2844 lines
133 KiB
Plaintext
2844 lines
133 KiB
Plaintext
ASIAN VOICES
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============
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VOLUME VI: 1993
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**DREAMS**
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All people dream... but not equally. They who dream by night in the
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dusty recess of their minds wake in the day to find that it is vanity.
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But the dreamers of the day are dangerous, for they act their dreams
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with open eyes, to make it possible.
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- Thomas Edward Lawrence
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(Lawrence of Arabia)
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**THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION**
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at New York University
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THE ELECTRONIC EDITION
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======================
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Thanks for picking up the electronic edition of ~Asian Voices~.
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~Asian Voices~ is the annual literary and artistic journal of
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the Asian Cultural Union at New York University. All submissions
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to ~Asian Voices~ are from New York University students.
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The original hard copy version of this publication was printed in
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Spring 1993.
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This file is composed in the "setext" format, so if you have an
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appropriate reader, such as M. Akif Eyler's ~Easy View~, you can take
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advantage of the embedded formatting to browse the issue. Users of
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plain ASCII text editors should have no problem reading this file as well,
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although you'll have to do more maneuvering to get through all of it.
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For best results, use a monospaced font that allows at least
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an 80 column display.
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We welcome your comments. Please email at the following addresses:
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Asian Voices Editor 1993-94: Meng Lin <mlin@stern.nyu.edu>
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Asian Cultural Union President: Liliana Chen <lqc5544@acfcluster.nyu.edu>
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Electonic Edition Formatter: Francis Chin <franchin@panix.com>
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If you would like to write via U.S. mail, please address
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inquiries and correspondence to:
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**Asian Voices**
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**The Asian Cultural Union at New York University**
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**566 LaGuardia Place, Room 814**
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**New York, N.Y. 10012**
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**Telephone: (212) 998-4942**
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This electronic edition is
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Copyright (c) 1993 The Asian Cultural Union at New York University
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Permission granted for non-commercial distribution
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as long as this notice remains with any copied text and you do not charge
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for the copies. All other rights reserved.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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----------------
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The editors-in-chief would like to extend their appreciation and thanks
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to the individuals who made this year's journal a success: to all our
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contributors for their ideas and patience; the ~Asian Voices~ staff --
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Arthur, Benny, Bryan, Dennis, Johanna, Karen, Kellie, Meng, Michele,
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and Wanda -- for their diligent efforts; Francis Chin and Josephina Lee
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for their advice and assistance; Naft International and ~Outstanding~
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~Investor~ ~Digest~ for use of their facilities; Philip Chin and the
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~Washington Square News~ for use of their scanners; Anton Chan at
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Linco Printing, Inc.; Joseph Park for his perspectives; the ACU
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executive committee -- Liliana, Dana, Fred, Joe, Arthur, and Francis --
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for their support.
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To my grandmother Mary (Kao Sue) Tang: you will be missed very much.
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-- Ron
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**Cover design by Larry Lee**
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~Asian Voices~ is a publication of the Asian Cultural Union at New York
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University, an organization dedicated to serving the social, cultural,
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and educational needs of all students. The opinions expressed in this
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journal reflect each author's own views and are not necessarily
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representative of the ~Asian Voices~ staff nor the Asian Cultural Union.
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STAFF
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-----
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**ASIAN VOICES**
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Editors-in-Chief William Chong
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Ronald E. Mui
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Senior Editors Dennis Chun
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Michele Mitsumori
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Staff Editors Kellie Tinh Du
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Meng Lin
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Wanda Lin
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Editorial Assistants Arthur Huang
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Benny Lau
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Johanna Lee
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Bryan Quan
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Karen Talaid
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Advisor Francis Chin
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~Contributors:~ Maria Chang, June Chiamprasert, Linne Ha, Cindy Hong,
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Alex Hsu, Nadda Kanchanagorn, Kenneth H. Kim, Marc Landas, Margaret Lam
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Marc Landas, Margaret Lam, Katie Lin, Gail Montemayor, Saloni Movani
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Susan P. Mui, Greg Osborn, Julie Pun, Ivy Sta. Iglesia, Vineel Shah
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Ricky Weng, Wendy Wo, Raymond Wu, M. Connie Yeung
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Artist Emeritus Larry Lee
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**THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION AT NEW YORK UNIVERSITY**
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President Liliana Chen
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Vice President Dana Chau
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Treasurer Frederick Lee
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Secretary Joseph Park
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Operations Officer Arthur Liao
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Sports Coordinator Francis Hata
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EDITORIALS
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==========
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Ronald Mui talks about the history of Asian Voices after 5 years.
