AZN Blogs

Vomit in a Bag (Patrick Lee)

2008-03-20T09:25:00.003-04:00

The editorial ends with the author’s college email address and “©2008 Campus Press,” as if nothing extraordinarily inflammatory transpired in the preceding one thousand words. What I wonder about is not how many emails he received in protest to his blatantly abrasive and crude editorial, but how many he received thanking him or agreeing with his sentiments.

The possibility that some individuals will have read the piece and missed the satire, or even worse, wholly agreed with its views, troubles me more than the fact that a college student found a terribly juvenile way to funnel his apparent angst.

Did he write the piece just to get some attention? Or does he really espouse the racist, narrow-minded and alarmingly animalistic ideas in the article? I hesitate even to call it an article, because it is more like the product of pouring one’s vomit into a bag and tying it up with ribbon, in an attempt to cover up the crude contents: it’s vomit-in-bag, in written form.

But more urgent is a question that applies to all forms of communication: to what extent is the author responsible for the aftermath of her or his work? The immediate fallout of the editorial probably only enhanced the author’s notoriety on campus and beyond, and in the twisted dictionary of American culture, notoriety is just as good as fame.

Thus, my main concern is this: is American society — or on a smaller scale, the college campus — an environment that actively breeds such sentiments as expressed in the editorial? That’s a question that will require a thorough analysis of the forces shaping our popular culture, and it is an issue that we must all consider, regardless of race.

The one positive aspect of the means the author chose to communicate is that it left space for dialogue. The fact that everything has transpired in the realm of words, and has not significantly crossed over into the realm of action, allows for response and reaction. What I gained from reflecting on the editorial is a realization that the inequality of the real world can infiltrate everything, even the idealized “University bubble” I currently live in. The CU Editorial proves that, even within college campuses (where admissions offices purposefully recruit diverse classes), entrenched stereotypes can make their way in and slap me in the face.

My reaction will not be to slap back, but to pity those who are nearsighted by the prejudices of the past.

Reacting to Racism (Lisa Leong)

2008-03-20T09:22:00.003-04:00

Max Karson of Colorado University has given up on racial tolerance. Karson wrote a controversial column for the campus paper titled “If it’s war the Asians want…It’s war they’ll get,” in which he outlines an attack on the souls of Asian people. The self-called “No more ‘Mr. Pretend-I’m-not-Racist,’” says that “tolerance” and “cultural sensitivity” are over (his scare quotes, not mine). Karson declares a race war: “They hate us all… It’s time we started hating them back.”

I’ve been trying to stomach this racist hate speech for three weeks, during which my reaction has become more complex.

“I’m offended!” was my instinctual reaction. When I read Karson’s misguided satire about identifying Asians by asking us to do calculus in our heads, training us to read facial expressions, and punishing us for not speaking English, my thought process was “racist, racist, and more racist.” Here are the old anti-Asian stereotypes — that we are all math nerds, that we are inscrutable, that none of us can speak English, et cetera. By the way, if an Asian person can do math and has less than perfect English, that’s not a reason to attack.

Not only does Karson generalize all Asians, but his gross generalization is the basis for his violent hatred of Asians and need to “attack their souls.” Karson’s plan of attack has the ring of Nazi rhetoric. He invites his volunteers to “hunt” down Asians, round them up with nets, and throw them into a “reformation” program that tortures them until the “Asian spirit is broken.”

Karson claims that his exaggerated column is a piece of satire because he wants to say, “Hey, it’s a joke.” But the only person who would find this funny is a white supremacist. Maybe that’s close to who Karson is, considering he was arrested for making threatening comments about being “angry enough to kill people” during a class discussion of Virginia Tech shooter Cho Seung Hui. It seems that Karson takes his own satire quite literally.

Feeling offended is a combination of disgust and outrage. I am disgusted that such an ignorant piece of journalism went to print. I am outraged by the “apology” delivered by the editors of the CU Campus Press. Their apology is half-hearted: “We apologize for any ambiguity of the satire that may have been misconstrued.” I wish the editors would have just taken a bite of humble pie and said, “We made a mistake.” There’s a difference between saying “Sorry to anyone who might have been offended” and “Sorry for being offensive.” The first is phony, the second is genuine. Campus Press offered a fake apology, the same way Karson’s column is fake satire. To read a real apology, see the public statement from G.P. “Bud” Peterson, Chancellor of CU.

Another side of my reaction was a lack of surprise. I’m not surprised that someone declared “War on Asians” because I’m no longer surprised that racism exists. In 2006, there was a similarly anti-Asian “satire” in my own school’s paper The Daily Bruin. The article “A Modest Proposal for an Immodest Proposition” was also controversial and inspired complaint letters. Again at CU’s Campus Press, Lauren E. Geary wrote a racist column against Hispanics called “No Hablo Ingles.” All these racist articles represent more than a recent trend of on-campus racism; they are the present form of a history of racism in America.

My final reaction is resolve, that feeling of “I’m not gonna give up.” There’s racism and ignorance in the world of journalism, but I’ll take that as a reason to keep writing. Karson publicized what a lot of people think about Asian people, but most people know better to keep it to themselves and not act on their resentment toward Asians. We need to keep fighting the good fight, not a war against Asians or whites or any group, but a struggle to end ignorance so there will be less people who think the way Karson does.

Every act of oppression is met with a resistance movement. Students at CU rallied against the Campus Press’ infamous hate speech columns by Karson and Geary. The Asian American Journalists Association and numerous Asian American bloggers helped mobilize the outcry against Karson’s column. Protests can bring change: Karson has been suspended from Campus Press.

Who’s laughing now?

(Lisa Leong) Assimilated Beauty

2008-03-05T14:17:00.003-05:00

“That’s colonialism all over your face!”

The quote is from one of favorite Asian American Studies professors on eyelid surgery, nose bridge implants, and any other kind of cosmetic surgery that transforms Asians physical features into more Caucasian ones. She meant that there is one standard of beauty—the Western one—that gets imprinted on our faces, our bodies, and our senses of self.

It’s easy to see that the Western ideal of blond-haired, blue-eyed, All-American (or Ayran, if you’re more sinister) beauty is the dominant standard. Look no further than the all-present world of popular media. Advertisements, TV, and movies glorify beautiful faces, but these beautiful faces don’t look anything like me—or you, probably. Every billboard says, “This is Beauty, and you are not quite it. Envy my bag, my hair, my look and my, uh, eyelids.”

Racialized plastic surgery is a popular topic on talk shows like Tyra and Montel. They raise the question: does eyelid surgery erase or enhance race? The audience nods along in agreement that eyelid surgery is a way for Asians to conform to white prettiness. The plastic surgeon and his patients say that they are just enhancing Asian looks. I may not have big, round eyes, but I can see perfectly well what’s going on here.

These girls feel really bad about themselves. Liz and Keyounga (guests on Tyra and Montel) both say they were “the only Asian girl at school” and remember being called “chink.” They have memories of face-to-face racism. I can sympathize with that. Eyelid surgery is not simply a matter of wannabe white, it’s also about trying to remedy their experiences of racism.

The crease, that coveted fold, is such a small thing, but it has come to mean so much. This is because the eye is the quintessential sign of Asian difference. The “Asian” eye is the focus point of racial taunting, like “slant-eyed” you-know-whats and “ching chong” jokes with the accompanying hand gesture. Going into surgery, Keyounga says, “Maybe I won’t get called chink anymore.”

Plastic surgery offers a way to hide those physical features that have been denigrated. Getting new eyelids or a new nose is a form of racial covering. The term is Kenji Yoshino’s, who explains that to cover is to tone down a disfavored identity to fit into the mainstream. And covering is something everyone does because behaving mainstream is a social necessity. (I’m not a plagiarizer, so you can read this on page ix of his book Covering).

So, in effect all this westernizing plastic surgery is a form of assimilation. You can swim in the mainstream instead of upstream by transforming your appearance. The slanted monolid eye is the marker of Asian difference, so changing it brings you closer to sameness. Does it really?

Liz and Keyounga are aware that plastic surgery doesn’t make them look white. “I’m still Asian,” says Liz, but she doesn’t seem too happy about it. Eyelid surgery patients are probably not trying to pass as white, but they are at least trying to appear part white. They come out of surgery Eurasian, with a few European features like a “tall” nose or slighter bigger eyes added to their generally Asian faces. It’s a double-bind of wanting to be Asian, but not too Asian. In other words, wanting to be different and the same as “everybody else.”

Getting cosmetic surgery is a personal choice, but even our most personal choices are influenced by dominant culture. Internalizing western notions about what is beautiful (and what is ugly) happens almost subconsciously. Knowing that Western beauty is dominant, has helped me question its standardization. I guess that means I won’t be getting my face “colonized” any time soon.

Lisa Leong is a senior at UCLA majoring in Art History. She also studies French and Asian American Studies. Lisa writes for the online magazine Asia Pacific Arts.

(Patrick Lee) Pop Culture and Asian Beauty

2008-03-05T14:15:00.004-05:00

I just walked out of my basic drawing class on Monday nights, and after having spent a few hours working on portraits, I felt I knew fairly well the common aspects of the human face. If you imagine the face as an oval, the eyes are about halfway down from the top; the nose and mouth are spaced evenly in the half below the eyes. The top of the ears usually protrude from the same level as the eyes, and the tips of the mouth are directly below the irises of the eyes. But, as my professor said quite emphatically, “These are just basic guidelines, because everyone differs slightly.”

From the artists’ standpoint, the individual diversity creates for a broader range of nuances that require attention to detail and skill to portray. But from the viewpoint of Asian Americans, plastic surgery seems to be an increasingly popular option for fitting oneself to an ‘ideal’ image.

According to statistics cited by Michelle Man in an article (published in BN Magazine and New American Media), minorities went under the knife 2.3 million times in 2005, 65% more frequently than only a year before. Asian Americans specifically saw a 58% jump, accounting for over 400,000 procedures in 2005.

More interesting is the type of surgeries most popular among Asian Americans: rhinoplasty, eyelid surgery, and breast augmentation. For the United States as a whole, liposuction, breast augmentation, and eyelid surgery are the most common. Although the category “eyelid surgery” does not distinguish between the procedure for making “Asian eyes” bigger and other, more common anti-aging procedures, the sheer increase in plastic surgery’s popularity among Asian Americans raises questions about the cultural norms being perpetuated by the media and advertisements. A quick look through any fashion catalog will yield few, if any, Asian American models posing for photos: the blond hair, blue eyes standard seems inextricably linked to the pop culture image of America.

As a result, whether or not Asian Americans are flocking to the plastic surgeon for typical procedures or for “de-Asianing” procedures should not be the point of focus: what should be the point of discussion are the cultural forces that are contributing to racialized standards of beauty and, inevitably, happiness. Popular culture permeates everyone’s lives everyday in the form of thousands and thousands of advertisements, and although it might seem to be a futile attempt to try and counteract such a potent force, the good news is that there are many points of intervention.

The impetus for action, however, depends on the individuals detrimentally affected by the current thread of American culture: advertising executives are driven by the profit-maximizing motive, and are not soon to take into consideration racial or ethnic issues unless they promise economic gain. As a result, grassroots-level action is the tipping factor that could have the potential for long-term and far-reaching change. Regardless, intervention on an individual level – talking to a friend or peer considering plastic surgery for the wrong reasons – is never to be underestimated, either.

(Cathy Diep) From the Once Naïve 15 Year-Old Who Knew Nothing

2008-02-25T10:51:00.002-05:00

When I was in ninth grade, I joined a culture club at my high school because everyone else did. Sometimes I believed the real reason why students join is to be part of a social connection that brought us all together. But, other times, I know that this social connection we are a part of comes down to one common goal: promoting better understanding and closer ties between and among various sub-components within the Asian culture.

Right now, I am a twenty year-old Asian American college student who knows very little of her past.

Have I ever thought about taking Asian-American Studies? Yes. Did I pursue it? Unfortunately, no.

My first exposure to Asian American Studies started my freshman year in high school when my culture club took a field trip the UCLA. We did the whole registration, name tags, and waiting in line.

Finally, we were welcomed by current UCLA students talking to us about admissions, required materials, college life, and financial aid. Later, we went to an Asian American Studies seminar where representatives from the department discussed what the major entailed to and its purpose.

Mind you, I was well taken to the major and began researching more and more about it when I got home from the field trip!

I wanted to learn Chinese, Korean, Japanese, etc. I wanted to travel. I wanted to go to UCLA just for that major!

Then again, I was a naïve 15 year-old who joined a culture club because everyone else did. I did not have a purpose or a goal. Even though I knew little of my country and its past, the thought of it never crossed my mind. I can say without hesitation it was probably a fad I went through. For others, it is possible too. For some, maybe not at all.

Is it important to take Asian-American Studies? As an Asian American, I believe so though we don't necessarily have to pursue a degree in it. If I may recall, an introduction class in Asian-American Studies counts as a part your general education requirements. Something to think about!

If and when I decide to take the course, it has been said to feel uplifting to learn about the difficulties Asian Americans have faced and even more touching to learn about the difficulties they still encounter today.

Hopefully, we can walk away with our own sense of identity on what it means to be an Asian-American. Gender, race, sexuality, and culture have been defined, challenged, and thus, redefined.

Although I have not yet taken an Asian American Studies course, I feel it is not too far along the way until I will be taking one in a couple months.

Five years ago, I would have enrolled in this course for the sake of taking it. Now, there is an appreciation and drive for understanding the history and beautiful culture of Asians in the United States. I am not the 15 year-old I once was. Twenty is the new me!

(Lisa Leong) My People's History

2008-02-25T10:41:00.002-05:00

Everything I learned about Asian Americans in my K-12 education can be summed up in one sentence: Chinese laborers built one half of the Transcontinental Railroad. I accepted that that was all there was. Here it was, my people’s greatest and sole contribution to the country: getting exploited.

I remember that the Chinese were good workers willing to risk their lives blowing up mountains to make way for train tracks. Some died from the dynamite blasts. They were well-behaved in contrast to the Irish workers who drank and gambled. Because of their diligence, the Chinese finished their half of the railroad before the Irish.

This is a pretty racist version of history to learn in the fourth grade. While the stereotyping of Irish people is obvious, the depiction of the Chinese laborers seems like a compliment. “Positive” stereotypes are deceptive like that. Good, diligent, and hard-working is the model minority stereotype about Asian Americans, which shades how elementary school kids learn Asian American history. Everyone who goes through the American education system gets the standardized version of U.S. history—from which Asian Americans are largely absent.

