation foreigner!"
They were closing in on her, fists clenched, tongues poised to deliver
the coup de grace, a group insult so killing as to produce a loss of
face that was irrecoverable. The woman would never be able to shop here
again. I had to distract them somehow, appeal to some other, deeper
passion within them.
"Seiyu!" I cried. Heads swiveled around, almost in unison, and eyes
locked upon me, half in suspicion, half in the hope of being further
entertained by my accent. "Saitin!" I cried again, giving the Cantonese
pronunciation of the nearby Japanese department store. "There's a big
sale, very big, very, very big, at Saitin! Must hurry! Must very big
hurry!"
For a moment there was a stunned silence, then excited whispers, which
gathered and grew to a thunderous, tooth-jarring roar as the housewives
stampeded. The mall trembled, and the vibrations set off the music
fountain, adding the electronic melodies of "Hooked on Classics" and a
pounding of falling water to the din. I closed my eyes and clenched my
jaws, trying to endure the pandemonium because I couldn't risk letting
go of my blender to cover my ears. The table below me rattled and
bucked, and several times I was nearly thrown. What had I unleashed?
And suddenly they were gone, swallowed up in the vastness of another
wing. The fountain switched itself off in the middle of "The March of
the Toreadors," and the mall throbbed with emptiness.
I heard a groan of pain at my feet. It was the Diane Freis. "Are you
all right?" I asked, bending down beside her.
"ABC," she moaned.
"Can you walk? Do you speak English?"
"Give me my food processor."
I was helping her revive her coiffure when two security guards arrived
and took over. Carefully they lifted her to her feet, but she would not
leave the area until a food processor was placed in her hands.
Actually, it was only the box -- torn, dusty, and empty -- but she cradled
it in her arms and crooned to it softly as the security guards led her
away.
When she had left, I took in my surroundings for the first time. All
around me was carnage: blenders, microwaves, coffee grinders, toasters,
all that had once twinkled with newness was now dented, cracked, or
dismembered. I felt something jab me in the side: my precious Toodle-
oo blender and spice-grinder, the single, last untouched appliance in ?
exhibition area. A clerk limped up to me, one hand still gripping the
cover of a rice cooker he had used as a shield, eyes darting left and
right nervously, and asked if I wanted to buy it. Despite my shock and
impending hysteria, I managed to laugh scornfully and say I wouldn't
take this heap of scrap metal if he paid me for it. In twenty minutes I
had haggled a discount of 20% for the "damaged" good and hurried away,
fearful that at any moment the housewives would discover that I had
tricked them and come back searching for me.
I made it safely back to my flat, but for some days afterwards, I
couldn't bear to go shopping. The incident had revealed to me the
bestial violence inherent to the consumer soul. I shook and cried
uncontrollably merely passing through Shatin on the way to Kowloon Tong.
At home, my flatmates begged to use the blender, but I was haunted by an
image of an exhibition area bestrewn with slaughtered appliances. My
blender was the lone survivor. No one, not even me, would ever use it.
Such was the state of affairs that I would never have visited the New
Town Plaza again had it not been for an irresistible craving for a pizza
croissant from A-1 Bakery.
It was a Tuesday evening. I was making my way through the crowd,
jumping each time someone touched me, when I was suddenly embraced by
the gentle strains of "The Blue Danube." Ahead of me variegated lights
played upon dancing, liquid monuments. It was the music fountain. I
pushed my way through the crowd straight to the center of the fountain.
Streams of water swayed like stalks of rice brought to bow to their
reflections by the wind. I felt as if my soul were being cleansed by
the sight of such grace.
And then it happened: my gaze collided with another across the
fountain. It was a housewife. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion and
hostility as she clutched a package closer to her bulbous form, so
tightly that the top flap popped open, and through the shifting spray I
read the words, "Toodle-Oo." My own arms loosened of their own accord,
exposing the glittering surfaces of the blender. Across the fountain, I
saw her limbs also relax. She had a toaster. She turned the box
towards me and lifted the top flap, and from within the darkness I saw a
sparkling reflection of colored lights. We inclined our heads.
