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

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.