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William Chong lets us see a few of his dreams.
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EDITOR'S NOTES - I
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------------------
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Ronald Mui
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In the past, ~Asian Voices~ has dealt with topics that concerned the
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Asian community, ranging from a family's migration to America and
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its unforeseen conflicts, interracial relationships, loss of culture, to
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problems such as suicide, alcoholism and racism. Since its creation,
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Asian Voices has seen an increasing number of new topics and views.
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During the time that I have been with ~Asian Voices~, I have seen a
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transition from works addressing the concerns of the individual to
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works encompassing societal issues.
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In the midst of the pro-democracy movement in China, that year's
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issue was dedicated to the Tiananmen Square Massacre. The theme
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~Asian Voices~ thought most closely symbolized the massacre was fire
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-- a symbol of destruction and conflict that leads to an unknown end.
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In that issue, fire represented the images of an imprisoned and
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restless nation awaiting to be set free and given equality. It may be
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the start of a new beginning or a continuation of what existed before.
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For China, the fire subsided but left an unknown end to a suppressed
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nation.
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In another issue, water was chosen to represent the image of
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transition: the inevitable change of climate resulting from conflict to
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the ultimate resolution through peace and understanding until it
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reoccurs again. As fire is associated with rage, water too can be
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associated with this same rage. But water has a calm side to it. It
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can be serene and tranquil until it becomes agitated following its
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cyclical path.
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Our 1991 edition saw a transition from the elements to a need for
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growth, learning and understanding. It was during this time that an
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awareness for our environment grew. As notions of saving the world
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were ever increasing, spillage of oil into our oceans continued, and
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dumping of toxic wastes into our rivers and streams became a
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reality. In the midst of all the concerns for the environment, Asian
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Voices set out and dedicated 1991 to the environment. It was a
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chance for all to try to learn and comprehend what we were doing
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wrong to the world and how we could possibly assist in righting
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these wrongs. From what we know today, we must be vigilant and
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careful, for our actions directly affect the environment.
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Continuing the learning and growing process, last year's issue was
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devoted to none other than Home. In the home -- which some
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unfortunately do not have -- warmth, love, security and guidance are
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guaranteed to us. It is a haven where we can always return to for
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comfort and love. Inside the home we are taught to care and respect
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one another. We are nurtured by our parents and family, obtaining a
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set of morals and beliefs which are our guiding tools for life. We
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will refer to this when making decisions and for direction. It is the
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foundation which we take with us to school, work and beyond. Once
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learning from this foundation can we then hopefully go out into the
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world and learn to respect one another and live in peace.
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As we open this next chapter of Asian Voices, we do so with Dreams.
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Though dreams can be of fantasies, desires and hopes that are deep
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rooted within each of us, they too are a means of growth and
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learning. Dreams can also suggest aspirations and goals. From them,
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we can set objectives for ourselves by which to live and grow. As we
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were taught from home how to cope with the outside world, our
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dreams will further allow us to grow as individuals. Perhaps when
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combined with our familial guidelines we can use this as a stepping
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stone to better ourselves and possibly society as well.