After a mighty rush of water from all seventy-two outlets, the music
faded and the fountain returned to its unspectacular, garden-variety
self. Bodies once more bustled and knocked, voices again hurled
themselves after misplaced children and friends. For a long while I
simply stood there, hugging the blender to me and letting the crowds
wash over me. Then I smiled to myself and turned towards the railway
turnstiles, envisioning myself fixing a banana milkshake with my new,
Toodle-oo blender.
CAGE
----
Linne Ha
From the side of my eyes, I can see my mother's profile against the
backdrop of the moving mountains and the gray sky. She is unusually
quiet and I notice for the first time that her body has shrunken,
slumped to the steering wheel like a worn-out rag. She had been
washing dishes since 5 o'clock this morning and now we are headed
home.
As the sun disappears into the horizon, our truck moves quickly
along with the traffic on the freeway. My mother is driving and I
am squashed between her and my younger sister Paula in the cab of
the pick-up truck.
My mother says something, but her voice is low and barely audible as
it blends with the drone of the engine. She speaks in Korean,
almost to herself, "If you think about dying, then you should
die...rightfully you should die...." I make out her words like a
jigsaw puzzle, patching sounds in my rough Korean.
I don't say anything and instead look down at my lap. I am still
clothed in my tennis outfit from that afternoon's lesson. My skirt
glares white and I can't help but look at my mother's dirty apron.
Paula is listening to her walkman, her head bobbing as her lips move
with the lyrics. Up until a few minutes ago, I had been angry
because my mother was late again picking us up from school and now
my thoughts dissipate into listlessness.
My mother repeats herself in her broken English, this time louder.
She turns her head toward us as if waiting for a response, then
turns back to the road as we remain quiet.
In the silence, I am acutely aware of us sitting in the truck, its
wheels moving on the road. We are rapidly steering away from the
rest of the traffic, guided by metal guards, onto an empty freeway.
Up ahead, the road bends exposing a last glimpse of the sun and the
expansive land below us.
"There," my mother points, "where the trees are. Everyday, I drive
this road. Sometimes, before this turn, I want to drive straight
into the sky...into the trees." I imagine their weak branches
burdened by her weight.
My sister taps her feet with the music and I continue to look away
without saying a word. There aren't enough Korean words that I know
to talk to her, and English wouldn't work.
+ + + +
At school, in one of my classes, there is a map as big as the wall
of the world. From the door to the window, the continents are
zigzag lines filled with different colors on each side. They are as
flat as the chalkboard across the room. Beginning with Europe, I
follow the Mediterranean to Paris, where I've never been. Then a
bit north to Britain, an island scrunched with words. The bell
rings for class to begin as I cross the green-blue Atlantic. Each
square makes up a thousand miles to New York.
There are sounds of people gathering for class. My neck is crooked
as I take in all of America. The United States is the shape of a
wild boar roped and waiting to be roasted. Maine makes the snout;
Florida the tied front legs. California is its ass. My desk is in
front of California. Alaska is so far away.
Mrs. R. says something but I am lost in the Pacific. The Pacific
Ocean is broken into three vertical words with specks of Hawaii near
the center of the deep blue. The Soviet Republic is the solid
orange undisturbed by letters.
At the far left, I reach Asia. I step closer and my eyes are two
inches from the wall. I follow the outlines of Korea, a foreign and
odd shape, recognizable but unfamiliar. Its cities are but sets of
jumbled alphabets. It is difficult to make sense of them. I
inspect them carefully but they do not tell me anything. Slowly, I
turn back to the class and sit down.
Their faces poking out at me with their round eyes. Like the
continents, they too are blank and unfamiliar.
+ + + +
My father's only friend is his parrot. Out of the blue one day, he
comes home with a parrot and a cage which he sets up in his bedroom.
Since then, every evening when he comes home after a day of driving
his cab, he heads straight to the bird, ignoring us in the living
rooom.
My sister and I would watch with envy, through the crack of his
bedrooom door, my father feeding his bird. We have never seen our
father like this.
Once we even witness him feeding the bird a slice of apple from his
mouth. My sister and I look at each other in a state of disbelief.
Then she returns to the TV as I go tell my mother this news.
My mother is in the front yard carefully inspecting the leaves of
her plants. I stand in the door jam of our trailer house. She is
unaware of my presence. I watch as she bends down to dig something
out of the earth. She pulls out a long worm and tosses it aside.
"Father's feeding the bird with his mouth now," I announce.
