Oddly, surprisingly, this has been one of the best Thanksgivings ever!
I have been alone all day, aside from: 4 text messages 2 phone calls a skype date a brief encounter with my neighbor (he tuned my ukulele) and a long conversation over eggs and turkey sausage (yes turkey!) with my only-friend-in-Tuckson, Damara. I'maware of being alone, but I don't feellonely or super sad. This is not the first Thanksgiving I've spent without family and friends.
Stranded in the city due to awful museum scheduling, stranded in a South African village, stranded in Orange County (mom was in prison serving Chinese food to inmates, dad was playing ball somewhere far, cousins were in NZ, boyfriend? I forgot!)
This year I wouldn't say I'm, "stranded in the desert" or "stranded in Tucson!" Although I have to admit I've earlier today I was scoping out last minute plane flights and greyhound stations ($102 roundtrip Tuckson-Noho!) hope of peace-ing out of this joint.
but...I'm still here. And it's okay, candles lit, musica feliz on, coffee and soymilk Times New Roman everywhere, ukulele study breaks...there's moments when I'm great even. Yes, finally, at the age of 28 (I know I have 2 more months!) I am super grateful of purpose and place, and that I'm okay. That I have D bringing me breakfast in bed, that I am able-bodied to read and wake, type and strum, run and hum.
And because of all that - of knowing and feeling and believing, I feel infinitely blessed that I am alone this year for Thanksgiving!
no sleep. swim. write. read. loneliness. seminars. argue. connecting knowledge to social change. whiteness everywhere. missing. homesickness. desert running. falling. no bandaids. laughing. j-stor. research. social justice in art ed. Taiwan. new identity. bad Chinese food. disclosing secrets. arguing. too much dialogue. hating cohorts. loving other departments. healing. hoping. complaining. ceasing.
“President Obama has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize…”
The male voice on NPR cackled through the dangling antenna on my hand-me-down radio.
I immediately felt a wave of embarrassment and shock, thinking, “already, for what?” I always thought Nobel Prizes were for dedicated years to cancer research achievements or years of achievements in reconciling years of ethic wars. Either way ‘years’ and ‘achievements’ of something was involved. Don’t get me wrong - Mr. Obama is on my List-of-DateAble-Persons (after Janice Mirikitani and Dipti Desai but before Mike Chino) but his term and accomplishments have yet to come and have never equated to years – not even a single year!
Then I got to thinking about deserving.
8:13am and late for a meeting with my advisor, I loaded my bike basket and pulled the plug in time to hear the crackling, “The president is just about to give his speech in the Rose Garden…”
Damn School.
Riding over broken asphalt, peddling like a ‘crazy-asian-woman-late-for-a-research meeting-with her-advisor,’ I got to thinking about deserving. Who am I to say and think who deserves this and who deserved that. They don’t hand those out to anybody and this has gone on for over a hundred years - those Norwegians know what their doing…right?
Inside my advisor’s office, it took every effort inside me to sit still and not bounce up and down on the canvas saddle and shout, “did you hear, did you hear!? Obama won the Nobel Prize…what do you think about that?!!”
Instead, I steadied my gaze on the paper she was holding and allowed her words to ground my scattered 11pt. font questions. It didn’t last long. Soon after my thoughts floated up as I began fantasizing about doing summer research in Taiwan. Fully paid for of course. Yuummmmm…months of night-market food. Yummmmy...
I licked my lips.
“Joy.”
“JooOY, you have waaay to many questions, you need to focus on one. Take this one for example – ‘exploring apprenticeship models in indigenous arts,” this is an extremely lengthy process…”
Coming back down from the ‘Land of Amazing Food,’ I had to interrupt her, “I want to understand how art education can be more accessible to students in Tawian, yet as I begin to tackle it, all these other questions come up!!” (okay, I didn’t quite shout at her)
I went on with my main concern, “I feel like the way to address problems is to address systems, and understanding what is shaping art and visual culture in Taiwan today would help define the best approach to change the systems…BUT I understand it’s a huge feat, with huge mountains of huge cultural issues at stake – and who am I to address needs? I wasn’t even born there, I…”
Cutting me off, she responded “Dude (okay, she didn’t use dude) I get it, you are thinking of changing policies, you are thinking in terms of a leader – your research could take you thereand they may want someone who thinks outside the box. Who says you can’t fill that role? You could be the Minister of Education in Taiwan or a superintendent…”
I blushed before she could finish. But...I haven't done anything yet...I could never have imagined. Dreamed. Fantasized, maybe…But Naw, I would never deserve that…
This is when it hit me.
Regardless of where I’m at, what I’ve done or not done, I deserve encouragement.
I deserve to feel capable amongst endless fears of inadequacy. As much as I feel that I am undeserving, I may very much deserve being awarded a Fulbright for potential research. I deserve a paid tuition. As much as I feel unfitting, I deserve to participate in public panels and not cringe with embarrassment when asked. I deserve to be here. I deserve to eat out every-so-often. I deserve a facial. I deserve a massage? haha, okay, maybe not...