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Suppose there are dreams of destruction? How are we able to
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mature and grow from dreams such as these? This year's issue holds
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many articles depicting the darker sides of dreams. Though they are
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very far from being destructive, the images of dreams displayed
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here are of misguided opportunities as shown in An Ode to the
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American Dream," despair as depicted in "The Shattered Dream," and
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madness as presented in "Minutes." We obviously cannot mature
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from these dreams but we can learn from them what needs to be
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changed in society. We are not immune to these problems, but what
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we can do to change them is what is important.
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In this issue I hope to get people to start thinking of dreams as a
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means of learning and growth. Understanding oneself will allow us
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to understand others. We can always dream and educate ourselves.
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But what I hope to see with all the dreaming and education that we
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are fortunate to have gained, is that one day we will return to society
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what is desperately needed -- our efforts to understand, care and
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assist so that the peace that we have so long missed could return. So
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read it and dream for success!
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Ronald E. Mui
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Editor-in-Chief
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EDITOR'S NOTES - II
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-------------------
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William Chong
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~D R E A M S A R E . . .~
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. . . a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions. They are
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aspirations, idle fancies, visions, and objects of unreal beauty.
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. . . the realm of Morpheus; blinding colors and odd shapes; Jim
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Henson's muppets; An American Tail. Dreams are a lazy Sunday
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afternoon with Calvin and Hobbes; the cosmic sounds of the B-52's; a
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day in the park with Booster, my four year-old labrador retriever;
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the '86 Mets.
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. . . about freedom and justice. It is a man with the dream and the
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courage to protest a state that has oppressed his people for
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centuries. It is the many who have challenged totalitarian regimes,
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sacrificed safety and security, endured persecution for the dream.
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Dreams are all some people have to believe in; some are worth dying
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for.
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. . . visions of the future. They are the hopes of our youths:
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power, equality; wealth, generosity; conquest, peace. Their dreams
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will destroy. Their dreams will save. Dreams are about protecting
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the environment, being socially conscious, and defending personal
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freedoms. They are caring for your brothers and sisters, helping
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those less fortunate, and giving back to the community. Dreams are
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powerful.
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. . . nightmares -- a result of a disturbance in the delicate nature
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of our conscious being . . . or bad tuna salad.
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. . . of God. Genesis 28:10-13. Jacob left Beersheba and started
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towards Haran. At sunset he came to a holy place and camped there.
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He laid down to sleep, resting his head on a stone. He dreamed that
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he saw a stairway reaching from earth up to heaven, with angels
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going up and down on it. And there was the Lord standing beside
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him.
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. . . of man. Select Eastern philosophies say that our existence,
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our universe, is a dream -- God's great dream. And that when we
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complete our mortal journey on Earth, He enters into our universe to
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wake us out of the dream. But when we wake, we discover that it is
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really we who have been dreaming the great dream all along.
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. . . a newborn in the comforts of its mother.
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. . . listening to Grandma's wonderful stories. She tucks me in -- a
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boy of six -- and asks me if I'm ready; I eagerly reply 'yes!' I
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wait silently as she ponders. Then she takes my hand and, holding
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tight, we begin our voyage to another age, another world. I follow
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her, my guide, throughout assorted tales and yarns. I giggle with
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joy; or I tremble beneath the covers; but I always plead for more.
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. . . thoughts of an old love and the desire to embrace once again.
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I remember watching her as she rested in my arms, sleeping like an
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angel. Was it her glimmering eyes or her affectionate smile that
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captured my heart? No -- I looked beyond the tangibles and into her
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soul, and there I saw a spectacle that was more radiant, more
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passionate than even the Northern Lights. I brushed her hair aside
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and her button nose twinkled. I held her vigilantly and closed my
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eyes and prayed that the moment, that the darkness of winter's
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night, would never end. I continue dreaming.
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. . . the hopes of the Asian Voices' staff to produce the best
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edition yet. Reality check...this is a damn fine issue.
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William Chong
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Editor-in-Chief
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DREAMS
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======
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Stories and prose based on the theme "Dreams".