She continues inspecting the leaves, then says in Korean, "These
plants, if you take good care of them...feed them and water
them...they will grow up to here by the end of the summer." Then
she looks at me for the first time. "Have you ever tasted this
plant?"
I shake my head.
"They taste better if you water them every other day," she
continues. "Wait till you taste them...they make your knees strong.
But of course, they taste much better in Korea. Here, it's all I
can do to make it a hint of what it used to taste like...." She
shakes her head and releases a deep sigh. She is crouching in front
of her garden, raking the soil with her bare fingers. Even from
where I stand, I can see that my mother has plotted the plants in
neat row, her fingers thick with cold dirt.
Last month when she started her garden, the ground had still been
frozen. I watched her out there, clad in her winter coat and
gloves, hacking at the permafrost.
"It's only April," I had told her. "The ground won't melt until
probably June." Even after five years, she is still not used to the
Alaskan seasons.
Without stopping, she yelled in Korean, over her shoulder, "I've got
to make use of this sun. Anyway, I can't sleep."
I stand here watching her again. Her hands quickly pulling out the
weeds then putting them on a pile off to the side. I look at the
pile, green leaves with roots grasping onto flakes of dirt.
"Are you going to be there all night?" I ask, tired of waiting for
her attention. She giggles mischievously to herself at the tone of
my voice as I turn back into the house.
+ + + +
Most evenings, my father spends in his room either teaching the bird
to speak Korean or grooming him. While my father is away at work,
he keeps the door to his room locked. Paula and I sit in the living
room after school, trying to watch TV but inevitably listening to
the bird say hello in Korean. We sit with the TV off sometimes as
the parrot's tiny voice echoes through the door.
One afternoon, Paula stands up abruptly and goes into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" I ask when I see her return with a table
knife.
"Don't worry," she says with a determined look on her face, "I only
want to peek."
Paula expertly plies the door open to a dark and quiet room. She
immediately tip-toes to the cage as I hold back, watching from the
door. I see her cautiously peer into the cage as the bird flies
around nervously. Paula gestures for me to come closer.
"Look," she whispers, "It's no big deal. It's just like the ones
we've seen on TV." Suddenly, she shakes the cage with both hands
and laughs when the bird squawks. She circles the room a bit before
she loses interest and retreats back to the living room. I stand
there for a moment, staring at the bird. The bird looks fragile and
harmless yet I know that it holds a secret which makes me curious.
I watch its movements, hoping to solve the puzzle: the mystery of
attraction. I stand absolutely still, pretending to be a fixture of
the room. The bird plays, ignoring me. On the floor of the cage,
there are pieces of apple, the apple my father fed to his bird.
+ + + +
Many weeks later, I come home late after tennis practice, and as I
walk towards the trailer, I notice that all the lights are
conspicuously out except in the room which Paula and I share.
Worried that I am in trouble for being late, I quietly avoid the
living room and sneak into my room. Paula lies sprawled on her
stomach on top of my bed, flipping through a magazine.
"What time is it? Is Dad mad 'cause I'm late?" I whisper as I
change out of my tennis clothes. Paula shuts her magazine and rolls
on her back. As she pulls her arms behind her back, I see that she
already has hair growing on her underarms.
"The bird is dead," she says matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean, dead?"
"D-E-A-D," she spells with annoyance. "He came home today and
killed the bird." She stretches her body with a yawn. "It bit him,
I guess....It was really gross," she continues, "I was sitting there
listening to him say 'apple' in Korean then the next thing I knew,
the bird was freaking out. It bit his hand."
I drop down next to her, trying to absorb all of the words. How can
he kill the bird? I imagine his big thumb forcing the bird's thin
neck to a snap. I shudder at the thought.
"And where's Mom? Are they sleeping?" I want to know.
Paula shrugs her shoulders and moves to her own bed. I look at her
for a moment. She is obviously not upset by the inc?ident. I watch
as she stuffs a stick of chewing gum into her mouth then return to
the magazine. Helplessly, I put on my nightgown as I walk to the
window. There is a full moon beaming light onto the quiet streets
of my neighborhood. Off to the side, something catches my eye. I
see a figure crouching in the yard. My mother digging in her
garden. Her flowerbed has been rearranged around a bald mound of
dirt, her neat rows disturbed.