Asian American Studies gives the alternative to the standard curriculum. I re-learned about the Transcontinental Railroad in Asian American History class. I think my mouth fell open when the professor cited Ronald Takaki and told us that the Chinese railroad laborers organized a strike in 1867. They demanded the same wages and hours as the Irish laborers. What? I thought they sacrificed their lives setting off dynamite inside mountains so America would be the first to have a transcontinental railroad? Oh, this makes so much more sense.

Recovering this information reversed everything I knew about Asian Americans (my people!) from years of U.S. History—all one sentence of it. They weren’t entirely obedient. They contested their exploitation. The strike wasn’t successful, but they had fought back. I’m addicted to this empowering kind of information. I’ve been taking Asian American Studies for a year, and have had the privilege of getting five hundred thousand more sentences about Asian Americans (rough estimate).

The impact of Asian American Studies can be measured in much more than sentences, though. The Chinese railroad workers’ strike is just one example of how “forgotten” information can change our perceptions. Along with history, Asian American Studies covers literature, art, gender studies, politics, economics, everything we experience. It’s a way of learning about the world and my connection to it. In many ways, I’m learning how to be comfortable in my own skin, and I sense that my classmates feel the same way. There’s a feel-good buzz in Asian American Studies classes.

So when I heard about Harvard’s lack of Asian American Studies, it was kind of a buzzkill. I thought of all the Asian American students at Harvard who don’t get access to a source of empowerment. The students are protesting, rekindling the spirit of the 1980s movement, and asking the university to expand its scope of education. As the classic college institution, Harvard gets the newspaper headline, but Asian American Studies needs to grow everywhere. Half of all Asian American Studies undergraduate programs are in California and there are only two graduate degree programs (San Francisco State University and UCLA). Beyond the university system, I think that Asian American Studies should be more integrated with K-12 education.

(Katherine Fan) Asian Americans Are Brainiacs

2008-02-12T13:53:00.000-05:00

“Psst,” I slipped Suzanne a note in class. “Give me three Asian American stereotypes, off the top of your head.” She thought for a moment and wrote:

• Math capabilities/very smart
• Timid/softspoken
• Sexually submissive

Her three examples touch upon some of the biggest stereotypes Asian Americans face. Is it true that many students of Asian descent test well academically, especially in the maths/science department? Sometimes, but it’s not because we are inherently smarter. Do Asian Americans tend to “fly under the radar” on various issues? Not necessarily. Are Asian Americans sexually submissive? Probably not any more collectively so than any other race – but that’s how we are portrayed in mainstream media.

Some Asian Americans embrace the many positive stereotypes, perhaps believing that being recognized is better than being ignored. “I never got much teasing in school for being Asian,” a young professional said, “I guess because I am more outgoing than most kids and assimilated really easily. I don’t really think Asian Americans have been persecuted much in America, at least not as much as other minorities. Negative stereotypes are a small price to pay.”

When the topic of Asian American stereotypes came up in a class on Vietnamese American history last week, my [predominantly Asian] classmates had a lot to say. “Once when a girl called me an Oriental, I told her I found that really offensive because it made me sound like an object, not a person,” one girl explained.

“I don’t necessarily see the model minority stereotype as a bad thing,” another girl said, “because I think it’s good that Americans see us as smart or determined.”

Their differing responses are a perfect example of why stereotypes cannot fully categorize the diverse differences within any community. If a group of people who share an ethnic identity cannot agree on how they want to be portrayed, then how can one stereotype possibly encompass all of their differences?

The phrase “model minority” was coined around the time of the Immigration Act of 1965. The concept was used to describe Asian Americans in direct comparison to other minorities, citing the perceived “Asian” qualities of upholding community, economic success and academic achievement. But the term isn’t really a tribute to Asian American success; instead, the stereotype dealt a blow to all minorities, Asians included. Being the “model minority” implies a certain unrealistic standard for Asian Americans to live up to. “By misrepresenting Asian American success as proof that America provides equal opportunities for those who conform and work hard, [the model minority myth] excuses American society from careful scrutiny on issues of race in general, and on the persistence of racism against Asian Americans in particular,” says ModelMinority.com, a site “for Asian American empowerment.”

Speaking out is an effective way to counter stereotypes at a personal level. Most people who sincerely believe in stereotypes do so out of ignorance, not malice. “The girl who called me an Oriental said she didn’t know many Asians, and she was glad I explained the difference because she didn’t mean to offend me,” my classmate said.

(Patrick Lee) Pigeonholed by Race

2008-02-12T13:46:00.000-05:00

Two nights ago, I was studying in a friend’s dorm room to get away from the raucous party raging in my common room (a UFC fight was on pay-per-view, and one of my suitemates had gathered a group of friends for an all-night viewing). As I was trudging through Don Quixote, another Korean-American student living in the same entryway wandered in and, off-handedly, remarked “Gosh, you’re so Asian.”

Coming from someone of a similar ethnic and cultural background, I didn’t know what to think or how to respond: immediately forgetting about Don Quixote’s adventures as an errant knight, I tried to understand what he could have meant by such a statement: by seeming to fit the Asian American stereotype of studying all-day long and being bookish, was I less legitimate as a person?

I might have been overreacting, but I think part of my instinct to think these thoughts stemmed from my context: at a university where the student body is extremely diverse – not just in terms of race and ethnicity, but in terms of interests, passions, and talents – I had assumed being ‘typecast’ and judged as one particular stereotype or another would be rare. The fact that another Asian American had judged me on the basis of a shallow and culturally insensitive notion didn’t so much as shock me as confuse me: are such stereotypes so ingrained into our culture that even the people they pigeonhole buy into them?

In other words, I certainly don’t view myself as a token Asian American – whatever that means. Naturally, I would assume that others don’t view me in a stereotypical light, either, but whether his remark was casual or completely serious, the fact that he said it at all makes me wonder what cultural norms we abide by in society. If we’re of a minority ethnic background, do we become more “American” if we buy into stereotypes and pass them off as offhand remarks and jokes? Or should we be actively striving to dismantle them and make it the norm not to judge someone based on superficial expectations? Or, maybe I’m overanalyzing this all and it’s not worth considering, especially given the broad diversity of the United States and its reputation as a diverse cultural haven.

Regardless, the question of identity still remains: it is much easier to accept a standard identity and try and fit the role, but that defeats the purpose of individual existence. The purpose of life’s challenges and obstacles is to help individuals find their identities amidst the context of others – whether in a college setting, at work, or even in one’s family – and develop that notion of self into something one is comfortable with and can call one’s own. If we let casual remarks that buy into stereotypes occur without taking note and starting a dialogue, we risk falling into the trap of buying into them ourselves.

My reaction and the chain of thought it spurred might be overkill, but it’s much better than the alternative of swallowing it without thought or contemplation.

(Beau Sia) Neo vs. Traditional Communication

2007-12-20T13:41:00.001-05:00

"technologica"

is how we choose to interface a problem? i guess. shortage of coherent essays, eh? people too afraid to take a random shot in the dark at a bar? thailand has more dirt and bugs than it does on the telly? the world, with all its various fences and long range signals changing things more than just in the marketplace? how deep is the shift of exponential technological advancement? probably fairly deep, i suppose. non-confrontational, are we?

of course, unless we're anonymous. where you can't see our faces or our flags. where all recourse takes place on a plane none have ever touched with their mortal hands. and all the fear we feel in real life finds itself in our comments about everything. our absolute opinions about the people we've never met. our understanding of the work we don't acknowledge our own limitations of understanding.

so ready to take action when the sword and the gun is weightless. prepared to kill those we'll never have to explain, 'why?' to. it's understood, afterall. goals so easy when failure and success are in the hands of a rendered image of oneself. the impact of the game only deals in points and checkpoints, so why address the causality of such actions in the tangible universe? besides, who has time to share one's motives for anger. for running over people. just feel it and do it in a world where whim is celebrated.

how can we celebrate ourselves when standards and cause for celebration have been elevated to fantasy? what good are we, if the edited frame is perfect and flawless? what is our best self in the presence of finely crafted ideas presented by teams of well-paid sellers of people? why would we be who we really are, if there isn't airtime for it? if there are no ads purchased because of it? if ratings don't endorse it? if it's not water cooler worthy, as they say.

what can you say without looking like a complete fool? why allow yourself to be seen as a complete fool? why be rejected beyond one's control? why share the guts of it, and then be laughed at? do you know how painful that is? with all the things that could be said about you on the internet? all the blogs and candid photos that could ruin your ideas of yourself. all the people in the world who would only have a moment to catch what's most embarrassing about you, dismiss you, and leave you alone, wondering why you venture out at all?

does it really have to be about language? can't it be about emoticons? emoticons don't recognize your accent. they don't require understanding sarcasm. they help prevent you from having to call on the phone to express the proper tone of the sentiment. and words? why not a format that removes the need for nuance? why not a format that encourages brevity? why not a way that everything can be point a to point b, without any obstacle or chance of misinterpretation in-between? why not a shorthand that takes race out of cultural framing? that becomes its own language in the world, with numbers and clipped letters. the beats would be proud.

what incentive is there to face that which would make our lives uncomfortable? aren't we supposed to look for ease around every corner? isn't it most beneficial to try and make everything in our world effortless? isn't effort considered negative? isn't it in our best interests to ensure that everything we do has the least possible chance of a negative outcome, such as judgement, rejection, and interpretation?

so is it the gadgets? is it time to blame the gadgets? the plots of gadgets and gadget makers? shall we send them a very angry letter about the ruining of our youth? about the collapse of society? about removing the human element from our inherently human selves? robots? are we going to be killed by robots? the they prophesied in film and tv? under who's direction? ah yes, beyond our control.

well, as an avid social networking site guy (not in the random hook-ups way. i am old, afterall. tee hee.), who has many a toy requiring precious electricity, i have this to say:

a hammer can build a house, or it can smash someone's eye socket in.

floss can clean one's teeth or be a tripwire for one's enemies.

brushes can paint our heart's desire, or cover up our insecurities.

a tool is under the control of its user (until we get them ones that make our minds do what they say (unless we already have them, but don't fully understand the idea of cookies and embedded quantum baloney.)).

the root of the matter is not the iphone. it is the culture which elevates a product to the status of fulfilling one's life. it is parents forced away from children in order to make money to buy the things that fulfill one's life. it is the gradual deterioration of our ability to confront the reality of our situation. it is the fear of pain even if ease is equally useless to us. it is time, and the pressure to fill time with only the best imported cheeses, sports highlights, drunkest hour of the drunkest evening, hottest hotties that are obviously hot 'cuz we've seen a magazine, and the newest new with new stickers on it. otherwise, we are wasting time, aren't we? do you need an emoticon after that statement? if you took speed-reading, you may have missed some of what was set-up in the context of the rest of the piece. just saying, is all.

i'll blame the internet when it puts a gun to my head. not being absolute, but why give the internet that much power? is it already alive on its own? is technology the problem? i think it's a lack of reverse engineers when it comes to the human condition. and... scene.

(Lena Wong) Neo vs. Traditional Communication

2007-12-20T13:39:00.001-05:00

We are a generation of screens and machines, of text messages and instant messages. We have simultaneously been called the MySpace Generation, the Facebook Generation, and Generation Y2K. As products of the technological revolution and Web 2.0 social networking, we’ve become accustomed to having the world seemingly at our fingertips with no one person more than one click away. However, with convenience comes cost, and for our generation the price of easy communication is seemingly a loss of human connection.

Web 2.0 social networking is a trend that started with the advent of websites like Classmates.com, meant to reunite former classmates, and SixDegrees.com, which was started as an allusion to the notion that no two people have more than six links between them. The trend was reasonably successful, but the introduction of one website, MySpace.com, changed everything. Founded in 2003, MySpace was founded as a “place for friends,” as its website states, a website where people could not only connect with people they knew, but also create new friends. The site gained unbelievable popularity in 2005 and as of April 2007, MySpace had 185 million registered users with a primary age demographic of 14-34 and approximately 4.5 million people at the site at any time. But MySpace soon found itself in fierce competition with Facebook, a social networking website that began as a college-specific friend finder that has since opened up to include businesses, neighborhoods, and high schools. Facebook currently has more than 58 million active users with an 85% market share of American 4-year universities, and with an average of 250,000 new registrations per day. The popularity of these sites is well documented and the widespread use of Facebook and MySpace has been so prolific that a full generation has been named after them – but are they singlehandedly responsible for the loss of human connection?

No. Before MySpace and Facebook, there was AOL Instant Messenger and before that, text messages. With technology on a steady and quick path to make communication easier between people, has come the loss of true and meaningful connections. Nowadays, we don’t have to remember the phone numbers of our closest friends – our phones do that for us. Nor do we need to pay special attention to birthdates – Facebook reminds us whose birthdays lie in the week ahead. Instead of calling our friends to see how they are, we can text them, instant message them, or post a question on their Facebook or MySpace comment wall. Conversations are clipped from hours to minutes and seconds. In a post-Y2K world, a person can virtually go all day without physically speaking to anyone, but communicating with hundreds. We can open up a video conversation and talk to friends across the world, but without the ability to touch them to get their attention, to look at the same surroundings, or to really exist beyond our 12-19 inch screens.

It’s not to say that the advent of social networking isn’t without its high points. With sites like MySpace and Facebook, graduating from school or moving away from home no longer seems quite as daunting because there’s comfort in knowing that there’s a way to keep track of friends – whether that means communicating using the website, or simply looking at recent photographs. The sad part is that these actions – messaging friends using Facebook, looking at photographs to track their recent happenings – are ways in which we keep in contact with people who aren’t miles away. We’ve become reliant on typing our emotions through “Lol”s and “Hahaha”s instead of actually expressing them physically to each other. And we’ve digressed to the point where nuances in speech, body language, and tone can be lost in cyberspace or the 100 character limit of a text message. We have become so reliant on these venues of communication, the easiness of these exchanges, that it doesn’t look like we’ll be changing our ways anytime soon and to the point where we’ve almost forgotten true and natural human connection felt like. Perhaps Paul Haggis spoke of the effects of this best when he wrote, in his 2004 film Crash, “We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”

(Ishle Park) Western influence on the East, but not so much vice versa?

2007-12-20T13:36:00.000-05:00

Um, I beg to differ. You’re right AZN, the proliferation of fast food chains like Popeye’s and Mickey D’s in our home countries across Asia is disturbing and unhealthy, rather like an outbreak of pimples across a troubled face. And yes, in terms of chain stores, name brands, and Hollywood tabloid culture ~ the influence of the West (read U.S.) on young Asian minds is staggering. Beyoncé visiting South Korea a few months ago made front page news for a week – even my parents had a dinnertime discussion about it!

