(Beau Sia) Asian American Role Models

"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?

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

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

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

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)

“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)

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.