But as much as I am so hard on myself, I deserve to be encouraged, praised and acknowledged. Awarded. I deserve to be worthy.
Here is a man. Just a man, with an incredible, un-imaginable weight on his shoulders. Not only did he inherit a tremendous burden, he has been attacked in every possible way, by every possible group of people. If being awarded helps him continue his efforts towards change - If being awarded helps him continue to hope and dream, which helps us hope and dream, so be it. Shit, those old, white Norwegiansmust know what they’re doing!
Dreaming, and even fantasizing is better than not-dreaming and not-fantasizing at all. I am almost certain, prior to today, Obama has dreamt of getting the Nobel prize once in his life. (I admit, so have I on my List-of-Achievables after "graduating fuckin graduate school" but before "live in a tree-house in Micronesia") Sure, true, yah, it could be a “little early” like the critics are saying. BUT EVERYONE DESERVES encouragement and acknowledgment when in pursuit for something greater (especially when the pursuit is from a GLOBAL perspective!!)
Even if it’s in the form of an award.
And even if it’s before the change that has yet to happen.
Regardless, he is hoping and dreaming and fantasizing and working towards peace and change.
and for that, he deserves The 2009 Nobel Peace Prize.
I, on the other hand, deserve a $9 glass of South African Shiraz…
I am a TA for an undergraduate general requirement class. We're in the 4th week of school and I'm still trying to figure it out.
Defining art, exploring the elements of art, modernism and postmodernism, public art and their acceptance and controversy... the themes of this course can go on and on.
But who freakin cares? In a lecture hall of 200 undergraduate students with majors varying in Finance to Pre-Veterinary, none of this matters to them. During lectures they check football scores on their neon macs, read shitty newspapers hidden inside their notebooks, and stare at the hot blonde sitting in front of them. These are horny 18-21 year old Wildcats. Can you believe our mascot?!?! WILDCATS! Of course, of course, we're going to attract 96.7% of the people who shop at Hollister and Abercrombie! OF COURSE. What the fuck does Art and Visual Culture have anything to do with their life?
This is when my mind is exploding in jaded hopeless nothingness and imploding in life-changing curriculum ideas for them. I want nothing for them, they are children of McCain-Lovers and owners of bright pink iPhone skins. And yet I want everything for them, they are brilliant white canvasses with colorful resources and perfect teeth, at the peak of discovering new values and direction, the edge of making mistakes that don't matter, and at the brink of an adulthood that has the capacity to grow feverishly into nothingness or everythingness.
I am both overwhelmed and overjoyed with this opportunity. What am I teaching them now? What is my purpose for them? Amongst due dates and finals, art history slides of impressionism and reading art and culture theorists, I am forever grateful of these firm yet gentle tugs. They are saying to me (more like whispering since it took me 4 weeks to figure it out):
"Oh little Joy, you're showing them it's okay, admirable even, to be uncomfortable"
"Oh silly Joy, look, they are realizing art can and is being used as a tool for social justice..."
"Oh impatient Joy, mira mija, they are using art to relate to issues that are important to them. Remember Roger's initial skepticism of the prison system screenprint? Remember the flood of journal entries about immigration?"
I am dependent and scared shitless of those whispers. They don't come often enough and when they do, remind me that I have more to learn and more importantly, they have a LOT more to learn.
Although it's hard to hear sometimes, the whispers come at my most dire times. In Tucson, amongst the heat of uncertainty, I am slowly finding shade in bouts of significance - even if it means replanting my pot of passion. In Tucson, I am discovering it is nothing I wanted, yet everything I imagined. I am indeed a freakin Wildcat.
Oh, you too would be sporting red and drawing kitty paws on your cheeks if you were me!
outside temperature: 104 ° inside temperature: somewhere between 84 ° - 103 ° We hear of ‘blocks’ often in our lives, they usually fall in the context of creativity and productivity, such as, “writer’s block” and “mental block.” But then there are many many other blocks that can occur:
Physical blocks, spiritual blocks, social blocks, familial blocks, career blocks, sexual-frustration blocks, financial blocks…stumbling blocks?
In Tucson, at the edge of encapsulating my rocky but fun past and at the brink of exploring my much-anticipated ideas and goals, life is ferociously hot – but undeniably - coolishly rad.
I cannot pinpoint or categorize a block, my block, but I feel blocked. Compared to other blocks, it cannot be resolved through the passage of time or overcome through new resources and strategies. This block feels familiar and chronic, like tendinitis or mold, dormant and always there, flaring up when you least expect it - (or am I describing herpes?) Either way, it’s a block that’s vaguely recognizable and has the high potentiality of being…permanent. (So in that case, mold wouldn’t fit the description – so tendinitis and herpes are at a whopping first place.)