But this is inevitable, and not surprising, right? It’s no secret that Western colonization is still in full effect today, dictating what is fashionable, what is beautiful, what is “cool”, what is “in”. And yes, financially and culturally, we are stuffing a lot of our own processed food & images down third world throats on a daily basis. Our influence is huge, and somewhat disturbing. Aigu. That’s the truth, and the truth sometimes hurts.

But let’s not underestimate the effects of the East on us, especially in terms of philosophy, culture, and health. Let’ be real ~ can you not name at least 2 folks in your circle of friends who hasn’t tried yoga, martial arts, or spent a drunken night in a karaoke room? These are all practices of our distant (or not so distant) ancestors, my friends. And with the rise in health awareness and consciousness about natural living in the west, this trend is seriously going to continue ~ and nowhere is the East’s influence on the West more evident than in your new age store, or the growing section on Spirituality in your local Barnes & Nobles. This is not a bad thing. I think it’s fabulous, actually. Vietnamese monk Thich Naht Hahn’s books on peace, love, and engaged Buddhism are huge sellers in the States, and the Dalai Lama’s visits cause thousands of Americans to line up in hopes of receiving some message of hope or wisdom.

In my own life, both are teachers whose books I read regularly to try to learn more about simpler living, creating peace, and love. In my circle of friends, I have 4 who are certified yoga teachers, and one who is opening a chain of health food stores across the country, financed b a South Asian guru/multi-millionaire (no, not Deepak Chopra, another guy!).

And hip-hop culture historically has “borrowed” or “admired” many aspects of Eastern culture to fit its own swagger, from Wu-Tang’s adaptation of Shaolin mythology to Russell’s wholehearted embrace of yoga. We all influence each other, in good & bad ways. It’s inevitable, and sometimes beautiful. To use another, less positive term, we all appropriate, to some degree; how can we not? We’re human. Let’s jump off our self-righteous high horses for a second (myself included, haha) and to paraphrase the famous words of Mary J, let’s appreciate, not haterate. We all influence each other. Let’s admit it, and get on with living. Peace.

(Lena Wong) Western/Eastern Influence

2007-12-20T13:34:00.001-05:00

In my high school economics class, we watched an ABC 20/20 special hosted by anchor John Stossel called “Is America #1?” The hour-long feature explored the economies of India, Hong Kong, and the United States in an effort to discuss the effects of economic freedom on a country’s quality of life and overall wealth. That same year, we also read a book by Dinesh D’Souza entitled “What’s So Great about America,” which rallied patriotically about the merits of America’s politics and economy. I didn’t, by any means, go to high school in a conservative state – quite the opposite in fact. I’m from the Bay Area, California which, for the most part, is as blue as blue can go. Presenting us with these examples were meant to instigate thought; we were supposed to phrase D’Souza’s title as a question, not a statement. And though years have passed since then, it’s still a question I find myself trying to answer today.

In fact, at the very beginning of a course I took this semester called “What on Earth is World Cinema?” one of the questions we were asked was whether or not World Cinema was supposed to mean all film industries outside of Hollywood. As much as we tried to argue that we would look at world cinema objectively, it became very clear that our minds had a hard time wrapping around the idea of including Hollywood within the realm of world cinema. Instead, it seemed almost natural to watch films and compare them directly with Hollywood as though America’s film industry was the ruler by which all cinemas should be measured. Yet, the impact of foreign filmmakers on Hollywood has been vital to the industry’s growth in previous years. Just from Asia alone, America has imported everything from directors to movie plotlines, reworked it in an American context, and sold it as their own. Before there was The Ring, there was the Japanese Ringu, before The Departed there was the Hong Kong blockbuster Infernal Affairs, and before there was John Woo, the director of Mission Impossible III, there was John Woo, the director of A Better Tomorrow – the Hong Kong action movie that started it all. And though The Departed won director Martin Scorsese an Academy Award for Best Director as well as a whole host of other Academy Awards including Best Picture, Best Screenplay-Adapted, and Best Editing, it did so with little attribution to the movie that had come before it. Many fans of the movies who posted their personal reviews on the internet stated that while it was by no means a necessity, featuring cameos by Infernal Affairs’ two stars Tony Leung and Andy Lau in The Departed would have been a nice way to pay homage to The Departed’s predecessor. But, instead, The Departed features an exchange with a Chinese triad in which the actors speak with very poor Cantonese. And in the aftermath of the The Departed’s gigantic box office success, Infernal Affairs has become a distant memory…so much so that it was incorrectly called a “Japanese” film during the Academy Awards. Thankfully, Scorsese corrected that in his speech.

Yet, it is, of course, hard to argue that the influence has purely been from the East to the West. Aside from the fact that the relative success of emerging industries has been complimented for creating blockbusters that could pass for Hollywood films (which in itself is a loaded statement), many American films make it to the top of box office charts in foreign countries. For instance, Korean film Shiri was considered to be a huge success not just because of its big-budget and for jump-starting the new Korean film wave, but because it was able to beat Stephen Spielberg’s Titanic in terms of viewers. Shiri brought in 6.3 million viewers, Titanic only 4.3.

So does all this mean America’s number one? Does it even begin to answer the question of “what’s so great about America”? I’d say no. And I don’t know if that’s an answer that can ever really be answered. Yes our country has incredible influence on the world around us, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re the best – and at the end of the day, who really cares?

(Beau Sia) On Reality Shows

2007-12-07T12:48:00.000-05:00

Survivor: China

pre-script: i really hope that comcast doesn't own cbs, but f*ck survivor: china. i don't care how good that show is. i don't care if there are people of asian descent on that show. do you think i'll watch something just because asian people are in it? do you think i'll embrace something just because asian people are in it? oh hells no. why f*ck survivor: china? because that don't make no sense. why not survivor: america? survivor: england? survivor: australia? survivor: canada? and we all know what type of transatlantic slave trade guilt would prevent something like, survivor: africa. get the drift? do you like the font for the show? the dragons? just like in chinatown! where tourists can experience real fake chinese stuff! why isn't survivor: china anything like the china we talk about in school once a year, or the china the media don't like, or the china we see in all the films our directors pay endless homages to in their work? how come the show can't be called the area in china where all this bamboo cutting is taking place? could it be pronunciation meeting marketing? why is china, the leading global threat to our economic superiority, the location of a game show, which i am assuming, is about going into the middle of nowhere and trying to survive? do the producers know how much cement china imports? do they know their sponsors probably have offices in beijing? do they know how many products the crew uses which were made in china? why the whole country? can you not see how problematic the simplicity of it? what is all of this saying?

for me, it is very difficult to make absolute statements about what i'm watching. granted, i began with f*ck survivor: china, but really, what i meant was, "this is more than a game show. ya'll better recognize how subtle it gets programmed... in a program. what?!" i would rather try to deconstruct what i'm watching and figure out what is affecting me positively and what is affecting me negatively. on a personal level. being the elderly gent that i am, i also realize that if there is someone on that screen whose face is asian, that they are forced to represent me. through no fault of their own, mind you. it's just that the variety and frequency of asian faces in television and film is such that chances are, masi oka is the one asian guy most of the u.s. sees in their lives on a weekly basis (and he says stuff! he has feelings and dreams! ). so i also know that with the limited experience most people have with those of asian descent in their lives (please do not email me that some of your best friends are asian. proving me wrong does not make you right.), their ideas of asian people, whether or not they're americans, comes from tv and film. yay for me.

this small presence has plagued me in my life through various characters. a few years ago, i was on stage, and someone yelled at me from far away, "it's william hung!" yay for me.

at this point in my life, i don't care that those of asian descent are on reality tv shows. either way, it doesn't matter to me. because i no longer feel like they represent me, nor need to be held up to such standards. to me it feels like placing the responsibility on someone who has no responsibility. to me, the reality is that all people should have an opportunity to be portrayed in a human and dynamic manner. the moment someone is reduced to a cultural stereotype, a gesture, a catchphrase, or background coloring, one should begin to question the entertainment and the art which would allow such things. why create, or share, if it's only to give one-dimensional ideas that can be dismissed or digested as if human beings were the same as fart jokes. and why, as a viewer, should i give a damn about a show that doesn't allow the fullness of the people i'm rooting for and listening to, to really come out? i don't have time for that. my bones are old.

so let's begin with that. i don't want to focus on this one ethnic idea, although i might have a higher level of sensitivity towards the portrayal of those of asian descent in the media, because of my own experiences. the truth of the matter is that many characters in many programs, are one-dimensional, lacking, and without real depth (maybe we want something simple to place in a compartment). part of the issue, though, is that those of asian descent appear less frequently than those of other ethnic backgrounds.

(note: i consider being from the middle east to be of asian descent. i guess if the war in iraq bleeds into iran, then there actually might be more asian faces in film and tv. positive? well, we'll start with more.)

i'm not saying every movie has to be all asian. i love fantasy as much as the next person. but in san francisco, there should be a much higher percentage of asian american extras. in tila tequila, there should be a higher percentage of asian american candidates...

i retract that. there shouldn't. but i would love for someone, perhaps tila, or anyone, really, just to explain to me why that wasn't the case, given the track record of most, "find true love," reality shows when it comes to ethnic representation being predominantly similar to that of the decider. not that ya'll were wrong for, "breaking new ground," if you want to call it that (tell your PR guy. it's a great way to deflect jerks like me!). i just need it explained. in fact, if you do explain that, could you also explain why tila is always this wild and crazy girl with tattoos, who is bisexual, but no one ever talks about her ethnic background, as if they were all told not to? i mean, unless all of these contestants have vietnamese friends, and bring vietnamese women home to their oil baron mansions and whatnot. please correct me. also, explain the archetypes she was physically most drawn to, in conjunction with previous life choices for her hair color, nasal work, pectoral augmentator, etc.
maybe, if you could, tell me why we hear so much about why she wants to meet these families, but never talks about her family, and so on. this would be great. not that you're wrong, tila. i'm from oklahoma, i know what it can do to us. i once had a perm (as if anyone would ever think i could look like michael hutchence).

oklahoma, you're not bad. you just weren't very understanding of me. if only our movie theatres got more than sixteen candles, goonies, and gung ho.

i should probably end that i dig seeing asian folks carry themselves with dignity and truth in film and tv, and that i am very proud of those who will not allow the perceptions of others (top chef) prevent them from accomplishing the goals of who they want to be, regardless whether or not they are understood.

and finally, could i please have my own reality show? it's me, 16 men, 16 women, and all of them think they're about to meet a man trying to find love, but what they don't know, is that they're about to find out how completely racist they are and why.

(Emma Carew) - On Journalism

2007-12-07T12:43:00.000-05:00

Journalism that works, even without a free press

Every year since 1961, the World Association of Newspapers has given awarded a single journalist with the “Golden Pen” award for his or her commitment to freedom of the press.

This year, as well as last, the Golden Pen was given to a journalist who is currently incarcerated because of that commitment to international freedom of the press. Li Changqing, a Chinese journalist, is serving three years in prison for “spreading false and alarmist information.

Li covered the outbreak of dengue fever in the Fuzhou region of China in 2006. The Communist Party Propaganda Department places heavy censorship upon the press in China, so until Li’s reports, the outbreak of the mosquito-borne disease hadn’t been announced to the public.

As a reporter in the States, it’s nearly unfathomable to think of going to jail for informing the public of a health crisis. I recently reported on drug resistant staph infections, an issue that my university had barely begun to address, despite college students and student athletes being two of the highest risk groups. As a result of my story, the University quickly educated the peer health advocates about staph infections and began a public information campaign. I didn’t hear negative feedback from my editors or my community for bringing attention to a social health issue – certainly there was no talk of sending me to jail.

In my journalism classes we watch videos about Judith Miller and hear about how she stood up for journalism by protecting her confidential sources. Yet, we hardly hear about the hundreds of reporters worldwide who are imprisoned each year simply for trying to report the truth and do good journalism.

Last spring, a group of south-east Asian journalists visited Minneapolis and came to our school through the Edward R. Murrow Journalism Program. I got to meet these reporters and editors, who had traveled from places like Hong Kong, Malaysia, China, Singapore, and Taiwan as part of an exchange program, and I quickly realized how very different our ideas of journalism are.

Some of them couldn’t understand why we have so many different media outlets in the States. It seemed strange to them that the government wouldn’t be heavily involved in the creation of media and journalism.

According to a release from WAN, China has the most journalists behind bars worldwide. With the upcoming 2008 Beijing Olympics looming, WAN and Reporters Without Borders have called for athletes, sponsors and supporters to put pressure on China and their oppressive media policies.

The Beijing Olympics marks the first time in my lifetime that the games will be held in a non-democratic country. I’ve read reports of the Chinese government cracking down on homelessness and vagrancy, of increased arrests for “security risks,” and flat out violations of human rights. The Olympic committee said it had hoped that the selection of Beijing as an Olympic site would help to bring about reform in China’s human rights policies.

As journalists, the bottom line for us is the truth. When the truth is repressed and the truth is hidden, the responsibility lies with reporters and editors to seek it out. In China, and other oppressive nations, governments and regimes would like to see journalism fail. I find it refreshing and inspiring to see that journalism does not necessarily fail because of reporters like Li Changqing.

(Emma Carew) How I Came to Accept My Adoption

2007-11-30T12:32:00.000-05:00

I recently came across a blog on the New York Times Web site called Relative Choices: Adoption and the American Family. The blog is maintained by over a dozen authors, all with some tie to the adoption community.

Having been adopted as an infant and having just spent 8 weeks in Korea reuniting with my birth family, reading the blog has really hit close to home for me. The entries themselves, which range from topics of dual racial identity to separation and attachment issues, all touch on topics that are very real and very true in my own life, but in addition, I was amazed by the comments and discussions posted by other readers of the blog.

When celebrities like Madonna and Angelina Jolie internationally adopted their children, transnational and interracial adoption became instant buzzwords around the world. Suddenly, the concept of the only family structure I had ever known was being dissected in gossip magazines and people made adoption out to be something of a trend or passing fad.

In reality, international adoption dates back to the Korean War, when white American families (mostly from Minnesota) began taking war orphans into their homes and raising them.

Two years ago, I enrolled in the first known college course about international adoption, called Cultures of Korean Adoption. About half the class was made up of Korean adoptees, and the class was taught by a Korean adoptee who was doing her PhD. work in the area of Korean adoption.