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Gail Montemayor, **A Perpetuating Nightmare**
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Kenneth H. Kim, **An Ode to the American Dream**
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Vineel Shah, **Uniform Shade**
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Kellie Thinh Du, **Romance**
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June Chiamprasert, **Minutes**
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Saloni Movani, **The Shattered Dream**
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Margaret Lam, **A Farewell to Dreams**
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A PERPETUATING NIGHTMARE
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------------------------
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Gail Montemayor
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My mother claims she's had another one of her prophetic visions just
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as I'm about to leave the house. "Don't worry, Mom. Nothing will
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happen," I assure her before slamming the screen door in annoyance.
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+ + + +
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Vic finally gives in to our incessant whining and reaches over to turn
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on the radio. Eventually, the familiar tunes of depressing love songs
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throw us all into a state of nostalgic contemplation. Old loves, buried
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fantasies, and feelings of hopelessness for uncertain tomorrows
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resurface into our pools of thought. As I sink into the velvety
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backseat of Rob's shiny black Nissan Maxima, my hands cradle the
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half-empty bottle of Sex on the Beach like kitten's paws. The cozy
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warmth I feel inside can only have been created by this wonderful
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magic potion that rests snugly against my chest. Flanked by my
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closest friend on the right, I can feel the alcohol-induced heat
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generated by our pressed bodies. The soothing motion of the car
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rocks me gently into a deep sleep . . .
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I'm floating in a deep and endless darkness. A path of small,white
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tiles hovers before me like ghostly cobblestones. I look behind me:
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one by one the tiles drop into oblivion. I watch one fall, fluttering
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like a pallid leaf until swallowed by the void, and suddenly feel the
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tile I'm standing on begin to sink. I jump to the next tile, only to feel
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that one descend as well. I jump and jump and jump, but nothing is
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safe, nothing is stable. My eyes dart to the expanse below me, just in
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time to see the tiny whiteness of a tile extinguished like a birthday
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candle. The fear of losing my balance and meeting the same fate
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suffocates me, encloses me as completely as the darkness itself. I
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jump again, and again, until it seems I've always been jumping. And
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then it happens: I miss a tile. I fall, screaming.
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The nightmare vanishes as soon as I open my eyes. Tristan's head is
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flying out the window as he yells something incomprehensible at the
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driver behind us. Someone has interrupted the blissful, rhythmic
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motion of our car, and Tristan is in no way sober enough to rationally
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dismiss it. The driver nervously switches lanes, and shortly after
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disappears.
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Staring blankly ahead, I listen casually to fragments of random
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conversation:
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"And you forgave her? Does Matt know that you know?"
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In the front seat, Rob is talking to Vic about Vic's girlfriend, Julie,
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who had cheated on him last week with Matt. Julie is a childhood
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schoolmate. She's been sharing an apartment with Vic at a college
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upstate. Ever since I can remember, Julie and I have been competing
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with each other over everything from academics to physique. In the
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fifth grade, Julie accused me of cheating when I beat her fairly and
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won the spelling bee. Although she could never accept it, I was
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always better than her in spelling, as well as in math and science.
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We were vicious enemies then, but our cut-throat competition did
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have its advantages. When I delivered the valedictory speech in the
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eighth grade, Julie was right there on stage with me as salutatorian.
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For both Julie and me, grammar school was a breeze.
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But as far as high school went, Julie won in the end. At Truman's
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senior prom, she was the one who hooked up with Vic, the biggest
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crush of my high school career. Attending the exclusive St. Jude's
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Academy for Girls didn't help my social life at all. As I slowdanced
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at my senior prom with Tristan, all I could think about was Julie and
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Vic and how they were so made for each other that it made me
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envious.
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After a couple years at college, we came to throw down our arms.
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Being equally enthusiastic about separate majors helped us to calm
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the competition running through our relationship. As determined as
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I was to take up my life-long dream of acting, so was Julie equally
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determined to make it as a marketing major. Meanwhile, Vic
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graduated from Philips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire and diligently
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began pursuing law. Vic is definitely going places. I guess
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that's why I'm so attracted to him.