Like many other blocks, my vague but familiar block lies somewhere between past failures and future fears. (Which is like EVERYTHING or quite simply, the NOW. AQUI.) So whilst exploring the nature of blocks, this issue sprang forth:
Is there a possibility that we could never be completely…happy, that our lives, addicted to complexity and challenges are attracted to blocks and will subconsciously and/or inactively and/or strategically seek them, place them in front of us, and even drag them around, such that we are almost always, “blocked”?
Thus the shape of my block is circular, and it is almost always circling around me. The amazing thing is, in the heat of the Sonora Desert and the heat of things to come, I am finding security in this blockage, as it moves with me, from country to country, town to town and community to community. Yes, it still is a block, but I am beginning to understand it more - when it flames up, and how to easily suffocated it. When to challenge it, and when to work with it, (say climbing on top to get a better view ;) I’m even thinking of decorating it, finding others to join in and spray-paint it.
So00, care to join my block party? If not, any non-violent suggestions?
Tucson to me like a boiling pot of soup made from a recipe - A yummy mixture of both familiar and not-so-familiar ingredients.
I live in a small studio, one of ten small houses facing a courtyard of rocks, abandoned furniture, dry aloe plants, and rusty grills. It reminds me of Irvine Meadows West, the trailer park community I lived in during the latter years of undergrad. I was trailer #B2, one of many unique trailers that surrounded a grassy courtyard with a community garden and picnic benches.
Here, I am casetta #2.
They call these small rows of studios and 1-bedrooms, Casettas, a fancy Italian – turned – Tusconian - Spanish word for small house or cottage. Unlike the diverse range of trailers, they are not unique on the outside, having previously been a community for quarantined tuberculosis patients in the 1930’s. They remind me of the cookie-cutter government houses in South Africa. But similar to the inside of trailers, these casetta residents have uniquely transformed small spaces into very unique and cozy homes (I've been quite a successful voyeur these past couple of days). And Instead of a community garden and benches, there is a community laundry mat and plenty of doorsteps to sit on and story swap.
After empting out my pod yesterday I took a break in the shade with #9, a tatted chef who works at an exclusive clubhouse in town. Then #5 walked by with a Chemistry Orientation packet in hand and we got to talking about the millions of orientations U of A has lined up for us. Then #3 cut us off and offered us sugar cookies straight from the baking sheet. Quite suddenly, as if the cookie aroma overcame the heat, #8, a young nurse in the Southside (which she refers to as the ghetto), and #4 a substitute teacher who is very fond of everything Japanese joined us in the shade. We were a great group, odd numbers with even numbers, sitting on concrete stoops, plastic pots, and step stools all agreeing how priceless the shade could be.
Besides the extensive heat and crunchy-sounding gray rocks, I could have been in Irvine Meadows West all over again. Or, besides sharing a common language and sugar cookies, from one desert to another, I could have been in South Africa all over again.
I learned that children like me. I learned that children need structure. I learned that children still like me after I implement structure. I learned that I could never be over-prepared. I learned that alone time before the day starts is invaluable. I learned that I could not do it alone, including receiving affirmation and encouragement from children, parents, and coworkers. I learned that parents need affirmation and encouragement too. I learned that every moment is important, even when it doesn’t seem inline with bigger picture goals. In the end it always is. I learned that play is essential towards harnessing creativity. I learned that I could be incredible productive, even when I’m tired. I learned that I could be very bossy when I’m tired.
What I learned volunteering at Christian camp in my hometown.
I learned that I could easily be part of a community if I wanted to. I learned that I could bond with young mothers and share their values. I learned that I could bond with almost everyone over Starbucks runs and air-conditioning. I learned that connecting over Starbucks and air-conditioning did not mean I was compromising my values. I learned that at the end of the day, everyone needs a little bit of comfort bought and a little bit of air-conditioning. I learned that I could be loved regardless of my background or what I looked like. I learned that children need me. I learned that children ‘get it’ when you take the time to explain it to them using lots of examples. I learned that I want to help – sometimes too much. I learned that I could feel incredibly lonely, even among hundreds of friendly faces. I learned that I could tell others that God loved them even if I couldn’t tell myself. I learned that summer camp is a temporary and quick bliss. I learned that new faces are better than none at all. I learned that new faces could become familiar and comforting faces as well. I learned that God-stuff explained to children is much more simple than how it is explained to adults. I learned that I could easily be part of a community if I wanted to.
Two months. That’s how long I was in Taiwan. Two years. That’s how long I will be in Tucson.
While laying on my parents’ futon trying to read Obama’s, ‘Dreams from My Father,’ I got to a section where he started a paragraph with ‘A month.” What followed that short and simple statement spanned a 7-lined sentence that has 4 commas, two semi-colons and one colon. A month was the length of time his father came to visit in Hawaii. Everything that happened before and after that month spans the length of the book, of course.
I stopped reading and placed the book on my chest and started to cry.
It’s so easy to spout a length of time and either gasp, weep or sigh and then go on a 7 line rant on why that length of time was worth a gasp, weep or sigh.