The class was interesting, and acted as a crash course for me in the history of a system that eventually brought me to my family. It also opened my eyes to a much larger debate about the advantages and disadvantages of international and interracial adoption.

Most of the other adoptees in my class had very different experiences growing up than I had. Certainly the writers of the memoirs we read had very different experiences, having grown up a generation or two before me and my adopted friends.

In the 1970s, Korean adoptees seemed to be few and far between. Resources like Korean culture camp, language villages and dance groups didn’t exist for adoptees and their families. Schools didn’t offer counseling groups for adopted students. Agencies didn’t encourage parents to introduce their children to their native cultures.

I grew up in Minnesota, the so-called Korean adoptee capital of the world. An estimated 10-15,000 adoptees currently live in Minnesota. I met my first Korean adopted friend when I was in first grade and went to Korean culture camp first the first time when I was eight. I went to Korean school on Saturday mornings for a year, and performed Korean dance for eight years.

Our dance group, Chonsa, was mostly adoptees, including our teacher. From fifth grade all the way to college, I had adopted friends and an adopted role model. I had a support network who understood that sometimes I felt out of place in my own family, who knew that it felt weird to be the only Asian kid in a class at school.

An interesting thing happened while I’ve been at college. A group of adoptees, myself included, came together last fall and tried to form a student group for Korean adoptees. We paired with the local adult adoptee group to host an artists’ showcase, and invited adoptees from the community to come.

Many local adoptee “elders” came and all of them praised us for banding together on campus. “I wish we had something like this when I was in school,” they said.

Unfortunately, about six weeks later, our little group sort of disbanded. The semester ended and we seemed to go our own separate ways. I believe this is because so many of us grew up here, and that we really didn’t have a need for a formal reason to come together. There’s a sort of loose adoptee network in place just through summer culture camps and language villages, dance groups and Korean classes.

The adoptees who grew up in the generation before us seemed to come together as adults, finding one another for the first time. For us, we grew up with adoption as a much different part of our lives.

I still see my Korean adoptee friends, either in language class or out on the weekends. My adoption is very much a part of my life. I feel the duality of my identity every day, whether it’s a debate in our newsroom about coverage of minorities or something as simple as choosing rice or pasta for dinner.

It’s unlikely that I’ll ever be fluent in Korean, a fact that seems to drive my Korean family a little crazy. I probably will never live in Korea, because it’s a culture I feel so disconnected from. But it’s also unlikely that I’ll ever lose my connection to the adoptee culture, one which I firmly believe exists. It’s a culture of conflict, loss, identity, tragedy and confusion, but it’s mine and I’m okay with owning that.

(Beau Sia) On Adoption

2007-11-30T12:27:00.000-05:00

"please adopt me"

i am going to be under the assumption that i was assigned this particular topic because there must be some concern within "the community," about babies from overseas, such as china and korea, being adopted here by parents who are not ethnically asian. i believe i have a t-shirt in my closet saying as much, more succinctly.

here is the united states of america. i imagine, though, that this concern also exists in france, great britain, australia, and so on...

i imagine there isn't the same level of concern for this in brazil, india, the continent of africa, and so forth.

i've received emails from adoptees, good christians all, who have written me, expressing that i am attacking their identity, because they are under the belief that my work is a direct address of their "non-asian," parents, who love them very much, and have given them everything they could ever want as a child: education, shoes, meals everyday.

i've read essays by adoptees about the anger and hurt they've felt because of a circumstance beyond their control has caused those of asian descent to judge them, ostracize them (am i using this word correctly?), and treat them less like one of them, if there is such a thing as a, "one of them."

i've met parents of adoptees who have asked me to help them, because they know they are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to explaining and fully understanding the issues their child will have to grow up dealing with in this country, by virtue of the way they look.

i've watched photographs of angelina jolie and that one son of hers, whatever his name is (as if it makes a difference to my life now. maybe one day we'll work together on a project...), going into places, leaving places, surrounded by faces that love without touching.

i've been to conferences where it is "really wrong," for this adoption to occur, because of reasons i should've been paying more attention to at 9am, i'm sure, and i've been to conferences where, "we must adopt," because so many children already live without the care and love they require to grow, and why selfishly demand that you must have your, "own child," when to own a child, to say a child is only yours if it carries the same blood within it, are both fundamentally inaccurate.

do i understand why so many children exist without parents to love and care for them? i don't know the judgement that befalls unwed mothers in christian nations. i don't experience the policies of governments giving one gender value over another. i have never been in the midst of a genocide. i am not certain there are similar sex education programs and services provided overseas, nor the time to participate in such things (i hear the days are getting shorter). i won't speculate on the effects of the unseen on the bodies of the first world (we will not speak on stress, or waves, or pills fda approved). i can't go into the horrors and acceptance of rape all over the world (uncles must continue playing their part, women are legally treated as objects, and love has been reduced to the manipulation of an act, afterall). and i'm not sure now is the time to go into all we leave behind and forget to maintain our illusions in life.

i am unable to see the village in which starvation is a factor. i have not lived in the home where moral belief is an inflexible law. i do not have to live my life as a woman, where my purity is constantly in question. that my purity is attached to my biology, and that the judgement of both rests in the hands of man.

and who can forget the fact that we have new toys every year that bore us once they give us problems, or don't give us what we think they will? as if we aren't applying our habits to all aspects of our lives. as if being raised by the community of a screen so that parents can afford vacations doesn't affect a child's ability to raise as child.

as if the problem lies in adopting the child.

i've been in the company of many children raised by their birth parents. adults now, there are enough stories to make me question the idea that one circumstance is better than the other. that we must enforce one situation at all costs. in this case, that of keeping the child with the parents she was born into.

stories of molestation, beatings, verbal abuse, neglect, being trapped in an identity they did not choose, being forced to live as an extension of another's life, being told their possibility, being exploited for their parent's gain, being shut out from the conversation completely always.

there are wars. there are economic crisis. there are governments dictating bodies and culture. there are diseases. there are children without parents.

everyone could be a better parent. everyone could be better about nurturing the life of a child. everyone could learn more about the needs of those they are entrusted with caring for. everyone should provide their children with all that they have to offer, knowing that love and understanding are non-negotiable. everyone needs to know that being entrusted with the life of someone, does not give one the right to own it, but rather to help it to grow into the life it is to become.

i cannot blame adoption for the deeper issues that have made it such a controversial topic in the last ten years, and i will not focus on adoption, when i must make choices that seem irrelevant to adoption, to try and stem the tide of children being born into this world alone.

(Lena Wong) Asian American Role Models

2007-11-27T12:23:00.000-05:00

When it Sizzles

1998 was a year of firsts. I attended my first concert that year (Hanson; I was in the midst of my teenybopper fandom) and lived through my first decade of life (though I doubt I really processed what that meant at the time). But, more importantly, it was the first year that I identified with a movie character. She was my first on-screen role model and her name was Mulan.

Like any other little girl, I had quite the active imagination while growing up. My friends and I engaged in make believe games frequently, but we often found ourselves pretending to be princesses – particularly of the Disney kind. Yet, until 1998, I had trouble finding a princess to portray when playing with my friends. My favorite Disney movie was (and is) Beauty and the Beast, but it seemed silly for me to play brown-haired Belle when I so clearly did not look like her. Therefore, in an effort to stay true to the films, I was often cast as Pocahontas or Jasmine – even though I clearly wasn’t Native American or Middle Eastern. They had the jet black hair and darker complexion that I did, though, and in our adolescent minds, it made sense to put me in those roles.

And then Mulan happened. Suddenly, there was a Chinese Disney princess who I could emulate. To top it all off, the film she starred in even provided a glimpse into a historic Chinese tale to which I hadn’t been exposed before. Yet, while all of this sounds like the trivial worries of an elementary school student, much of the same concerns of finding an Asian American role model in the pop-culture landscape of the United States still applies – and it’s been almost a full decade since 1998.

As much as I’d like to go against the popular concerns that tokenism and stereotypes surround almost every Asian American character or actor in the mainstream media, I’m finding it increasingly hard to do so. Yes, there have been great strides made in recent years with television channels targeted towards Asian American audiences and independent films made from Asian American perspectives, but little has been done to change the representations of Asian Americans in media targeted to the general public. As much as I laughed and enjoyed Danny Leiner’s “Harold and Kumar go to White Castle”, I couldn’t help but notice just how much the movie relied on the stereotype of Asian Americans as being studious, lawful, and submissive. Same goes for Shonda Rimes’ hit hospital drama “Grey’s Anatomy” wherein Sandra Oh plays a doctor who exemplifies the stereotype of the Asian American as brilliant, but competitive and manipulative. I recently dressed up as Cho Chang from the Harry Potter series for Halloween and even her story was unfortunate in its own right – Cho is Potter’s love interest that is never fully realized because he falls in love with his best friend’s sister.

It’s not to say that I haven’t been able to find Asian American role models at all, though. After reading his memoir The Rice Room, I got in touch with Ben Fong-Torres, the former editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone who inspired me to pursue the field of journalism in the first place. There have also been a few Asian American authors to whom I’ve looked to for literary guidance; Maxine Hong-Kingston’s writing has been especially empowering.

However, the truth of the matter is that in some ways, I’m still that little girl looking for a princess who I can pretend to be. I’m still searching for a strong Asian American woman whose life trajectory follows what I hope mine will be. True that my role model doesn’t necessarily have to be Asian American or a woman, but it’d sure be nice if she existed.

(Beau Sia) Asian American Role Models

2007-11-27T12:19:00.000-05:00

"asian american role models"

i've been hearing so much more about this lately, and it seems like there's good money to be made being one of these. it seems like there are lots of aspects becoming identities, and that these identities are great for advertisers, or those who want themed shows.

when presented with this as a topic, my first response, snarky as usual, is, "do you mean role models for asian americans, or do you mean asian americans who are role models?" from there, i've got some follow-up smart ass, like, "if for asian americans, should we exclude those who might also be role models to recently immigrated asians?" "do the role models have to be ethnically asian if they're to role model for asian americans?" "which asian americans are we talking about here? those of russian heritage? arab heritage? aren't we not inviting the iraqi americans to e.c.a.s.u. again this year, because we feel middle eastern trumps the continent of asia? and of course, who can forget, "how did we get to this place where we live by an inaccurate, problematic, and vague term like 'asian american'?" (of course, i have been guilty of this in the past, and even now in the present. i too am struggling to figure out how i've allowed terminology to lead me astray, and how i can find my way back to the truth. the real. the whole.)

there really have been too many layers in these subjects for 500 plus words, but we've got to start somewhere. And all our collective contributions will eventually help us flesh out a fuller understanding of this all (no, i'm not a communist.).

i recently finished acting in a film (how first world of me!), and in a group interview, a fellow actress, who is white (i've got to figure out something quick instead of this word, before it becomes a cycle that binds me to an illusion! if only we'd spent more time speaking with each other about our ethnic background and not our dreams and perspectives!), said (now here i go into paraphrase mode...), hanging out with me led her to use my work example as a guide and encouraging reality for her work. does that make me an asian american role model? even if she's not asian american ( i did classify her so poorly as white (though there are those of asian descent who appear this color))? should i pick one ethnic group whose lives i can nurture?

let's not think that i have this effect on everyone. my work hasn't reached a majority of the world's population. barely a minority. and of these folks who've been exposed to my work, i receive positive remarks for my impact in their lives from about ten percent of them (this number was arrived at by guessing, while thinking about shows i've performed, and who from those shows have hit me up via social networking sites).

that doesn't sound very model-y to me. that sounds very dude-who-positively-impacts-the-lives- of-some-of-the-folks-he-interacts-with. model, and i'm not an educated man, sounds a lot like guideline, and role sounds a lot like, role. i was just in a thing where i had a role (gosh, i can brag.). it was quite the specific function (thankfully, not of the this-guy-is- foreign variety). if we kinda see these things connected, regardless how they're used to sell the nobility of athletes and celebrities, it sounds like, "hey, if you wanna be a champion caliber pony, here's the outline of what that kinda is and does."

there are other words associated with role model that i often hear like, 'encourages,' 'inspires,' 'teaches,' 'shows,' 'example,' 'exemplify.' there are other labels besides role model which are associated with them words, too. so when we think about a person's effect on our lives, why not use specific, appropriate wording, instead of a blanket term to represent a bevy of verbs? granted, it's much more difficult to have a press kit that states you are, "one who encourages, etc." than one which states, "he is a role model." that just makes keyword sense.

i don't mind spending a few extra seconds responding to someone via email by writing, "i'm glad that my work could have a positive impact on the choices you make," instead of just writing, "it's cool you see me as a role model." why? 'cuz what role am i a model for? even i know that when i'm interviewed, that the interviewer requires a direction for the audience, so i allow them to call me a poet, but even then, i don't believe i am beau sia: poet.

i've had to live so many other labels in my life. now, i'm not saying i'm not a poet (i will add here that only time will tell whether or not the universe considers me a poet after my death).

i'm saying beau sia: poet sounds a lot like lap top: computer. confused? basically, i don't want to be bound in my possibility by a title that immediately categorizes what my life can be about forever. and beyond that, i've met enough people who are poets (on top of everything else they are), and they've got their own way. there are many things i do creatively that work for me, but just don't work for other poets, and vice versa. who are any of us to impose, "be like poet x in you want to be a poet." it's not the single function type of thing a champion caliber pony is. and let's go full circle for a second and recognize that if american citizens whose ethnic background is of asian descent want to be seen as individuals, as well as part of a vast cultural landscape, if you will, aren't we going to run into some long time trouble if we start assigning folks the mantle of asian american role model?

wouldn't that be of the same vein as saying, "this is a model minority," "this is a good asian," "this is your place?" yeah, it's that deep. and if we're going to be individuals who are built on the enormous wealth of experiences and input we receive, why not be aware of and address that as best we can, instead of funneling all of our particular energies into one source. i've spent most of my life digging bruce lee to the fullest, but i will never be him, and trying too hard to follow him would only cheat my potential. okay. i'll give you an example.

rather than me being like, "saul williams is a role model to me," why not tack on a couple of sentences and say, "kal penn has had roles which show me that asian americans (here we go again, for brevity) can be funny, without being at their own expense, hines ward inspires me to seek the self on my own terms, haruki murakami gives me hope that art does not need to rely on corporate interests to be valid, and beau sia..." right. i'm not going to decide what parts of your life i might inform or help you positively build on. I will never be you. them, anyone?

ps- we should really stop looking to level of exposure as a gauge for who is a valid voice in our lives on the various issues we must confront. just because mom doesn't sell as many magazines as paris hilton, doesn't mean her dating advice isn't more accurate to who we are. 98 percent of the time, it is. well, for me, anyway.