COTY
----
Wendy Wo
The door down the hall from her room had been closed -- vaulted like that
of a coffin's -- for over a year. For over a year she and her parents
had lived in a mechanical stoicism, coming, going, interacting, yet
avoiding what they tried so hard to bury. For over that year she had
listened to the silent echoes of her brother's ghost wandering and
mocking them on his visits in the dead of night.
As Leah stared at the closed door in front of her, lost memories
entwined with lost emotions consumed her. The brass knob of the closed
door glared back at her, daring her, taunting her, to take hold of it,
turn, and go beyond it. A strange cold feeling rose inside her as her
pulse sped up a notch. She slowly reached out for the knob.
Encircling, enclosing her warm fingers around its cold smooth surface,
she hesitated and swallowed hard, then finally turned it. Click!!! She
quickly pulled her hand away, startled by the loud clicking noise that
cut the veil of silence. Now unlocked, Leah gently pushed the door
open. It creaked a little, and she let it open a mere crack. Then,
gaining a bit more courage, she pushed the door fully ajar, and took a
step inside.
The soft pastel colors of twilight graced through the sheer white
curtains of the windows, casting an eerie hue upon his furniture. Leah's
eyes wandered over the details of the room. Everything was just as she
remembered. On the top of Coty's shelf, dressed in dust, yet shining
just as it always had, was one of Coty's greatest prides: his treasured
golden baseball trophy. Folded in a neat pile next to it was his
beloved lucky red and white baseball jersey and cap. His enormous pile
of comic books occupied the rest of the shelf. His bed was still neatly
made, with his baseball glove tossed casually over the pillow, as if he
had just stopped by today after baseball practice and tossed it on his
bed. His computer sat in silence on his desk, accompanied by a pile of
Coty's textbooks, and a couple of computer disks sprawled carelessly on
the edge of his desk. Sheets of unfinished lyrics, untitled songs, and
music never played lay stacked between the computer and the disks. Next
to his bed, still covered with dirt and mud, were Coty's sneakers, the
same pair that she had jokingly claimed to have stenched up the whole
house. Her eyes finally, reluctantly, wandered toward the one thing
that she had tried to avoid looking at: the disheveled mop of wavy dark
brown hair, the gentle and sincere dark brown eyes sparkling with
amusement, and the unforgettable lopsided grin. Coty. She walked over
to the nightstand where his picture stood. She stared at the face that
had been absent from her life for over a year. A tight knot twisted
inside her stomach, and for a moment the air around her seemed to
thicken, suffocating her. She noticed an envelope peeking out under the
picture frame. Scrawled upon this envelope was her own handwriting,
addressing it to Coty. She gently took it from under the picture frame.
Instead of disturbing any part of Coty's room by sitting on his chair or
bed, she kneeled down on the floor next to his sneakers. Inside the
envelope was a letter she wrote to Coty after he died, along with the
farewell poem Coty had left behind for everyone. She tenderly unsealed
the envelope and unfolded the letter. Her pink stationary paper was
still smooth and fresh. The places where her teardrops fell were
exposed by the scattered bleeding flaws of the ink writing.
May 6, 1990
Dear Coty,
The beautiful red roses I left for you last week have now dried and
wilted. The once silky petals have fallen, and the stems are turning
into an ashy shade of brown. They said it was your body they found
washed up by the lake. They said it was suicide. I couldn't go look at
it, nor could Mom. Only Dad went and confirmed that it was you.
Grandma and Grandpa flew in from Endocino. Everything has been so
chaotic. Your funeral was last Monday. Mom freaked out. Logan was
there and she couldn't stop crying. She had the class ring you gave her
dangling around her neck, and she wore your baseball jersey under her
black blazer. She was so upset, she made me cry. I held her hand as
they lowered your body down into the cold earth.
I should be very upset with you. You lied to me. All those nights when
we talked till the morning, I thought I knew you so well. I told you
everything. You were the only one I told when I lost my virginity to
James. Why didn't you tell me something was wrong? I would've tried to
understand, I would've done anything, everything to help you. Coty, how
bad was it to make you kill yourself? I can't believe you are gone,
Coty. I don't want to believe it. Damn you! How could you do this?!