Two years in South Africa. Gasp. Weep. Sigh. Two years there. Two months over there. Two weeks there. Now I am here. Beyond the space that is framed by time, we tend to forget that everything before and everything that follows is nowhere near simple, sometimes more intense and convoluted then the time-framed-space itself. What happens between those blocks of times? Between my two years in SF and my two months in Taiwan? Between my two weeks in the Valley and moving for two years of school? What happens in between all the twos’?
Lots and lots of waiting. I am waiting between huge blocks of experiences and times, chunks of my life that seem to define my existence and pursuits. Thus to make this waiting easier, I tell myself, nothing in between matters. I’ll travel around a bit, make some stuff, catch up with old friends. Hang Out. Fight loneliness. Fight off feeling like I have nothing. Fight off the fact that I have no bed. But still, what happens to all the stuff that happens in the in between? The people I meet, the conversations exchanged, the moments shared with old friends and new and the efforts and regrets conducted within the space of waiting? Nothing matters, I tell myself. I’m in between. But somehow I know it matters, all of it. Neglected friendships, missed opportunities, zero expectations, careless pursuits, all the time of waiting. So I continue to wait.
Almost home. It’s always there never here full bodied Italy a bit of home not quite home
Complex exchanges misunderstood glances a bit of home not quite home
Gender directives emptied and refilled a bit of home not home
Clearly led sorely follow a lot of Taiwan a bit of home.
I’m almost home, but not quite. This is a steady thread throughout my experience. A bit of familiarity, a bit of home, yet not quite there. Just a tad, an itty bit, a smudgin.
I’m at a wine tasting bar above the Taipei train station. I just left DouLiou and in search of a quiet place to rest and to reflect. I’m not quite ready to head back to my grandmother’s house where I will stay for 2 days before I leave for AMERICA. Before I leave for home.
When I first stepped foot into the bar I felt relieved. There was an aura of familiarity, giving me great comfort as I was ordering. I thought to myself, I know western alcohol – or I can at least read the labels and the menu. Melbourne, Chile, Shiraz, Red, White, oh and they have cheese here. I haven’t seen cheese in 2 months. Sweet. Negative. 2 hours have passed, and I still don’t understand this place and what I ordered. The exchange was entirely uncomfortable. I’ve spent 30 dollars and my face isn’t even red.
This is Taiwan to me. The people, the food, the culture and even the nuances and stigmas - it’s almost there, vaguely familar, sometimes very familiar, but not quite right. I am frustrated that it’s so hard for me to feel at home at a place that seems so close to home. Why doesn't it just fit - black pepper in my rice porridge here tastes the same as black pepper in my rice porridge there, right? This should and could be home as well, right?? But…
I don’t want it to sum up as simply fitting in, or not fitting in. It’s more than that to me. It’s intrinsic for me to be here, I have centuries of ethnic origin. I have small feet. And on the opposing side, I have years of western ideals and tendencies implanted in my brain with a hybrid of cultures from my international experiences. So if I can’t fit in at a wine bar in a metropolitan Taiwanese city, then where the fuck do I belong and what the fuck is wrong with me and who the fuck am I? It’s DenominazionediOrigineControllata wine for godsake. I've even lived in Italy longer than I have lived here. I drank 4 days a week in my adult life. If I don’t fit in here, or at least the idea of me, than I’m fucked, I really am.
The greatest realization is that in 3 days I am given what feels like one last chance to try and call a place home. I am going to be in AMERICA. And in a month I will have to call not just America home but TUCSON, Arizona, America home. And I can predict it. My small feet won’t quite fit there as well. Fuckedy fuck I’m fuck. Wait. Fuck is universal right?
I’ve always considered myself bold and daring. I’ve sat on the very top of Torre del Mangia, Italy’s second highest bell tower in Siena with my legs dangling over the edge, hovering precariously over il Piazza del Campo. I’ve stood at the edge of Victoria Falls in Zambia, just inches from 360ft (108m) of falling rapids.
Whenever I look back at these experiences, I always remember how high up I was, how the people below looked like swarming ants on packed soil, or how I could feel the weight of the rapids’ current pushing against the back of my thigh. What I fail to remember are the people that securely held my waist while I sat, firmly anchored my feet while I stood, patiently waited while I finished scaling/chipping medieval walls until I wept and then gathered the courage to leap, and in my professional life, supported my crazy ideas and stood beside me in word or action while I babbled away at a workshop or amateurishly developed a program.
I’m realizing that the risks I took were not all that bold and daring and that they came from a place of privilege and selfishness. Choosing to volunteer in Taiwan is panning out to be of great self-gain ;), and even the Peace Corps gave me pimple medication for godsake. Small Risks: I was drunk when I gave him my business card for godsake. Big Risks: I could move my stuff home if it fails for godsake.