(Ishle Park) What does Thanksgiving mean to Asian Americans?

2007-11-19T16:17:00.001-05:00

What? What kind of bizarre 7^th grade social studies question is this? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m tired. Next question, please. But hey, I’ma take a page from Beautiful Beau & write about whatever I feel like.

Ever since I was in junior high school, I was one of those kids who railed on & on about the massacre of the “Indians” and was like, f*ck Pilgrims. Oh, little militant me, big mouth, but not strong enough to resist Kunemo’s homemade cranberry sauce or uma’s Stovetop stuffing when dinnertime came. After a few years, we quit the turkey cold turkey – too dry, my father complains, what is this sh*t? So it’s chicken, rice, and garlic bread for us (plus a separate slew of Korean side dishes for my dad). And food coma in front of the Discovery Channel for the entire weekend. I have to admit, it was the one time of year (besides Christmas) when my cousins, my Uncle Joe & Hyosunah emo would come over to chill, so I enjoyed that ~ a lonely tribe of displaced immigrants & their kids coming together to sigh & smack lips over uma’s saliva-inducing “American” food. Oh, she was so good to us, in her attempts to assimilate her cooking to our little colonized/Americanized taste buds growing up. Yeah. Spaghetti & meatballs with Tabasco sauce. Huge hamburger patties between 2 slices of melting white bread. (Yes Eddie, us too!) Oh, uma. You tried so hard. And I love you for it.

And I guess that’s what I’m gonna write about. Giving thanks. Maybe that’s the difference between me now and me in my tortured teens & twenties. Yeah, life is crazy and horrifying and depressing and fake and lonely sometimes (a lot of the time), but hey, we’re still HERE! We are Alive at this moment, by the grace + sweat + blood of our ancestors, our tribe, our mothers, and the small daily kindnesses of girlfriends & complete strangers ~ something as tiny as a smile on a long line at the post office ~ is a beautiful thing.

So before I get weighed down by my to-do lists, my fears, insecurities & concerns, every morning I meditate, if only for 5 minutes. It saves my life. Because it reminds me to escape my Ego self, go deeper into my True Self. And listen to the wind rustling thick & green thru the big tree in my neighbor’s yard. To my dad singing some Korean love song in his husky voice in the living room. To unni’s new baby crying downstairs.

After I empty myself, I try to fill myself with visions of some of the truly sacred & timeless places I’ve been (by the mountains or the sea), and live there for a moment, and try to concentrate on my breath & not the static in my head (shutup, goddamit!) and fill my Spirit up on it. Then I give thanks.

I go thru a roll call ~ may all Beings, spirit & human, be at peace. And I see the faces of my grandparents, family & friends I’ve lost to AIDS or suicide (but their tender, smiling faces, their faces in a moment of respite) – and I think – wow, you were so incredible and beautiful. And you didn’t even know it. This world didn’t let you know it, didn’t acknowledge your own beauty. But I love you. And I send small beams of light to them, and then think ~ may all beings, human & non-human, be at peace. Here, the natural world gets props ~ that lovely wind-filled tree, my old pit bull Moby, the geckos that Billy coaxed onto his sleeve, the small dead penguin on Waiheke Island, Tyre & Marley, the majestic black wildebeast running alone thru the game reserve in South Africa, and then I think, as closure ~ may all Beings, near & far, be at peace. I kinda imagine myself as a little girl sitting on a globe, and spreading out warm waves of love to folks around me ~ first my moms, brother & dad (who knows, we might’ve had a fight the night before but so what), then out ~ to Mabel, Pimp, Bushra, Tamika, Suheir, Richard, Ed & Jeannie, Liam, Daniel, Sally, & everyone in Aotearoa, to Dennis & his kids & my Bay Area peeps, to David & family, the funny 70s-style pimp tour guide in North Korea, to Teba, Pops Mohamed, Chiwoniso, Farai, Khosi & family & Khehle & the incredible souls in Zulu nation in South Africa, to the Nicky & Little & the old family in Bushwick, to Danyel Waro & Damien Mandrin on Reunion Island ~ whoever I can remember that morning.

And in thinking of all these amazing souls, I realize how profoundly grateful I am for their friendship, their inspiration, their generosity, and their love, for being a brief part of the long saga of their lives. And it makes me almost cry sometimes, the love I have for them. And as lonely as I might feel at times, I know, we are not alone, we are here, together, right now, and Watched over by some inherent light & goodness in the universe that is Divine, slow-moving, but I think happy when we try to pull ourselves out of the Darkness of our own fears, into the Light of pure, simple gratitude, joy, & Love.

I’m sharing this very personal practice with you in the hopes that maybe you’ll try something like it too. If you’re going insane from grief or stress or deadlines or where to find our next paycheck, I feel you. Believe me. Welcome to life ~ the Korean melodrama of our lives. But if you take a little time to empty out, fill up, and remember the people who love you, in spite of yourself sometimes (haha), and Breathe, you’ll remember ~ it’s okay. Not fabulous, but okay. We’re Blessed. Let’s Love each other while we’re here, and try for smiles, not stress today. Peace, Ish.

PS ~ and you, Reader! Thank you for reading this! For clicking on this page & giving my random thoughts your time! Hope you have lovely day ~ sending you a little crazygirl beam of love, haha. :)

(Lena Wong) Thanksgiving: observations from a dinner table outsider

2007-11-19T16:03:00.000-05:00

Now that it’s November and students are nearing the end of their mid-term examinations, I’ve been hearing a great deal of talk surrounding our upcoming Thanksgiving break. Some students are deciding if they should stay on campus or fly home, others are stressing about the fact that they are bringing their significant others to meet their parents for the first time. Yet, neither of those are a concern for me – the former simply because Thanksgiving has never really been celebrated by my family and the latter because, well, I’m single right now.

It’s not to say that my family’s never celebrated Thanksgiving at all. I have a few vague recollections of purchasing a ham from the Honeybaked Ham store and one recent memory of bonding with family friends over a smoked turkey. But, for the most part, it almost felt as though we were going through the motions of Thanksgiving in an effort to give the American tradition a try – but without genuine feeling for the holiday. It’s hard to reunite with family members, as the tradition seems to dictate, when most relatives live overseas in Asia and have little idea what Thanksgiving is or can’t afford to whisk off to America for a brief weekend. Yes, my intermediate family could have used the day as a way of sitting down for a bite to eat, but with only three people, that wouldn’t make Thanksgiving dinner more special than, well, any other evening meal. So, in light of this, what has Thanksgiving come to mean to me in the 14 years I’ve been here? Truthfully, it’s really become the one day of the year in which I feel the most foreign.

It started when my childhood best friend invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner at her house. I was about seven at the time and she made promises of candy, Dr. Pepper, and a fun-filled sleepover, so I accepted. After all, my family had no prior plans for the night. When I arrived there, though, I was greeted by a dozen people who I had never seen before – relatives that had travelled across the country just for Thanksgiving dinner. And, oh, the food! Although I arrived in the late afternoon, I was quickly informed that her aunt, mom, and grandmother had been in the kitchen since early that morning. No store-bought, pre-cooked ham here. Before the eating commenced, everyone was asked to name what they were thankful for that year. It was a Thanksgiving straight out of the television shows that I so devotedly watched. A Thanksgiving that I never thought I’d experience on my own because I didn’t think that people really celebrated the holiday with such extravagance. I would return back to her house for Thanksgiving three or four more times. Last year, I stayed with a family friend and his family in Washington D.C. for Thanksgiving and this year I’ll be traveling to a high school friend’s house for holiday dinner. In essence, partaking in other families’ Thanksgivings has become my tradition.

What struck me as the most interesting aspect of these dinners, however, was the fact that most of the people who shared the table with me were nearly dumbstruck because I wasn’t at home that day. It was more understandable last year since it’s costly and time-consuming to fly from Philadelphia to San Francisco, but in the days of my youth, when my friend’s house was a mere 15 minute drive, the idea of spending Thanksgiving with another family was baffling. It was those moments – when I was constantly asked (even in jest), “Why are you here? Does your family not care about you or something?” that I felt the most un-American. I had every other holiday – Halloween, Christmas, even Valentine’s Day – down to a tee, but why couldn’t I master Thanksgiving? Or, rather, why had my family never embraced the event like we had every other Hallmark holiday?

It’s become clearer over the years that we never really adopted the tradition because we didn’t need to. Perhaps it’s because this is intrinsically tied to our Asian culture, but we see our close family friends almost every weekend for lunch or dinner. As for extended family, my mother and I venture to Singapore on a yearly basis to see everyone there. There is really no need for a dedicated day every year to reunite with those close to us because we do it so often anyway. Yes, the thought of getting together over plates of candied yams and cranberry sauce is a cozy one, but the act of putting together such an extravagant meal is almost as superfluous as the amount of food we’d have left over given the relatively small circle of friends and relatives we have in the United States. So, instead, we refrain from the act, acknowledging the holiday but not adopting the traditions so widely celebrated by our neighbors, colleagues, and school friends. I can’t speak for everyone in the Asian American community, but this is completely fine with me. After all, as much as I enjoy candied yams, turkey isn’t all that great, anyway.

(Emma Carew) Hallyu: I'm really not sure why

2007-11-14T16:33:00.000-05:00

When I was thirteen, I took my first trip to Korea Town in Los Angeles. It was the first time I had ever really been immersed in Korean culture, other than things like Korean culture camp or my Korean dance group.

At the time, it seemed really cool for me and my friends to buy Korean cosmetics, get our hair cut and styled at a Korean salon and buy tons of CDs by Korean pop artists.

Fast forward about ten years, and I’m meeting new people in my Korean classes and they’re having similar urges to consume Korean culture.

Only, we aren’t in Korea Town anymore, we’re in Minneapolis.

Whether it’s drinking bubble teas or downloading popular Korean dramas from the Internet, it seems like Korean pop culture is slowly infusing itself into American life.

When I went to Korea for the first time, a friend asked me to keep an eye out for BoA, a Korean pop singer, and ask for an autograph if I met her anywhere. BoA had been one of my first Korean pop CDs but I hadn’t thought of her in ages. I certainly didn’t realize she had been all that popular among American kids.

In fact, I hadn’t really taken much notice of the hallyu, or wave of Korean popular culture overseas, until recently. In general, I had been aware of the lack of Korean, or even Asian-American, stars in American pop culture.

Movies like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon or The Last Samurai seemed to glorify the historical Asian-American cultures, but rarely touched on the life of those people in modern cultures.

The Korean dramas I’ve seen (mostly in my Korean classes) place the Korean people in everyday life. Some aspects of the plot lines are unique to Korean culture, such as the conflict between a teenage daughter and her filial duty to her parents.

In all honesty, I’m just too lazy to read the subtitles on the dramas and my Korean isn’t good enough to watch without them. I eventually lost interest in my Korean pop albums for the same reason.

I laughed when I saw that My Sassy Girl is being turned into an American-style remake. I’ve only seen parts of the Korean original version, and I’m not sure what to think of how the new one will be.

I have a friend who studies Korean language at her college in Hawaii, but her class consists mostly of middle-age women who just love to watch Korean dramas and want to be able to view them without the subtitles.

One of the best run-ins with hallyu and my own ignorance to it all, was when the popular Korean singer Bi or in English “Rain” came to the States for a concert in New York City. My mother pointed it out in the paper, asking if I knew about the Korean singer “Rain.”

I didn’t at first, because I had only ever heard him referred to as Bi, but it dawned on me that he had translated his name to English for the American tour.

As much as I love to see Asian-American stars in pop culture (apart from the stereotypical Asian nerdy kid or the foreign exchange student who doesn’t speak English well), I still can’t get my head around the popularity of hallyu.

(Ishle Park) A Girl’s History in Guitars ~ Personal Reflections on Asian-Americans in Music

2007-11-14T16:21:00.000-05:00

I can see it now ~ how one girl & her guitar can change the world.
...~ Denizen Kane
May 2007

That’s the inscription on a birthday gift I received for my 30th birthday by the same boy who broke my heart long ago, inspired me to pick up the guitar after a decade-long hiatus, and caused the birth of my first song. And you know what? I think he’s right. I see it too. Finally. We’ve given ourselves permission to dream big, to support each other in our art, no matter what the world says. And that is a gift in itself.

When I was twelve, I put down my black electric no-name guitar. Yeah. My guitar teacher Steve who looked like Dave “the Snake” Sabo from Skid Row (but with more grey hair) ran off to tour with his band Pound of Flesh and I was devastated. Also, my dreams of becoming the first Asian American glam rock queen were slowly being squeezed to death by my mother, boa constrictor, who put the vice hold on my fantasies while pushing me to compete for 6th grade school President. I won, and my family celebrated – lots of Henekins, drunk uncles, kim bab – while I politely excused myself, locked my bedroom door, and wailed to Bon Jovi’s classic, lonely, Jerseyboy anthem, Wanted Dead or Alive.

But there’s another reason I gave up on making music. More than love (or loss), more than third world immigrant parental pressure, it was the void. I didn’t believe in myself, and then there was the absolute void ~ who even remotely looked like me (except the big-haired Japanese dude who played what, bass? glowering behind the lead singer of the Smashing Pumpkins, and that was later) in music? Bjork?? Besides that, no one. What ~ a glam rock, slant-eyed, platform-heeled, yellow Sebastian Bach? A chubby Korean Chuck D? Like my friend Koba would say, Ninja, please.

Even today, most folks can’t name five famous Asian American musicians on one hand. (not counting the YoYo Mas, pretty Korean violinists, and Bay Area hip-hop pinoy emcees). I mean ones getting Grammys. Or ones playing rock. Ones on Hot 97 or Z100. But you know what? I got tired of waiting. At twenty-four, almost drowning in unrequited love & losing myself staring down lonely runways or roads, listening to Ben Harper’s Walk Away on the way to some poetry gig, I picked up the guitar again. This time, acoustic. And wrote a song to the Korean boy who walked straight into the arms of another sister and had two kids without looking back. I cried and strummed something, which became a refrain, which became a prayer, which became a song. And to be honest, I picked up my guitar after I saw Mr. Kane strumming his onstage. What?? A Korean American boy, skinny, divine, singing his youngold soul out, strumming a guitar? The sight & sound of it changed my life, widened my spectrum of hope and my horizons. Like the good book says, and then there was light…for me ~ and then there was a ray of golden light in the vast, white void, and his name was Sangmin.