It feels like you've stolen from me. You took a part of me down with
you into that grave. You took with you all those unborn memories, that
now will never be conceived -- ever. I hate you for that. Do you realize
that you will never get that record deal? Do you realize that you've
given up on any chance of making your dreams come true? What kind of
farewell poem is "Happily Evermore"? How could you leave Mom, Dad and
me with all these pieces that we can't fit into a picture?
I don't think I can ever forgive you Coty.
Leah
She felt a dull familiar ache in her heart. Suicide... Coty...
Suicide... Coty.... Suddenly she felt cold all over. Her hand holding on
to the letter began to tremble. Her vision blurred with the rush of
tears, and she closed her eyes to try to stop the flood. She wiped the
tears that squeezed their way out. Why?! Why?! The unanswered question
screamed angrily through the tunnels of her mind. She remembered the
nights she had lain awake waiting for the phone to ring, hoping to hear
Coty's voice on the other end, telling her it was just a joke. He
wasn't dead at all. As a matter of fact, he'd been touring with his
band, and they'd finally acquired a recording contract. They had just
finished recording their debut album, and he'd be home soon to surprise
everyone....
Slowly, hesitantly, a memory danced into her mind. It was the night she
and Coty had snuck out together when they were in junior high school.
They were prohibited from going to a high school party, but Coty had
this great idea of sneaking out of the house by climbing out through her
window. They'd had such a hard time climbing down the tree, she scraped
her leg, squealed in pain, and they had gotten caught. She could still
see the many nights that Coty would climb through her bedroom window
because it was past curfew and coming in through the back or front door
would wake Mom and Dad up.
"Coty what are you doing? It's 3:45 a.m.," she had mumbled sluggishly.
"SHHHH!" he'd shushed her, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "My
car ran out of gas." He grinned that adorable lopsided grin.
"Yeah right!" she'd teased.
"SHHHH!"
Leah shook her head now, as if to wipe those images out, and put down
the letter. She opened the envelope again and took out another piece of
paper. This paper was wrinkled. She had crumbled it a year before in
frustration. It was the farewell poem Coty had left behind for
everyone. She had read and reread this poem countless times, searching
for a clue, a hint, anything to explain why Coty had taken his own life.
A chill crawled down her spine as she began to read the all too familiar
words written by Coty.
HAPPILY EVERMORE
Encased within this flesh
A diseased young mind,
Lives a depraved soul
The endowed gift of mine.
In battlefields of life
Some wounds never mend,
And despondency has
Victored in the end.
Yet there is a heaven
I have once been told,
Sweet serenity awaits
Behind gates of gold.
Coty
She missed him so much that it hurt, almost physically. She didn't
understand the poem, she didn't understand anything anymore. Inside,
she felt exhausted and drained. She tilted her head up to look at
Coty's picture. His lopsided grin seemed to mock her now as she sat
knelt down on his floor, tear stained, shivering uncontrollably, and
holding on so dearly to the last and only part of him that he left for
her and her family. This crumbled, tattered, year-old note, which made
no sense to her, was the last tangible element of himself that Coty had
left.
Sometimes she thought she understood Coty's reason for suicide. She too
lived behind the shadow of an overpowering, overachieving father. A man
who never accepted Coty; a man who had impossible standards for his
family; a man who never acknowledged any element of imperfection or
error. At times she thought that he saw Coty as the embodiment of all
those blemishes and defects. Coty's focal interest lived in the spheres
of his singing and baseball, both of which their father regarded as
passing phases. Their father had other plans for Coty: his son would
attend his alma mater University of Pennsylvania, major in business, and
follow in his entrepreneurial footsteps. But Coty had plans of his own.
Leah remembered the many fights Coty had with their father. She was
there to see the pain in Coty's eyes after the fights. She was there to
hear his heart-breaking sobs, as he'd fought to hold on to the dream
that he had painted for himself, while their father had vehemently tried
to tear it away. She remembered too that sometimes she had cried with
him and sometimes for him. She remembered that suppertime. Everyone
was sitting in their places around the dinner table, beneath the new
crystal chandelier that their father had just purchased, hovering over
their elegantly furnished dining room like a great sparkling cadaver.
"Dad, I was telling Mom and Leah this earlier. Um, my band and I were
asked to perform for the annual "Battle of the Bands" concert. If we
win, there'll be a contract waiting for us with Atlantic Records. I got
some tickets, and I was wondering if you'd like to come?" Coty asked
their father.