Taking risks have always been easy for me because I have the freedom and assurance that no one but me is dependent on my actions and I am also never alone in the process! I have the privilege to know that I don’t have much to permanently loose and when I do loose, the encouragement is there and the recovery is swift and certain (granted I don’t sleep with the dude and have babies…wait, not that kind of risk…)
In San Francisco, a person’s coolness/success is measured by experiences from the risks they took or have yet to take; the greater and more innovative the risks, the greater the admiration and awe-factor:
“I volunteer for a needle exchange program for drug users…” “I just quit my job to go on a 3 month road trip to film a documentary” “I’m training for a year hike through the Appalachian Mountains.” “I moved to Sweden for him, found work there and learned Swedish.” “I used my life savings to purchase a vineyard.” “I live in the Tenderloin, it’s not that dangerous, I like the grit and grime.”
We admire leaving conventional places of security and comfort for uncertainty, far-away adventures, scandalous stories, and passionate explorations. We neglect to remember that we pursue such measures because the decisions we make are ultimately for ourselves and our individualistic desires. As bold and daring become the norm, we need to remember that commitment is also a risk, stability a virtue, and comfort is earned. As I visit different learning environments in Taiwan, I notice that it is ingrained at a very young age that you don't make decisions solely for yourself. You take into account your family, your church, your work, your community. For example, a friend here asked her father for approval when she was thinking of highlighting her hair. He told her that he didn’t completely disagree but reminded her that since is it uncommon, it would impact the way people in the community perceive her - especially at the juvenile court where she works. My friend is 34 years old.
Then there’s me. Since 13 years of age, every decision I’ve made has been “me me me.” From tongue piercings, overnight parties, shaving my head, to taking out a loan for grad school, I would never have thought to stop and ask for approval - or even just to let them know. And now I get it. My body, my decisions and my plans - as much as it is mine, was/is/will be/always will be a group freakin effort. They praise you when you're up. They catch you when you fall. I get it. I’m my father’s daughter, my mother’s child, and my grandmother’s beloved. I am my close friends' biggest confidant and cheerer-upper. Once I was the team's greatest post-game humor. And once, before dedicating two years to the southern hemisphere, I was someone’s long-term girlfriend. Most admirable is being all those things, yet still being yourself and tending to your dreams. And I know it’s possible…I’ve witnessed it time and time again – and the most incredible and selfless are the Taiwanese women, who I have yet to learn from.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Outrageous heart Be bold. Hold firm. Less from him, less be told
Outrageous heart, Be strong. Knowing and holding, be strong More of Her, more of you Best declare, best be bold
Time unraveled Stories gleaned Heart un-contained, makers be free
Audacious heart, Be Tall and firm, listen. Shakers released, it’s unrefined Her heart complete This moment, less dross and more mine.
Back in Taipei for the weekend, the city clothes and jewelry I felt weren’t necessary for volunteer life were right where I had left it. My Grandmother's apartment in Taipei felt like home, or at least I thought of it that way. I went to the gym, made dinner plans and bought grass-jelly drink from my favorite place. It reminded me of when I would come “home” to a familiar backpackers in Pretoria from rural village life, or my parents house from UC Irvine or San Francisco, seeking and buying comfort and familiarity and finding friends and belongings right where I left it - with a thin layer of dust covering it.
I’m realizing that I’m always finding some place to run off to, some place I think is better than ‘home’, however, never committing to calling it 'home' and longing for the comforts of my previous dwelling - which I don’t entirely call 'home' as well, but say I am 'homesick' for. Whether it’s at my grandma’s in Taipei or at my parents’ in Chatsworth, I seem to define my “home” as a place where I could have endless fruit, walk around barefoot, laugh really really loud, sleep in, buy things “I need,” and use a large plushy towel everyday. But in the end, I know it is temporary and try to glean as much comfort and enjoyment as I can. I guess home to me is like a mini-vacation. I am tired. I am very very tired.
But when I’m back into my daily routine and living my “real-life” it is also temporary. I'm thinking that after Tucson, I am done. I’m making a home. I want a garden, I want true community, I want to see the same people everyday without feeling guilty that I am leaving, and I want to have MANY large plushy towels. I want to paint a wall crimson red and not think, “Why? I’m moving soon.” When I meet people in Taiwan, words like courageous, daring, and independent are often used to describe me. I want to laugh and say, “if only you knew…” It’s also funny because I wish to be described with words like patient, humble, and grounded. I’ve been thinking about why stability and being grounded seems so far from my grasp. When I pray, I often ask God to squeeze me firmly. Yes, to me now, this is great stability - being held very tightly.
Tomorrow I am supposed to share with seventy 9th graders about how to be self-sufficient independent thinkers. When the principal was telling me what she wanted me to say she kept saying, “Like you, like YOU, so independent, successful and you’ve gone so many places - you make decisions for yourself!” “Our students are too dependent on their parents, they used to parents telling them what to do!”
