(Ishle Park) Finding Home

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

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

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

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.