Silence.
"And on Saturday, recruiters from some of the best colleges will be
coming to watch the playoff games, I figured you might want to be there
too." Coty tried again. "Coach told them about me, and--"
"Coty, when are you going to stop these trifling pastimes of yours and
take your life seriously?" Their father spoke in the calm, restrained
tone that he had begun to use more and more often with Coty.
"Dad, I am very serious."
"Coty, you will not squander your life away singing for nickels or
playing catch. A loser is not what I raised you to be and that's final."
Their father had put down his eating utensils and glared at Coty.
A look of desperation shaded over Coty's eyes. He slowly got up from
his seat. Their father resumed his dinner. He seemed impervious to
anything Coty said.
"Dad I'm your son. Please accept me as I am." Coty's voice cracked a
little. His face paled, his eyes darkened, and his jaw stiffened. Leah
watched the vein on his temple throb as it always did when Coty was
upset.
Their father chewed his food in silence, his eyes never moving towards
Coty's direction. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, and asked his wife
what was for desert. Coty slowly shook his head, tears filling his eyes
as he turned and left, leaving them sitting beneath the hovering crystal
chandelier.
Few words ever had to be said between Coty and their father to spark a
battle. Their war was always smoldering. That same night Leah stayed
up listening to Coty in his room. She sat secretly, outside in the
hall, leaning against his closed door. Behind the closed door, Coty
bashed and shattered objects she couldn't see. She could envision him
crying with his heart wrenching sobs that echoed behind the door. She
too wept.
Then there was their mother: the silent and supportive woman. The
woman who never stood up to her husband. The one person who never dared
to oppose him. In the eyes of her children, she was the dainty, frail
silhouette next to the looming, daunting, opaque shadow of her husband.
Yet she believed in Coty. Leah remembered her softly whispering words
of encouragement to him. "If it's what makes you happy, if it makes you
feel whole, then Coty, follow it with all your heart, son. It will
never lead you astray." Coty looked at her weakly, with a dim light of
conviction and hope in his eyes, and nodded in acceptance.
Leah looked down at the pink stationary paper now, and gently folded it
back along the original creases. A particular conversation that she had
had with Coty kept peeking in and out of the back of her mind. For an
entire year she wouldn't allow herself to remember. But for the first
time in a long time, she let herself recall. It had been the summer of
1989, and their father had decided to rent a quaint little beach cottage
in Cape Cod. It was their first night there, and she and Coty were
sitting on the beach playing a game called "Truth." It was a game they
used to play in their preadolescent years, questioning each other about
personal things, while vowing under an oath to never reveal what had
been confessed by the other to anyone else. Leah could still hear their
tinkling laughter mingling with the crackling of the campfire they had
built.
"So, this thing between you and Logan, how serious is it?" she asked
him. She watched the shadows of the fire dance over his face. He
grinned and an amused glint appeared in his eyes. "The truth, Coty. No
vague macho response."
"We're getting too old for this game," he said. He glanced down at his
baseball cap. "Know what we are? We're too young to be what we want to
be, and too old to be what we were. We're in limbo, Leah. We've been
shot out on this tangent..."
"Coty, let's not get all deep and profound on such a beautiful night."
They had both been gazing up at the Cape Cod night. The half moon
dangled like a silver charm over a star studded velour gown of the
indigo sky. From the distance they could hear the melodious rhythm of
the cadencing waves of the ocean. But Leah thought she saw tears
glistening in the corners of Coty's eyes, as he gazed up at the infinite
starlit dome.
"Want to hear something I wrote a few nights ago?" he asked her.
"Sure," she answered softly. She was a bit concerned over this sudden
change of mood in him, this swing from flippant-buoyancy to an almost
brooding-muse. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a
wrinkled piece of looseleaf paper. Leah watched him looking at her
before he spoke, as if searching for something in her expression.
"This isn't one of my songs, it's just some thoughts I've concocted."
He spoke in a sad, soft, melancholy tone: "We were given birth into this
world without our consent. We think we are bestowed with promises that
were never really made to us. Promises of happiness, success, and
fulfillment. But life is empty, and it's up to us to make it what it
is. We are given no concrete path, no blanket in life. Life is a death
trap. Life is a morning flower in bloom. She is the impartial judge;
she is a mystery; she is a song; she is a wound; she alone is eternity.