If my head was cracked open and preserved like a Damien Hurst piece the principal would have seen capital “UUMMMMMM’s” floating around. I wanted to interrupt her and say, “UUUMMMMMMM, ummmmmmm…” Ummmmm. What the hell am I supposed to tell those kids? My values are always conflicting with each other. Not just conflicting, they're at a constant Battle with each other. All kinds. Break-dancing, war, spoken-word - ALL KINDS OF NO-WIN BATTLES. Although I don’t always agree with the traditional Taiwanese education system, I believe there is a ton of merit to it. At the end of the day, you DO need to memorize the multiplication table and test taking IS a useful skill. It’s also difficult to compare my background with theirs. I grew up with gumballs on Fridays, “there is no wrong question,” and “follow your heart, do what you love!” Yes, roaming the world, spending money, and taking pictures with pink turtles is fun and all...
But can you imagine, a 9th grade Chinese boy telling his father he loves hair and wants to be a stylist? And doing what you love is a potential risk and challenge – stability, comfort, and familial support could be lacking, and currently those things are pretty freakin gosh darn capital-A appealing to me. The “UUUMMMM’s” are still ringing hard inside my head. I want to tell them that they are okay for being obedient and respectful to their parents. That it is temporary and a college degree is just a college degree. They will have ample time to travel, make decisions for themselves, and follow their dreams. I want to tell them that the hard stuff is loneliness, feeling disconnected from the majority, loss of identity and purpose, and difficulty communicating with family – all of which they may never have to experience as long as they stray as far away from my past ideals as possible. FAR, I should tell them. See Joy and run.
I am tired. Being loved and taken care of does not sound so bad. I know I can have both, but I’m talking about my mom’s ideals and what I’ve “ewwwed” for years – the working husband that provides, and the encouraging mother that makes great Chinese food. I wouldn’t mind being that woman, I really wouldn't. I would be different, I would compost and take graduate courses at night. I’ve also always wanted to learn how to make Chinese food. And those children, they would hug me back.
The room had 12 fans blowing in all directions, buzzing to their own rhythm but I could hear each one of their murmurs and giggles. All 79 of them were sitting up straight and tall, staring up at me like thick strands of carpet packed tightly in neat rows. They were all wearing plastic flip-flops and white t-shirts tucked into faded blue shorts. Heads shaved, all their faces were so clear to me. Those that held energetic stares, glasses, or more wrinkles stood out more.
When I spoke into the microphone, I could feel my lips brush against the 1980’s spongy-mustard cover and all I wanted to do was bury my whole face into it, like the first moment you rest your head on a pillow at the end of an exhausting day.
Except it was 10:30am and I had 50 more minutes with them.
When they smiled, their faces lit up and their bodies shook, sending tattooed arms and legs flailing in all directions. I could have sworn each row twinkled then. I wanted their laughter to continue, to dance in front of them, to tickle them – anything that would hold their beam a little longer. When the laughter and smiles stopped, every once in a while I would catch someone nodding their head in agreement and it was enough to keep me going. With broken mandarin and a stack of index cards, I spent the first day of June at a minimum-security prison, leading 79 male drug-rehabilitated inmates in a team-building/motivational activity. Only half a day has passed, yet I cannot remember how it started and how it ended - it was both a frightening and exhilarating experience. I was too overwhelmed to really grasp what I was doing and organize my process. I feel like I was improving through the whole workshop. Along with the buzzing of the fans, it was hard to ignore the weight of the room - the thousands of untold stories, the regrets, the bliss, the failures, the successes, the struggles and the hopes were floating around me, tugging at me sleeve, "Joy, you are in prison, you are a girl, a girl with bad hair, what can you possibly do? With your wack Chinese, what can you possible say?" Thankfully, it went smoothly and all I can remember are their faces, glowing with eagerness, laughter, and humility. If I am learning to love Chinese boys, I am learning to love them all – Chinese prison inmates included.
I hear this very often. I might have spouted this one time and thought of this many times. But I have never truly asked myself why. Why was I rarely attracted to Chinese dudes? How has my idea of the Chinese male become so skewed that I'm so quick to accept stereotyping and blatant judgments on ALL the Mike Changs' and Chens' in the world. (just an example ;) Why do my father's friends embarrass and annoy me yet evoke empathy from me all at once? Here's the irony: I am spending every waking moment at a boys' youth home surrounded by Taiwanese teenage boys and their twenty-something male teachers. Great. There is a 26-year-old Taiwanese guy doing his military service here. We call him Jiao Gwan, which means something similar to soldier. He looks like a familiar combo of video-game-playing computer science majors from college and the many older Chinese men I was forced to call “uncle” during childhood. Tall and slender, he wears his navy pants high and his glasses low. He spends most the day sitting at a desk doing accounting problems from a textbook. My first day here I showed him how to spell “loose” with the story, “once there was this girl…she had 69 boyfriends and she did them all 3 times…” He laughed and now does it himself.
When the boys are in class, I often have long conversations with him about youth behavior and cultural expectations. I leave every single one of our conversations with a bit more understanding about Taiwanese culture and a lot more insight about myself.