I’m 30 years old now, a grown woman, and I’m not waiting any longer for anyone else to save me. Not even that gold light. I gotta be my own light. And I am…I am! Right now, I’m on a plane headed back home to Queens. Above me, resting in the overhead, is Honey, my newest baby Martin. I played her live for the first time at the Sister of Fire Awards ceremony this weekend, in front of 300 girlfriends and sisters, including Angela Davis, who have watched me stumble, drop things, laugh, and occasionally, shine onstage for over seven years. We sang a song I wrote called “Han Corea” ~ a roomful of activists, singing for my home country! My last guitar, Elle, is resting in Khosi’s hut in the village of Isitumba in Kwazulu-Natal (Zulu Nation), South Africa, after gifting me with an album’s worth of songs and countless lovely moments. I brought her there, sang & taught Khosi’s children new chords, watched them press their soft fingers onto metal strings for the first time, and hum some snatch of melody and turn it into a scrap of magic, a song, a smile.

And that’s what music is for me. I’m falling, slipping, soaring in love again, and it’s the most profound experience in my life. It’s blowing my mind, leaving my body trembling with drumbeats, melodies, ancient galaks, vibrations that stay with me long after the song is over. I’m meeting Zimbabwean singers who seem to have a direct connection with God when they open their hoarse throats, South African musicians who are taking me into their tribal/futuristic secret studios, initiating me into their secrets, and crooning duets in Creole with young men from Reunion Island. And sometimes, in my lonely hotel room in the dead of night, on an empty beach at dusk, or in my cramped bedroom, I forget myself enough to become a vessel too ~ whisper softly with the divine without saying one goddamn word. It’s beautiful. And I have to say out loud: is this my life? thank you! and thank me!

Yes. And it’s because I finally stopped waiting for “them” to notice me & applaud. Finally stopped waiting for the money, magazine articles, music videos, and mainstream culture. I’m doing it for the sheer joy of it, to become a true musician. And whoa, lo & behold, heads are turning, look who’s taking notice. And you know what? So what? I’m having the time of my life, fool ~ you wanna document it now, give me free clothes, go right ahead! Somewhere deep inside, I’m the same 4th grade Korean nerd you copied math homework from during homeroom, just older, wiser, braver, and sexier, so deal with it. Damn right I’m capitalizing on my 10 seconds of Asian American fame! And in the next ten years, I’m going buy my father a new set of golf clubs, myself a house in Hawaii, and support my moms so she doesn’t have to work another day in a smelly fish store. And you know what, young freshman biochem majors out there? I’m not doing it by the books. I’m doing it by the word. And the music.

What a stupid time to choose to be a musician. Who pays for music? Old folks? Pastors?
But what a thrilling, exciting time too. Because we’re in a war. Because we’re tired of war. Because we’re young, disillusioned, full of energy, and if we look up long enough from our consumerism-driven stupor, there is a lot to see, and a lot to say about the world, and our place in it. And since no one is offering us record deals without wanting to make us lifetime indentured servants to another master besides Sallie Mae, we’re forming our own record labels. Myspacing each other into fame, instead of drooling like starving mutts at the feet of MTV. Making our own college tours, hitting up Asian Student Unions and cafes, music & literary festivals, and sponsors. Creating incredible live shows. With drums. Poetry. Guitar. And for once ~ with our own songs and stories.

America has been hit over the head hard with hip-hop (it’s still stunned), been aflood with the wave of Latin American music, has even bounced to basement Bhangra. Next is the rest of us. Thank God we have AZN and ImaginAsian; we’re creating our own outlets because we need it. We need to see ourselves reflected and appreciated, and it’s okay for us to be our own audience. Just like our parents cleared the path for us the hard way, bushwacking through the racism and poverty they endured in Jackson Heights, Flushing and South Central, we’re putting in our thankless, crazy, exhilarating hours in rehearsal rooms, student union mess halls, and dim-lit cafes. Like the original b-boys in the Bronx on the flattened cardboard TV boxes up in Co-op City. Hey, that’s the way it is with pioneers. And honestly, even with the worried parents (do they ever stop?), the meager pay, the shoulder scars from carrying loads of gear, it’s worth it ~ just to play that perfect solo, or to have some college kid laying in the shade, humming my song ~ that will be its own sweet reward.

I’m not waiting around for “them” to take my picture and decide to legitimize me as a musician, and thank God the rest of us are not either! Denizen Kane, Native Guns, Vodou Soul, Cynthia Lin, Left of Zed, Taiyo Na, Heather Park, Kevin So, Ken Oak…we are the first generation of rebel Asian American musicians putting down our textbooks, loading our gear, & Greyhounding it around the country trying to make our own beautiful music, even though America has never once validated, believed in, or reflected our beauty. And that alone is a revolutionary act. We’re just waiting for ya’ll to catch up with us.

So hurry up! While I’m not waiting for them, I am waiting for You. As artists, we all are. Waiting for our community to give back to us, like we give to ya’ll. So I’m putting out this plea on behalf of all the crews, emcees, follkfingers, and poets I know out there struggling to make a living with their art ~ please. Support your Asian American artists. Bring them out to your campus. This year, can you hustle your rich old white institution to fork out the few thousand to bring a young, Asian American artist who feeds your soul instead of simply letting them pump 2 million into your new gym? Can you co-ordinate with another student group to make it a joint event, to give your artist what he/she is worth? Can you do something concrete to support a full-time working artist you love? Buy people’s CDs when you see them live, or just gift them with an artist donation on their Paypal for Christmas! Support your independent artists the way other folks support starving kids in third world countries. Yes, I kid you not ~ it’s really that necessary and important for artists to get the emotional and financial feedback to enable them to continue. And one good thing about this wired world is that you can always reach out and touch someone who has touched you. So touch an artist who has touched you, with concrete actions, honorariums, or words that they can be thankful for. You’ll help pay their rent, feed their children, and feed their souls. As for me, I’ll be touring at colleges next spring. If you’re feeling me as an Asian American artist, singer, or spirit, bring me out to your campus. Me & Honey will be happy to meet you in person ~ we might even share a song or two, and share a moment of respite in this crazy world. And who knows? You might even want to sing along. Like my man Farai says, Dream strong…and walk in Peace.

When ‘One Size Fits All’ means anyone but me (Emma Carew)

2007-11-07T15:39:00.000-05:00

“We don’t have your size.”

I had barely set foot inside and the shopkeeper blurted out the words in Korean. Literally, the words she used translate to mean, “As for us, your size does not exist.” Not the best way to start a sales pitch.

One of the biggest culture shocks for me when I went to Korea this summer was the way Korean people judged me by my body type – which is curvy but not plus-sized by American standards.

My 5’6”, size 10 body felt huge next to the 5’0”, size 0 girls I stood next to on the subways. I was afraid if the trains stopped suddenly, I might crush the person standing next to me. I felt like my size gave me away instantly as being American. I hadn’t felt that self-conscious about my body since middle school.

In the States, I buy clothes in size medium at most stores, and my pant size is smaller than the American average for women (size 14). In Korea, I had a hard time finding clothes that fit at all, especially from street vendors, where most of the items are “one-size-fits-all.”

One of the first things my Korean grandmother said to my translator when I visited was, “you’ve gotten fatter.” My Korean isn’t great, but I distinctly heard “tdeung-tdeung-hae,” which is the word Korean kids use to call other kids fat. (Later, my Korean friends assured me that she probably was happy to see I was “healthy” and meant it endearingly, not as an insult)

In America, our movie stars and models don’t all descend from the 1960s icon Twiggy. We see women like Emme and Queen Latifah in magazine advertisements and billboards. I recently read an article in Glamour that was written by the actress who plays Dr. Callie Torres on Grey’s Anatomy. It was entitled “I’m a size 12 in a size 0 town” and talked about her experience with weight in Hollywood.

In Korea, the characters in dramas and films were usually depicted by short, skinny actresses. In one program I watched, one character’s boyfriend started a fistfight with another boy who called the girlfriend “at least 50 kilograms.” 50 kg is the equivalent of 110 lbs, which would hardly be considered an insult by US standards.

I have basically accepted that I love food as much as I hate exercise. I try to work healthier foods into my diet from time to time, but I know I’ll never buy a size 0 pair of jeans. It’s a balance that’s only gotten more difficult in college, where I eat out frequently and struggle to adapt family-sized recipes to cook for one.

In Korea, I felt as though someone had tattooed the title of that magazine article across my forehead. Women tried to sell me tea in the grocery marts, repeating in broken English, “is good for diet” as I walked by. Every time I passed a reflective surface (mirrors are everywhere in Seoul) my belly looked rounder, and my arms looked bigger than usual.

I knew from my adoption papers that my birth mother was petite, about 5 feet and 100 lbs when I was born. My half-sisters are slim and tiny like she is. I long ago out grew and outweighed not only my birth mother, but also my birth father.

And although my Korean grandmother called me fat and nicknamed me her “little piglet,” I’ve accepted that it’s only a part of their culture. (I am, however, less forgiving of those sales ladies)

I’m not sure my grandmother understands how I came to be the size that I am growing up in American. As a farmer in rural South Korea, fast food and Starbucks-to-go do not exist in her world. I learned that because of the periods of hunger in her past, my grandmother would not offer her food to just anyone. And yet, she tried to feed me time and time again when I was in Korea, me: her piglet, American granddaughter.

My Words Are A Vessel, My Body is My Temple (Ishle Park)

2007-11-07T15:34:00.000-05:00

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I want to lose 4 pounds by Saturday for an awards ceremony. Today if I’m good, I’ll drink 7 glasses of water, down a strawberry-banana smoothie, and eat seaweed & rice for dinner. I’ll dance with my iPod for 30 minutes and go to bed a little hungry. Repeat for 4 days, and I’m good to go. I’ve become a scientist when it comes to my own body, and I’ve finally figured out the formula for my weight loss. Crazy! Why? Why do I care?

Because this society rewards beauty, and my own livelihood depends on people booking me for shows. The more physically attractive I appear, the more shows I get, the more school loans I can pay off. It’s a mathematical fact that has nothing to do with poetry or music. This frustrates me, but this is the foolish world I am living in. And this is how I pay rent. A wise musician once told me, to make a living as an artist, you must sell the outside, but keep the inside. It’s a fine line, one I’m trying to balance on every day.

So I confess ~ yes, I too, worry about weight. I too, am caught up in this national fascination with body and image. It’s disturbing and crazy, and I can’t say that it doesn’t affect me. Especially now, as a female poet and entertainer in this small Asian American spotlight, I feel the pressure to be as “perfect” as I can be. The truth is ~ I do want to be at my physical and spiritual best while the lights are on, but let me tell you, honey, it’s hard work.

Sometimes I wonder how psychologically damaging it must be for us to constantly be rewarded for all the wrong reasons: appearance as opposed to substance, surface as opposed to self, the beautiful illusion and not stark reality. But as one of the magicians, who am I to complain? I’m here to serve magic.

And we play the game in order to put rice on the table. All I can do to escape it is meditate and remember that none of this matters ~ we’re all going to die anyway, so just be the biggest light you can be while you’re here, girl. That’s it. Simple.

If my words are a vessel, my body is my temple. What I do requires a lot of physical energy, stamina, and chi. In order for me to perform my best onstage, I need to not just look healthy, but BE healthy. After years of trying every diet known to woman ~ low carb, no carb, lemonade & cayenne pepper ~ I’m learning that what works best for me is to simply eat less (don’t go for seconds), eat right (lots of fresh fruit, no pasta, and nothing from a can or a box if possible), and exercise more (30 minutes of poi a day can do wonders for the upper arms). My friends are a little shocked at this change. After all, before I was the Poet Laureate of Queens, I was most definitely queen of Haagen-Dazs ice cream bars, Hershey’s Kisses, and Cool Ranch Doritoes.

A year of eating greasy diner food while touring with Def Poetry Jam changed my diet. I got so sick of burgers at chains ending with y’s (Friendly’s, Arby’s, Wendy’s,) and downing handfuls of Peanut M&M’s for breakfast, I started seriously looking for a lifestyle change. Living on a diet of weed & junk food erodes the body and soul, and it almost broke me down.

After the tour, I lived in New Zealand with a young boy-chef. We had our drama, but one good aspect of our life together is that everyday we ate fresh pineapples cashews, daily multi-vitamins, and tuna-avocado sandwiches. Yes, we had our stash of chocolate bars too, but in general, it was a pretty nutritious time. My skin glowed, I felt 5 years younger, and had energy to dance or sing every weekend. Eating well really did give me a new life.

It’s been hard for me to maintain this health kick because I’ve been a junkaholic since the early 80s. As a latchkey kid growing up in Queens, I’d sit alone with a mountain of comfort food while my parents worked at the fish store; I’d let ramen, DingDongs, and Ruffles babysit me while I watched Ricki Lake. Always a chubby girl growing up meant thick thighs, stomach rolls, meaty arms, and insecurities galore. Only now, decades later, do I realize what works best for me ~ eating healthy, meditation, and exercise ~ in the form of salsa, swimming, sex, poi, guitar-playing, and singing.

I’m a grown woman, and I want to live this life to the fullest while I’m here. And enjoy it with the best body that I can manage. And it definitely feels like work! Annoying homework. But it’s worth it, because being fit helps me feel more confident and gives me more energy to tackle each day. I’m slowly coming to understand that part of loving and respecting myself mean respecting my body’s needs by nourishing it with as much pure, organic, fresh food as possible, and cutting down on toxins, chemicals, or chemically-treated junk that passes for food. I eat less, but I have so much more energy! Enough to fly around the world three times in a year and have life-changing collaborations with amazing musicians. I wouldn’t be able to do this if I was still living on Happy Meals & Applebee’s.[1]

Visiting other countries, you also see how overweight America is. Our gluttony and greed as a country seems to be reflected in our overflowing waistlines. Visiting North Korea in particular had a huge impact on me because everyone there is on a permanent diet ~ not by choice ~ but because of years of the U.S. embargo, draught, and famine. It really puts things in perspective, and make you want to stop eating as much, if only in some small, guilty gesture of personal solidarity.

So when I start to stress about my weight, I try to remember to chill out. It’s a luxury to even have such trivial concerns. Many people in the world are struggling to live. So if I lose those 4 pounds by Saturday, great. If not ~ hey, so what. Life goes on. I’d like to think I didn’t get the Sister of Fire award for my ability to fit into tight jeans, but my ability to live life beyond those type of constraints. In the end, all I truly need to do is love and respect myself with my words and actions. That is my biggest job, and living up to my own ideal of Self will be my greatest award. For now, I’m signing off. Writing this article was tiring! I might go reward myself with a low fat fudge pop. Peace.