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"There is no red in poppy!"
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My best friend Marly screams piercingly into my ear. Obviously,
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Marly and Hanna are continuing their eternal argument about
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whether poppy is a miscalculated red or a richly deep orange. Both
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girls are art fanatics who dwell obsessively on the specifics of colors.
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A fashion prodigy, Hanna is constantly searching for the perfect
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shade, the perfect color. She spends hours scrutinizing innovative
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blends of every hue. Fashion design is her life. In the four years
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I've known her, I can't recall her ever making a fashion blunder.
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Only Hanna can put together an orange and green and make the clash
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breathtaking. Everyone says she has great potential. I remember
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when she designed the gown I had worn so proudly at the annual
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winter formal. She'd enjoyed making me look stunning as much as
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I'd enjoyed the glamour of attending a formal evening dinner party.
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I must have had over a hundred compliments that night. Hanna has
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so much promise.
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Marly is a fine arts major who eagerly describes various ranges of
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color to us when entralled by a painting or sculpture. She visits
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museums religiously, often allowing me to tag along with her to her
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sacred institutions. Sometimes she spends hours on end discussing
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every detail of just one of her favorite works. Picasso's Three
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Musicians is her favorite. She dreams of one day buying that very
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painting for a wealthy corporation--her ultimate career goal. Marly
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and I always talk about our futures, but sometimes Marly seems to
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exist on art alone.
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Tristan leans over, seeing my apparent state of oblivion. I turn my
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head to examine his lips as he repetitively mouths, "Are you all
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right?" Naive enough to focus all my attention on his lips, I soon
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realize his true intent is to distract me in order to steal the warm
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bottle of Sex from my hands. As he presses the mouth of the bottle
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to his smirking lips, I try to snatch it from him, initiating a flirtatious
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wrestling match. In a matter of minutes, we end up snuggling
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together, sharing the bottle romantically, leaving Marly and Hanna to
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sit side by side and argue.
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Poor Tristan. He's been interested in me ever since that night we
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made love in an alcohol-induced heat of passion. I would never have
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a relationship with him. He's too volatile. Intelligent as he is, he
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willingly decided to trash his dreams of becoming a doctor three
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years ago to be lead singer of a band, one whose members betrayed
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him five months ago by replacing him with "someone with real
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talent." Yet I can't help but admire his persistent determination to
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some day be famous.
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As I become more and more smashed, the mesh of conversations
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becomes audibly distant, like far-off echoes. As my face lies buried
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in the crook of Tristan's neck, I again fall deeply into sleep . . .
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Blackness. I'm hopping from one tile to the next, swinging my arms
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wildly to keep my balance, to push me forward. I jump with all the
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strength I have, but each time my feet land closer to the edge, each
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time I seem closer to not making it. The tiles are drifting farther
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apart, the distance between them expanding like a black stain. My
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heart bangs against my ribs. I jump and jump. The tile I land on
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sinks. I jump. The next tile falls even further. I look ahead. The
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entire line of tiles is steadily descending, as if someone had just
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turned off the power. I reach out to grab something. The tile
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beneath me gives way and slips out from under me. I'm falling,
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faster and faster, screaming for an end to this inescapable nightmare.
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+ + + +
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I'm shaken. The hands try to be gentle, but the voice is cracked,
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irritation seeping through. "Wake up! You're only dreaming! You're
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alive. Nothing can happen to you now. You're safe."
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I think I'm opening my eyes, but blackness is all I see. There are
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none of the thousands of shades Marly had made spring to life before
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me, no poppy of either her deep orange of Hanna's miscalculated red.
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Not even the white perforation of tile. Just black.
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One night of reckless intoxication.
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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!"**
|
||
|
||
**"Or else what?"**
|
||
|
||
**"Or else...THIS!!"**
|
||
|
||
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 --<2D>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)
|
||
|
||
* "Down with Chinks!"
|
||
(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. <20>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<6D> 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 <20>
|
||
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<6E>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.
|