There’s also Gabriel, the 27-year-old guitar teacher who comes on Tuesdays. He is shy, his movements are slow but concise, and he speaks between whisper and drawl, his words somehow coming out between his teeth or behind his tongue. The class is always rowdy when he is teaching, however, he is too gentle to say more than, “ssshh.”
I have gone on short walks with him and his compassion and thoughtfulness is always apparent. He walks between the crazy traffic and I, listening carefully and remembering what I miss about the states and often tries to relieve my longing with a Taiwan version, "there's a park that I can take you to that's quite similiar...we're near the ocean as well..."
In my past, I would never have taken the time to get to know them, to notice their many qualities and talents. I would have quickly disregarded them both as boring, lacking in passion, ideas and audacity. Glancing quickly, they are the epitome of what I have tried to avoid throughout my life and the epitome of what my mom considers “guai” (extremely good/marriage material).
But here I am in Taiwan after my life started, with past crushes and boyfriends “type-a-fied” and here I am in Taiwan before my life starts with more boyfriends to be had and memories to be made…I can feel the years of stigma and avoidance towards Asian men slowly dwindling as my stereotypes are confronted and questioned everyday.
As for Jiao Gwan, Gabriel, other adult males here and even some of the teenagers, I am learning their boldness, their audacity, and that they really aren’t that boring and passion-less. Their humility is captivating while their ideas are organized and carefully contained; they listen patiently and speak when necessary. Most importantly, their actions or inactions mirror their heart and mind and they have a bountiful supply of generosity and thoughtfulness.
I am learning to meet them in their entirety, free from my previous judgments and stigmas. I am understanding how their background, attitudes, fears, decisions and values complete their story - and how everyone has a pretty amazing story. And it's here, volunteering at a youth home in Taiwan, that I am learning to love Chinese men.
I need to pee. It is past midnight. It’s late considering the boys have ‘lights-out’ at 9:30pm. They are right across the hall from me. Two are sleeping in the hallway because of being new and having bad behavior. It’s funny because I get along with them the best. One I call Lucky Boy and the other, John.
I am supposed to give Lucky Boy a name soon. His Chinese name means more than “lucky.” It defines luck with political reference, towards bountiful winnings and upward mobility. How will I ever find a name that resembles that – even a little?
John is learning how to use imovie on my computer. Today he edited a video taken from yesterday’s break dancing class and today’s ping-pong activity. He wanted to add Taiwanese music but I had none so he settled for Jurassic 5’s, “Freedom.”
I need to pee but I am afraid I will wake them. More importantly, I am afraid of stirring them when delirious, running into them in the hallway – any chance that they might realize that I am seeing them when they are most intimate. Between sleep and wake, discerning and dreaming. I don’t know who I am here. A stranger? A mediator? A joker? A teacher? A friend? A girl with a bad haircut?
Because I don’t know, I am afraid. I fear that as I walk down the hallway, past their open door and John’s bamboo matt, through their space of intimate sleep, I the unknown may give reason for them to cast their fears and doubts, and mine as well – or worse, give place to new ones.
In December of 2004, I was filled with similar, stubborn fears, both physical and psychological. Bigger-picture insecurities translated to everyday, physical constraints. Early into my Peace Corps service, I was afraid to leave my bedroom, often dispensing in a bucket inside the room. Ironically 5 years later, again as a volunteer, I have with me an identical bucket – varying only in color (and purpose - it was given to me for hand-washing clothes.)
5 years later, I am very much the same, but with the hope of being a bit different. I will fearfully and boldly open the door and walk down the hallway, past their sleep. I thank God that this time, there is a chance to confront old fears and experience new ones.
My grandma says you can see how fresh a fish is by how shiny its eyes are and how red its flesh is, BUT nowadays you can trust no one because they inject shiny-producing-stuff and rub red coloring on not-so-fresh fish.
Since I have arrived in Taiwan, I have eaten fish everyday, sometimes even twice a day. It’s always so mysterious to me, where it came from, the way it’s laying on it’s side, eyes glowering at me, buried under a heavy heap of shredded ginger and green onions. There are a million different kinds of fish and a million different ways to cook them. Grandma has cooked them all and I cannot recognize them by taste or name except for salmon, of course.
Every time there is fish on the table – except for salmon, my mother asks me if I know how to eat it. I always tell her yes and she always tells me not to talk because I might choke on a bone. Near the end of the meal, she praises me for “knowing” how to eat it. Regardless of my years of fish-eating-knowledge she always gives me hearty portions after she has made sure it is free of all bones. I notice that my grandma does the same for her. I ask my mom why grandma always likes to eat the head of the fish. “It’s not that she likes to,” she tells me, “she is just used it.” In Taiwanese households in the past, the mother always lets her family eat the meatier portions of the fish and for herself, eats the less meaty, scaly fish head.