(Lena Wong) The List 4.0

2007-10-29T16:04:00.000-04:00

I was fourteen when I first created The List. It was a fun idea at the time, listing all the qualities I looked for in my “perfect” guy, but it’s something that’s stuck with me for a great deal longer than I could have predicted it would. I’m currently working on version 4.0, and getting progressively less sure that I’ll ever find someone who’ll fit the criteria, but that’s beside the point. The truth of the matter is that I’ve never really had a preference for a certain race, so it baffles me when I hear the terms “Asian fetish” or “yellow fever” thrown around. And since I am a product of my parents, I guess my refusal to believe that someone would date me solely on assumptions of my race comes from the way in which I was raised.

I was sitting with a friend of mine and her boyfriend, an interracial couple, in New York City two weekends ago, when they asked me if I had a preference for Asian men. And when I said no, they asked if my parents were bothered by that or, in effect, whether or not my parents wanted me to end up marrying someone also of Chinese descent. And the answer to that question was surprising to them because it was also, “no.”

Of course, I’d never really had that conversation with my parents. My parents tend to use humor to skirt around the topic of me dating, well, anyone. My dad calls himself an “equal-opportunity hater” and claims that it doesn’t matter who I bring home because he won’t like them. I’m daddy’s little girl in that aspect, and he also says that I’ll be single until the day that I get married. My mom is on the opposite end of the spectrum. While I wouldn’t call her an equal-opportunity lover because, well, that sounds kind of sketchy, she’s usually the one who gets along with all of the friends I introduce her to – boyfriends or otherwise. I asked her last week about whether or not she, in her heart of hearts, wanted me to marry an Asian and she replied: “Lena, I really don’t care what race he is…his family just needs to be willing to pay for the wedding.” She was joking (or not?) but what it really all boils down to is that I’ve never had pressure from my family to date someone of a certain race and, therefore, I’ve never really wanted to narrow my focus.

In the days since The List 1.0, I’ve dated both men of Asian and Caucasian descents and doing so has raised a few issues in my mind. One is the topic of fetishism. The first time I’d ever heard of men with Asian fetishes was during my first year of high school during an Asian American youth leadership meeting that went over stereotypes of Asian American women and men. Students older than myself started introducing labels like “Dragon lady” to me and noting that Caucasian men tended to like assertive Asian women – under the premise that that confidence would translate well in the bedroom. The notion was odd; I’d grown up in culture denial – always trying to fit in with my mostly-caucasian peers and hearing that some of the boys at my school liked my personality, but wouldn’t date me because of my race. Knowing that there were Caucasian men who actively looked for Asian women was both disconcerting and intriguing at the same time. It made me wonder if there was a stereotype, perhaps one that I barely knew given my age and relative innocent, that I’d be measured upon as I grew older. But I never really faced it head-on until I was in my late-teens. As I grew older, I started to happen upon men who openly admitted that they preferred Asian women and if I asked why, most couldn’t give clear answers. Although, when I did join an online dating community once for experimentation purposes, I did receive a message that stated something along the lines of “I love Asian women. They are so good in bed, but even better out of bed.” Yet, at the same time, I think that it’s unfair to pin the term “Asian fetish” or “Yellow fever” only on men who are not of Asian descent. How is it that different when an Asian man says that he exclusively seeks out Asian women? Having a preference is one thing, but narrowing in on one race alone is indicative of a close-mindedness that’s problematic no matter what color the person’s skin is.

The other topic that comes to mind after reflecting on my previous relationships is the idea of comfort and recognition. Dating Asian American men was simply easier because there were aspects of my culture that came naturally. One of my more serious relationships was with someone who was also Chinese and with that came the comfort of being able to talk about our Chinese horoscope symbols, myths that had shrouded our youth (like finishing all of our rice at dinner time for fear of having a spouse with a pimple-covered face if we didn’t), and an understanding of the differences between mandarin and Cantonese. My other long-term relationship was with a Caucasian classmate of mine in college and while he was very liberal in mindset, there were aspects of our relationship that could have been easier had we had more similar cultural backgrounds. I found myself annoyed at his disdain for Chinese food (even though I don’t have a particular liking for it, either) and his failure to comprehend some of the traditions that I’d inherited from my parents. Those were my two most recent and longest relationships, and I’ve come out of them without a higher preference for one race or another. I know now that I appreciate open-mindedness. It’s more important to me that someone be willing to learn to understand aspects of my culture, than to be part of it themselves. And, of course, that brand of open-mindedness is something that I’d value for parts of personality beyond my ethnic background – it extends to my taste in things like music and food, my ideals, and my passions as well.

The truth of the matter is that I’m very lucky that I was raised by parents with open minds and, because of that, I feel that going through life with a narrow focus would not do my upbringing justice. I have Asian American friends who grew up with tremendous pressure to choose certain careers and certain mates and, because of that, constantly feel as though straying from those set paths would be a disappointment to their families. Some of my girl friends have said that they view their youth as a time to experiment with dating other races, but know that they will eventually find an Asian man in an effort to satisfy their parents. And though version 4.0 of The List is still underway and there are plenty of versions left before I figure out what I really want, I take pride in knowing that race isn’t and won’t ever have to be a consideration. Whether or not he can support my growing addiction to shoe shopping, though…now that is something to consider.

(Beau Sia) Okay. Can We Stop Calling it Interracial?

2007-10-29T15:54:00.000-04:00

"okay. can we stop calling it interracial?"

once again. do i really? aren't there soldiers being maimed overseas? isn't clean water becoming more difficult for the world's poor? i believe the situation in jena, and all of its implications, is still going on, right? my sister says the neo nazis in germany are becoming better dressed, going to school in order to become teachers, and making it more controversial for her to wear her new balance sneakers (apparently the N has been co-opted). it's funny how she speaks fluent german, but because it isn't fluent enough for the germans (what is the word for the thing that is only in germany?), the people she is speaking with will often defer in german to her jewish boyfriend, who an say three phrases, i believe.

in thai park, in berlin, every sunday, the thai people of berlin come and sell homemade foods, drinks, and hang out with their families and do a bit of gambling. i went once. in the distance, there's a group of 10-15 older gentleman of anglo (i really don't know what word i should be using here. can we please get a standard. it can't be caucasian. have you been to caucasus? i haven't. white? that really seems limiting and too empowering. can someone with real brains please inform me? fact checker?) descent, just f------ drooling over the asian women, and some of the asian men, as well.

was i grossed out? yes. it's gross. it used to be extremely angering. especially considering the history of war. now, it's kind of really pathetic. i would feel the same gross if i were in thailand, and at german park, a group of thai men were just losing it in their pants, waiting for a strudel. but who am i to judge the neurosis of others? who cares how emotionally stunted these people are? or how ineffective they are at interacting with others on a real level? who cares what the games of power are that are being played? that ain't my life. i'm not those women/men. i'm not the dudes in the chair. we all compensate in one way or another, we all want different things. am i supposed to be the judge of what love is acceptable? or what love is? not for anyone else. How exhausting. plus, where do i draw the line?

maybe she needs citizenship. maybe she needs euros to feed forty people back home. maybe he needs to feel strong. maybe she wants her children to be more accepted by the majority population. maybe he heard something. a rumor, perhaps. maybe she heard something. maybe they're running from their history. maybe the conflicts of nations makes standards out of killers. maybe the images we are most presented with become the realities we chase. maybe the needs of individuals are not found in romance novels, but in business manuals, in internet porn, in finding acceptance and nurturing in ways that webster's doesn't have enough room for in the dictionary.

and maybe none of this applies to the inter-ethnic couples on the street that walk by me everyday, all the time. maybe it's every definition of love i've ever imagined. i've ever wanted. maybe it's all the commitment and sharing, and acceptance that survival couldn't compete with. maybe it's that spark, that thump in the heart, that leaves skin and society in ashes at their feet. maybe it's the holding of hands that can't be defined by any ethnic studies course on the planet. i don't know. i don't know these people. and furthermore, i don't know why those of asian descent are so concerned with inter-ethnic dating in this country, nor why it only applies to couples that are asian and not asian (although, perhaps future dna testing will show that we are all asian. i'm not science.)

in the philippines, my cousin made me promise not to tell anyone that we had spent some of the night hanging out with a filipina woman. in manila, the chinese have parties where they only meet each other. wow. where do we draw the line and why? i don't hear much about asian men and women from other ethnic backgrounds in this great nation, but there is no end to how much i've had to listen about asian women and dudes from different ethnic backgrounds. why is that? do you own that woman walking down the street? is she engaged to you? is that your property because your origins are the same continent? are you angry that you don't look anything like the guy she's dating? Who cares what she likes? and who knows why she likes him? it might have nothing to do with the nose, the ancestry, or the skin.

look. do you want more? or do you want me to get to the truth? you're probably not filled up enough with my thinking. you probably want the woman on the street to see how she's betraying something that she is not responsible for. fine. i've had plenty of white girlfriends. there. i said it. maybe you don't know where i'm from. oklahoma. is that an excuse? no. that's part of the reality. have you watched any movies in the last thirty years? do you know what's on cable? picked up a magazine at the airport? tell me, have you seen the covers? do you know who has been kicking ass and setting up military bases all over the world to ensure freedom and never have to follow the laws of the country they're occupying? can you tell me the ethnic content of every chapter in world history class? public school, mind you. i'm not referring to you, montessori (which reminds me. people love to bring up how they were raised in san francisco, and because they were picked on by all the asian kids that it makes everything i ever write and say wrong. please. stop looking for reasons to discredit things that don't fit the reality you'd like, and start helping me build the scope of this reality we all participate in).

like, when i'm 19, dating brittanie (seriously), i'm saying to myself, "ah, now the white people will accept me." i don't know that. i think she's gorgeous. she has everything i'm taught is gorgeous. we like the same shows. other guys in my town think she's pretty. the list goes on. we all go on. like the child who likes everything as long as it's red, we grow out of our simple concepts of love or we don't. we evolve or we stick with what is comfortably trained into us. no offense, but we are individuals built by the input we have processed, and the choices that has caused us to make. some of us keep looking to f--- what they're taught is a f--- doll, because men are supposed to find f--- dolls they can control to f---. get my drift?

am i supposed to judge someone for being that f--- doll? am i to assume that's what they are? am i supposed to judge someone for looking for that? am i supposed to assume that's why he's with her? no, and no, and no, and no.

as i get older, i continue to refine what i want from relationships of the romantic variety.

i continue to examine the implications of my actions, and the realities and context my relationships with others exist in. i work to make sure that i am not loving from a place of illusion. i make choices to try and break from all the baloney i'm filled with, so i can see people for who they are and not what i want them to be, or what i'm told they are. i take it day-by-day. ten years ago the aspects i deemed signs of true love are laughable to me now. that's what's been happening, because i want to keep on trying, working, failing, mistaking, and growing from this experience, because each person i am sharing this type of intimacy with (whatever that means), is different, no matter how alike some may look, or no matter how similar they're interests are. i have to remember that, and act accordingly. and it's exhausting at times. wonderful, beautiful, etc., yes, but exhausting. sometimes i want to snap, and once i actually did.

so you see, i don't have enough time to be responsible for your love, ideas of love, and decisions with regards to love. i can't dictate to you, no more than i will allow you to dictate to me. i've got so much already in my interaction with others to worry about what you're doing. you love how you want, you see what you want, you do what you want, you determine the depth of love you want to risk it all for. you do you dawg. let me do me. we all need different things, that's why i'm not meant for everyone. i don't want to be with someone just 'cuz i'm supposed to. i want to share my life with someone because, well, i don't want to get into what i'm looking for. my love is not an add or a profile. it's my experience. and no one else's.

(Ishle Park) Finding Home

2007-10-15T16:35:00.000-04:00

It’s 2:33 am and I’m in Durban, South Africa, writing on the back of a Protea Wanderer Hotel receipt. I’ve been performing and living out of my suitcase for a few years now and I’ve been feeling rather gypsy-like, and everywhere I go, people never fail to ask ~ where are you from? Where’s home?

My stock answer has been that I’m a Korean-American homegirl from Queens. As if that will explain the accent, the swagger, and the Triple Five S(e)oul to curious strangers. But being abroad amongst Kiwi, Irish, Zulu, and Trinidadian friends makes me really examine my cultural makeup and national identity. Who am I? I could never simply answer “American”, because while I am a U.S. citizen, Korea is still my split motherland.

Which Korea? Both Koreas. When people ask me, ‘North or South?’ I always say ‘both’, because it’s important for me that folks remember that Korea was one country for more than 5,000 years and has only been divided for about fifty. And with our awareness, it’s possible to work towards Korean reunification in our lifetime. My grandfather was born in Pyongyang, way before North Korea was dubbed an axis of evil, so when you look at me, you’re also looking at a North Korean face.

You’re looking at the face of a Queens girl too. In a way, it’s as important for me to rep Queens as it is for me to represent Korea, because my neighborhood has colored my personality so much and is partly responsible for making me the gum-snapping, hot-tongued homegirl I became.

Citizenship is a question of belonging. Where do your loyalties lie? Which country do you claim? Which country claims you? Post 9-11, I’ve never felt so unwelcome in homeland as now. But as a diaspora kid traveling in South Korea, I can tell you that taxi drivers make sure to let you know you are an alien there too. And North Korea? Forget about it! They couldn’t have stared in more amazement if I had dropped in from Mars.

If I had to claim a country based on my heart instead of the law, I’d claim all three, because I am concerned about the welfare of all, and my fate is tied directly to the future of all of them. As much as I might gripe as a liberal, growing up in the States has allowed me the privilege to rail against it, and to become the artist that I am today. So where’s home? More & more, the world is becoming home, but my personal mission in working towards a unified Korea means I must negotiate all of these territories and disparate spaces in order to work towards healing & wholeness for my people, and healing & wholeness for myself. That means accepting and understanding how all of these different facets of my cultural identity work with each other to create the world citizen I’m becoming. So when I pack my bags & head for the next hotel and they ask me where I’m from, I’ll tell them Queens by way of Korea, but to be honest, like most of us, I’m still trying to figure it all out.

(Lena Wong) When It Sizzles

2007-10-15T13:55:00.000-04:00

My background is one of laksa and lasagna, Hawker food centers and hamburger stands. I’m a ray of California sunshine and a breath of humid Singaporean air. My citizenship lies not too far above the equator, but my permanent residency sits firmly in the Western Hemisphere. I might not be fresh off the proverbial boat, but my plane landed fourteen years ago and my identity has been complicated ever since.