She will endure, even after we are gone." He paused after this last
sentence before proceeding. "There is no meaning in life. When we
realize this, we create little dramas, little excuses to go on living.
We make a meaning, we knit a string and tie it to the illusion we drew,
and we hang on to it, holding on for dear life. We light a candle from
the dancing flames of St. Elmo's Fire....To follow, to aspire for, to
aim for, and to live for....But how can I protect, and nourish my
delicate, growing dream, before the fire of St. Elmo dwindles, dims, and
fades?" Coty took a deep sigh, and smiled weakly.
"That's beautiful Coty."
"I read somewhere that during times of peace, sons carry their fathers'
coffins to the grave. And during times of war, fathers carry their
sons' coffins to the grave." He had swung back to his flippant mood.
He smiled his lopsided smile. "Know what sis? You're right, it is a
real cool and pretty night."
As that vision receded, Leah found herself again looking up at Coty's
picture, still watching and mocking her. Coty. There were so many
things still left unsaid. She gently folded the wrinkled page of Coty's
poem and placed it, and her letter, back in the envelope, then back
under the picture frame.
June 14, 1991
Dear Coty,
I miss our talks. I miss your smile. Above all, I miss you. There was
a time when all I was able to do was wonder about you. There was a time
when I left my life on pause, because I missed you so much. Sometimes,
at the weirdest times, I feel like you're still here, watching us. Are
you? It hasn't really been the same here without you. For a while, I
thought you might come back. But I guess you're not. Mom is fine.
Dad's fine also. I'm doing okay. I was visiting your room last week.
But don't worry, I didn't lay a hand on anything. Your sneakers don't
smell anymore, your comics are still there, and so is your baseball
stuff. All those songs you wrote are still there. I put them all into
a folder, so don't worry, I'm preserving them. Maybe one day, I'll find
someone to revive them, sing them, and make them real for you. I think
I'll dust your things up for you every week. You know, Dad has changed
a lot since you've been gone. He's stopped bossing me around, figuring
out my life for me. I told him about my plans to not attend college,
but to pursue a career in dance, and he didn't even raise an eyebrow.
He even mumbled something along the lines of "good luck." He and Mom
have been attending this support group for parents of teens who
committed suicide.
For a while, it had been real quiet around here. But yesterday, Mom and
I went shopping, and it was the first time, in a long time that we did
that. We laughed -- together. That was weird, I mean, to hear myself
laugh with Mom again. You should also be pleased to know that Logan and
I have become quite close. She's not the you-know-what I thought she
was. Anyway, I left you a fresh vase of beautiful red roses on your
shelf, next to your gleaming trophy (which I polished for you). I have
to get ready for a date now. I'm still seeing James. He's really been
great, Coty. He helped me out through a very rough time.
I guess it's time to begin a new chapter, a new story. Life goes on.
My life can't stop for the life of another, not even yours. I guess I
felt guilty about that at one time. But I think I know you understand
now, Coty. Wherever you are Coty, I hope you're singing a happy tune,
and playing baseball. And Coty, I wish you eternal peace.
Love,
Leah
The closed room didn't seem to be vaulted anymore. Today, the door knob
wasn't glaring at her, and didn't even seem to acknowledge that she was
there. Yet she stood, a little apprehensive, and a little hesitant
about entering the room again. As she turned the knob, and pushed open
the door, her reservations slowly subsided.
Again, the room seemed to be just like it was when she last left it.
The sweet perfume scent of roses painted the air. She slowly walked
over to Coty's shelf. The vase of red roses she had left stood next to
his trophy. She looked at the pink envelope she held in her hand, then
she looked over at Coty's picture. He didn't seem to be mocking her
anymore. He was smiling his charming lopsided smile, and for a second,
she thought she caught herself smiling back at him. But then she
realized it was just a picture. Ever-so-gently she reached up on the
shelf and placed the pink envelope, which contained her new letter to
Coty, under the vase of roses. She breathed a sigh of content. She
walked back to his doorway, letting her eyes wander over the room one
more time. Everything seemed to be as it had been, with the exception of
the new vase of red roses and the pink envelope that now lay under it.
Leah met Coty's eyes one more time, and silently she smiled, and nodded
to him. Then she exited, hesitating for just a slight second, before
closing the door quietly behind her.