Today I asked my mom if dad is a good cook. She told me the only time she has ever seen my father cook outside of his restaurant was in San Francisco when they both came to visit me last March. It was a cod, half frozen, and too large for my mom to know what to do with it. He pan-fried it. We had bought it from a smelly Cantonese butcher downstairs, on Mission and Brazil St. Six of us sat around a small table in our tiny apartment kitchen. The air was hot because my mom had cooked 4 dishes along with my father’s fish. My roommate was vegetarian and my father was telling her that it was okay for vegetarians to eat fish.
I was surprised because I assumed that my father, who has opened 5 restaurants, who was a cook, who enjoys food, would naturally like to cook. My mother lowered her bowl of rice and while waving her chopsticks said, “Your father doesn’t really like to cook, he is used to it, he does it for survival. All those restaurants, they were to make money. All the dishes he’s created, what to add to them to make them taste better for Americans - to make money.”
If my father were here, he would have said, “yes, to make money so I can raise you.” And then he would have laughed and said he had done a wonderful job because my big tummy is testament to it. And along with my big tummy is assurance that I am doing what I enjoy, rather than what I have to. For this, I have yet to discover that my father is an excellent cook.
The words Freedom and Expression have no meaning to my mother. Since my arrival, we have had endless arguments where she teeters between proclaiming her unshakeable beliefs on how the world works and her fear that her mother will faint while not be able to bear the agony of a bald granddaughter. Yes, many of the things my mother says is absurd, but they always were – from gender roles to politics. However, understanding where my mother comes from helps me to understanding the intention of her words. There is a proportionate amount of disconnect between her words and mine, mother and daughter, and Chineseness and American-ness. I twist the meaning of her words, just as she does mine. The degree and weight of “she doesn’t understand me” is very equal to how much I don’t understand her.
As I follow my grandma and mother around Taipei, I am beginning to see how easily and closely they relate to each other. They find similar life-associations, laugh simultaneously and share everything from underwear to stomach ailments. They speak rapidly, interchanging between Taiwanese and Mandarin while I struggle to keep up and often ask my mother to translate.
I laugh independently, often too loud and at the wrong times. I drink from coffee beans while they sip on sugary packets of Nescafe. I ask too many questions and they show similar impatience and exhaustion when answering them. They see nothing positive about recollecting the past while I see it as testament to an inspiring future. I do not know how to color coordinate my wardrobe and the very worst: I am hairless with unnecessary piercing and tattoos. They agree when I disagree.
Observing their relationship allows me to realize how much effort my mom has put in (and continues to) in our mother-daughter relationship. This is more than forks vs. chop-sticks or hair and no hair. The gap is not merely generational; it stretches, leaps and expands from budge-proof traditions to life-purpose.
But amongst all this, I do not doubt my mother’s love for me. I often feel undeserving of it when reminded of how much she’s endured (and continues to, considering that I am the world’s “weirdest and craziest daughter”). To feel so strongly a mother’s love gives my insight to our differences a little less weight and a lot less importance.
I met Nick and Chris today. Nick was riding on the escalator in front of me and I shouted out to him, “do you speak English?” Even with large headphones cupping his ears he instantly whipped his head around and said, “Yes” with just as much boldness as curiosity. I was delighted and relieved to have someone to talk to. I used Hella and Fuck about ten times. I loved every moment of our conversation and could have said rad and awesome ten more times.
He has been here two months and I have been here two days. He told me where the library and English bookstores were and I told him I wanted to know where the expats partied. Having heard grad school was strenuous he told me to relax and take advantage of all the neighboring beachy countries and I told him I wanted a routine. He told me to at least travel around Taiwan and I told him I was itching for a community. He told me that the building in front of us had 12 floors of Karaoke and the area across from it was the gay scene. We parted and 3 blocks later I met Chris.
Chris was waiting at a stoplight with a ragged backpack my size. He had a day pack in one hand and a laptop bag in the other. I said, “Hi, do you need help?” He laughed and said he was just looking for a backpackers on the same street. We crossed the street together and he looked up and said, “oh, here it is!”
Above us was a neon lit sign that said Taipei Ximen Hostel. We headed up a narrow staircase that led to a concrete wall and a door on the right. The door had a colorful plexi-plaque similar to the neon sign. It occurred to me that even their hostels could be cheese. Animated neon cheese.
I rang the doorbell and it broke out into a high-pitched welcome song/bird chant. A stout Chinese girl with black-framed glasses and a loose ponytail answered the door. She was wearing all black. She seemed annoyed to see us. Or maybe to see me since I had the aura of Snooper-McSnooperstin. It was then that I realized how eager I was to feel connected with someone who I felt embodies me and what I am familiar with. So much so I spent most my afternoon following strangers and prying at their story, eager to find community and commonality.
Its funny feeling alone when I’m constantly surrounded by people that look like me. The word “diversity” has added meaning to me now. I have never hungered so much for white faces and the opportunity to use dang and gosh and like and sick and even hope and wish with varying pitches. I think there is more risks I need to take - in another direction of course, as not to fawn too much over tall male anglos. But it's okay, because they probably think I'm gay.