Since the predominant language in Singapore is English or, rather, Singlish – a blend of British English, Hokkien, Cantonese, and Malay – my arrival in the United States was not greeted by a language barrier. My first day in kindergarten was, however, greeted by a feisty girl who grabbed me by the collar and called me stupid. Funny only because I was already spelling words while my peers pored over the letter “T”. This was my “Welcome to America”.

What proceeded in the years after my entrance to the American education system were years of struggling to attain the popularity so highly emphasized in teen films while still upholding the strong Asian values instilled in me by my parents. After all, as I was often reminded, the move to America was for my benefit: my parents wanted me to grow up in an education system that valued creativity and rhetoric instead of raw numbers and memorization.

But it wasn’t easy. All attempts at educating my peers about my Chinese background and Singaporean nationality dissipated once elementary school (and the show-and-tell sessions that came with it) ended. My ascension in the ranks of popularity in middle school led me into a group of girls who were predominantly Caucasian. And, although I grew up in the Bay Area, long regarded as a racial melting pot, my minority status within that clique made me particularly attuned to discussions about race -- so much, in fact, that the easiest option seemed to be complete disregard of my culture. I became what the Asian American not-so-affectionately calls a “banana” – yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

The statements that affected me varied in degree: One day, a girl lamented the fact that her father did not regard the high-brow Asian bistro P.F. Chang’s as a “real” Chinese restaurant despite the fact that she’d informed him that I, her one Asian friend, had said that it tasted good. On a more offensive level, I found myself in the backseat of my car with my best friend at the time when she pulled at the corners of her eyes and said, “Hey, now I look like you.” We were freshmen in high school. There were backhanded compliments – “You do your eye makeup really well for someone with such small eyes” – and direct put-downs – “I would have asked her out if she weren’t Asian,” but, all the same, these people were my so-called friends and the allure of popularity was too much to turn down.

My race began to seem unattractive, undesirable and, at the same time, undeniable. As much as I could wrinkle my nose at the pungent Chinese medicines in our closet or refuse to speak Cantonese at home, I couldn’t change the color of my skin. For better or for worse, I was an Asian growing up in America. That experience in itself isn’t too bad – especially in the areas of the United States that I’ve lived so far. What complicated things, however, were my family’s yearly trips to Singapore.

After the grueling, drawn-out process of attaining permanent residency in the United States, my mother and I made our first trip back to Singapore. My head was spinning with all-too-vivid memories of my youth and I simply could not wait to re-experience my home country after so many years away from it. Yet, my disembarkation from the plane was hardly what I expected. My grandmother, with whom I had had a close relationship when I was a toddler, constantly commented on my weight. I was of average size for an American teenager, but perfectly unacceptable by Asian standards. The images that had been floating in my head of places I’d seen as a child seemed outdated and, as much as I tried to reconnect with the country of my birth, it had grown away from me. Or, perhaps, I had grown away from it.

Although I had spent much of my adolescence waiting to return the place where I thought I truly belonged, I had arrived to find that it had forgotten me. The friends I had had as a child were virtually impossible to relocate, my former school had no record of my existence, and the adults who had helped raise me couldn’t stop fixating on how much I’d changed. Among their obsessions were my height, my weight, and my accent. In Chinese, they would comment on the “American” girl in their presence – the one who spoke English so quickly that it sounded like a machine gun, the one who resented the Chinese delicacies put before her, and the one who, they were certain, didn’t remember anything about Singapore. The place that I had so long considered as home suddenly seemed inexplicably foreign and I found myself wondering where I truly belonged. And, although that first return was almost a decade ago, that question is still one that I find myself pondering today.

Of course, with age came more confidence and comfort with the people around me. I eventually found solid groups of friends in high school and college with whom race was joked about but never singled out. The girl who thought that popularity only came with associations with certain people eventually grew up and focused on herself, rather than the opinions of those around her – she was even nominated to be homecoming queen when she was a senior. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that she – or, rather, I – have found myself a permanent identity. Now, as ever before, I find myself constantly in transit and constantly flitting from one identity to another. Upon meeting other Singaporeans (which happens more than one might think), I often preface all statements by telling them that despite my thick American accent, I am a citizen of Singapore and go back every year. And upon telling those in the United States about my lack of American citizenship, I often give them strung-out explanations for my choice to refrain from applying for a citizenship. The latter conversation also sometimes involves an explanation that I am not, and never was, an illegal immigrant.

So where do I belong? The truth is, I don’t really know. Maybe it’s the address on my driver’s license or the emblem on my passport. Perhaps my place is in Asia, America, or somewhere in between. Either way, I’m still trying to find it and I might be on this journey for most of my life. But, when I do happen upon that destination, I’ll be sure to send you the coordinates.

(Beau Sia) Jena, oh my gawd, I can’t believe I have to write about this: 6

2007-10-09T13:17:00.001-04:00

Why couldn’t this assignment to address current events have happened when Cho Seung Hui dropped? Or Vincent Chin? In many ways, I don’t know the full scope of those tragedies, but I can connect my own life experience directly to both. It’s also more likely that the judgement of my writing concerning either would be less severe than about the Jena 6. I’m on youtube. I’m not ignorant to the dismissal of ideas coming from the place of, “What does this Chinese son of immigrants from the Philippines, raised in Oklahoma, living the life of an artist in NY and LA know about the history of ethnic tension between black and white in Jena, much less this country?”

Already, I can feel the emails saying, “We are not white, we are caucasian,” “We are not black, we are African-American,” “We are not African-American. We are not from africa, we’ve been here for generations,” and so on.

I imagine more emails. “What does he know about the legal system, he claims to be an artist,” “He’s biased because he’s also a ‘minority,’” “He’s biased because asian people secretly hate black people,” “What of his work qualifies him to publicly speak about a topic like this?” all the while, anonymous comments flood the internet from people self-righteously sharing what should be done and why from the comfort of their home computers.

I read some articles. I’ve asked a few friends (“Were they white?” “Were they asian?” “Were they black? I mean, African-aAmerican? I mean, black?”). There was an OP ed. from the D to the A. Whee.

So here I am, afraid to the point of not even writing about it for over half a page, because of the judgement of others. The hate I may receive no matter what I write. And of course, the dreaded, “Being taken out of context.”

What is it that makes me feel like I’m not allowed to share my thoughts on this without condemnation? Why can we all speak volumes about global warming, even though few of us are qualified enough to speak on the complete picture?

Why do we feel capable of dealing with the issues facing the people of Iraq, but are quick to decide that the Jena 6 is the stuff of the DA, the great state of Louisiana, the south, etc. and so on?

Personally, I was too lazy to investigate the grounds for acquittal in a criminal investigation, trial, or whatever it’s called. I’m legally a moron. I have a lawyer, an accountant, a manager, and never read the contracts I sign. With so much of the emphasis of this incident grounded in “Acquit,” or, “Try them for attempted murder,” there’s little I could offer that would be definitive, or accurate.

So, gut feelings aside, and tremendous fears of Mos seeing me next and saying, “Why didn’t you fully back us up?” I’ll begin with this:

Ethnic prejudice and hatred is alive and well in this country. Ignorance is at an all time high. We are much smarter about these things than we’ve been in the past.

Like men being taught by ‘The Pick-Up Artist’ how to effectively make women feel like they respect them, whether they do or not, we are quickly evolving the language to seem like these issues no longer exist, while still encouraging the actions for them to flourish. Or worse, we are getting better at commiting acts of hatred without actions as obvious as fire hoses. Death by embargo is still death.

Statistically speaking, I wonder if we took every inter-ethnic beating that ever went down in this country, determined what percentage of defendants were tried for attempted murder, what their ethnic background was, what the numbers would be?

I wonder if we taught the events that occurred in Germany during WW II as hatred, and not strictly Nazi hatred, how many other acts would we see in our present as exact reflections of the same mentality and sentiment towards the Jews during that time?

I wonder if we didn’t just react to only the most extreme of incidents, and actually had the time and energy to address much of what we ignore in our everyday, would we be able to prevent some of these incidents? If there is a process to determining who we choose as America’s Next Top Model, isn’t there a process to determining who we will blame for our economic frustrations?

Am I being too vague? Do you get hate mail being told you’re dead if you say another word? Did Pat Buchanan turn your poem of empowerment into a poem of ethnic cleansing for all his fans? Do you walk the street being told to go back to the country you weren’t born in, then told that this isn’t hate? Do you receive anonymous comments for every word you share with the world telling you that you’re racist because you didn’t take a particular side? That you’re evil because you neglected a detail? That you’re wrong for expressing yourself, even if you stated nothing more than a personal idea and made no indication of taking a specific action?

Do I understand how a series of events could lead a person to the choices I’ve read in these articles? Yes. On all sides. Would I make the same choices? No. On all sides. Well, I would’ve definitely sat under ‘The White Tree.’ If we’re so spoiled we feel threatened by someone sitting under a public tree, you know this country’s got problems. But hey, I’m not the principal of a school. Who am I to address what underlies a community I am not entrusted to make sure is a nurturing one? And even if I visited this community, I’m sure there are members of it who’ve been a part of it for longer than myself. Probably since way before 1965. But I forget most of history. Although, I do some of the same things I’ve done since I was 5. Like bite my nails. I guess I haven’t met the person willing to teach me why I shouldn’t do that without feeling completely judged for it. But I digress. Jena 6, yeah. That’s what this is about.

Do you sense a pattern in my wandering mind? How the moon affects the ocean, even though we can’t see it? How my clothing choices are as rooted in other’s perceptions of asian folk as it is in a love of color and a desperate need for attention? The periscope often only sees what it’s looking for, and not what is.

If you’ve read this far, I congratulate you. I know it can be difficult. I never watch the game, I only watch the highlights. I don’t see how the flu affects a player during the course of a game, only the fumble. And if you’ve read this far without holding on too tightly to one sentence you disagreed with, a gold star. I want to hate Breakfast at Tiffany’s because of Mickey Rooney’s portrayal of an asian man, even though I love the story. And if you’ve read this far trying to figure out more of what I’m trying to convey instead of what you are looking for in my writing, based on what you want to believe, I owe you a drink. That is hella hard, ya’ll. I’m in love with a woman, and often focus too much on how she’s not telling me she loves me, instead of what pain has made her incapable of expressing her love openly.

Believe me, I could go on far longer and vaguer than seven seasons of nationally televised nightly news in every major market, because even I know the timeline of how I got to where I am begins before my birth. But it’s late. You’ve got work without overtime. There’s a schedule that probably doesn’t even give you time for this. I wish I coulda just written this as bullet points. The final paragraph approaches…

We need to see ourselves in each other more, mister District Attorney. We need to find the seed that sprouted the tree, before we realize it isn’t a peach tree, but a poop tree. We need to listen to what’s going on all around us, instead of only tuning our ears into our favorite station where all the songs we know are. We need to see that we’re basically all in this together, Louisiana, before god sends down the alien invasion to remind us that the differences that make us hurt, and judge, and separate ourselves from one another, are so miniscule when a species of murderous beings with quantum lazer guns is set to kill us all, because to them, we are all basically the same.

(Emma Carew) Looking Beyond the Headlines: Why the Jena 6 Matters to Me

2007-10-09T13:06:00.000-04:00

Homecoming had a completely different meaning to 17-year-old Mychal Bell this fall. Instead of attending pep rallies and football games with the rest of the Jena High School, Bell celebrated his release from a Louisiana jail last week.

Bell is one of six black high school students who were arrested last December after allegedly beating a white classmate, Justin Barker. The fight came after a series of racially charged incidents in the Jena area that began with the hanging of nooses from a “white tree” in the school’s courtyard earlier that fall.

“Free the Jena 6” is the slogan being purported by modern-day civil rights champions like the Rev. Al Sharpton and Martin Luther King III, both of whom showed up at a rally held in Jena last month. It’s a shame to see how little progress has been made in equal justice since the 1960s, they’ve said.

The Jena 6 case has taken off like a middle school rumor in the past few months. The Associated Press even ran an article in late September, analyzing the twists and turns the story has taken since the initial reports surfaced. The article pointed out that some articles and media sources have claimed that there were three nooses hanging from the tree at Jena High School, a code for “KKK.” It also explained that while Bell was convicted by an all-white jury, only 10 percent of the population in the area is African American and none of the randomly selected black potential jurors who were summoned showed up.

Where I grew up, in the suburbs of Minneapolis, Minnesota, we like to believe that this kind of hate, this kind of racial injustice doesn’t exist in today’s America. When I hear “nooses hanging from a tree,” I have these images of burning crosses and guys in white hoods, images of a time we’d like to believe is behind us.

All around the country, Web sites have sprung up in support of the “Jena 6.” I’ve received e-mails and messages on Facebook with online petitions of support and advertisements for events like “Wear Green For the Jena 6 Day.” The main group, “FREE JENA 6” was started by a student at Howard University and now totals over 70,000 members nationwide. The narrative on the site for this group states that the white student who was attacked “had been a vocal supporter of the students who hung the nooses, taunted the black student who was beaten up at the off-campus party and allegedly called several black students ‘nigger.’”

As a journalism student, I was a bit surprised by the bias in some of the recent coverage of the rallies and Bell’s eventual release. It’s hard to find any information out there that simply lays the facts out.

Like any good story, this one has a villain: District Attorney Reed Walters. His sound bites have ranged from topics of the media:

“This case has been portrayed by the news media as being about race. And the fact that it takes place in a small southern town lends itself to that portrayal. But it is not and never has been about race.”

The protestors on September 27:

“I firmly believe and am confident of the fact that had it not been for the direct intervention of the Lord Jesus Christ last Thursday, a disaster would have happened.”

Justin Barker’s attack:

“With all the emphasis on the defendant, the injury done to [Barker] and the serious threat to his existence has become of footnote.”

And his reasons for not prosecuting the students who hung the nooses:

“I cannot overemphasize how abhorrent and stupid I find the placing of nooses on the school yard tree… but it broke no law.”

The story has a hero: the Jena 6 (often referred to as though they were one unit, and not 6 individuals, and generally the label is applied to events surrounding the incarceration and conviction of Mychal Bell). Supports of the Jena 6 have made demands ranging from a federal investigation of Walters, to a retrial for Bell in juvenile court, to the dropping of all charges against all six defendants.

The story even has a moral: that racial disparities and racial injustice still exist in our America today. I’m hopeful that someday this story will be included in the history books. I’m hopeful that our students of the future will know that forty years after the civil rights movement, when six high school students in Jena, Louisiana faced and fought racism, their story made a difference.