selamat detang, little chinese girl

In Indonesia, I am white.

“White with small eyes,” the Chinese-Indonesian girls told me.

They showed me the underside of their forearms, pointing at their skin,

“look, we are white too!”

They took my wrist and flipped it over, lining my arm against theirs.

Among the three, I was the darkest. I had a good summer.  

“Ok, you are brown, but you are white.”

My skin, my flat nose, my eyes, my tall(er)-obviously-Han-looking father, gives me immediate membership into Indonesia’s much wealthier ethnic minority.

I am Chinese.

I am beyond Taiwanese-American,

Beyond difference, beyond other

Beyond exotic, beyond someone else’s fetish
Beyond being daughter of a dishwasher.

Instead, I am white and rich.

If you are brown,

You drive us.

You feed us.

You clean us.

You help us.

You smile for us.

I am lost here, 

and even more lost, when not belonging to the other. 

grateful encounters.

Frank. 
WDC. 1111 19th St. NW
There were 5 armed security guards scattered around the office.
My bracelets set off the detectors - of course.
I'm always that girl.

"I'ts possible"
That's all I needed to hear - I still couldn't believe it.
Sir, I leave tonight - from JFK, is it really possibly, I can get my passport today!?
"Yes, it's possible!"

I told him I was going to bring him back a gift and that my people are good at giving gifts.
He laughed so hard I could hear him through the protective class as I was walking away.

John.
NYC. Seat 40B
Checking in, I noticed him.
At security, I noticed his skateboard
At the gate, I noticed his sneakers.

On the plane, I noticed he was in my seat.

I triple checked - yup, seat 40B.
Excuse me, I think you're in my seat, I told him.
He showed me his ticket and it also read 40B
"You can sit on my lap"
I laughed. You wish, I said and turned to find a stewardess.

Maybe I'l run in to him in Bali. oh wait, I'll be with my Baba.

Megie. 
Somewhere Above the Pacific. Seat 60A
She had on fake eyelashes and sparkling eyeliner.
She thought Bali was dirty and preferred to stay in air-conditioning rooms.

She kept feeding me because I think she felt bad I had to change seats.
I was in heaven. I also lied and said I was veggie.
Steamed red bean buns.
Rice porridge.

She kept asking me if I wanted a "hambou" - I fried chicken burger.
"Their delicious!" - she was on her second one.
I asked her if she wanted a steamed bun.
She told me her family always gets them during special occasions. They are died pink.
"I see them so much I get headaches"

I am delighted.
I ate four of them.

I'm back.

2087. that is the number the government has deciphered as the average number of work hours in a year:

"A General Accounting Office study published in 1981 demonstrated that over a 28-year period (the period of time it takes for the calendar to repeat itself) there are, on average, 2,087 work hours per calendar year. This average results from the fact that there are usually 4 years with 262 workdays (2,096 hours), 17 years with 261 workdays (2,088 hours), and 7 years with 260 workdays (2,080 hours). The 2,087 divisor is derived from the following formula: (2,096 hours*4 years) + (2,088 hours*17 years) + (2,080 hours*7 years) / 28 years = 2,087.143 hours. Using 2,087 as the average number of work hours in a calendar year reasonably accommodates the year-to-year fluctuations in work hours."

SO my plan was to make 2087 paintings.
today I have 6 little guys. im thinking, should i go for the basic 365, or 261 since GAO says there are 17 years that we feds have 261 workdays?

these little dudes aren't conceptual, contemporary art. a probable joke during a 3 hour critique with The Prof...but they make me happy.

So in the end, however many I make, 

It doesn't matter. the good news is, im back.

mei mei

At the pool

the big one
in the shower, and this little girl wouldn’t stop crying

i shampooed

i scrubbed

she kept crying

her voice wailed and echoed in the hall of showers

stalls of naked, busy women

i conditioned, i scrubbed

she kept crying

sobbing loudly.

i heard her mother’s voice,

Mei-mei, ne wei sah-mah tsai koo?

little one, why are you crying?

we are almost finished,

we will go home soon.

I peeped out of my stall

there she was, indeed

a shao mei-mei

standing

crying

slightly bending

the water bouncing off her little round toes,

crying

black wet hair stuck to the sides of her face

little yellow fists, held tight

naked

crying

mei-mei ne dhun wouh,

dan shei jo hua ja le...

Oh, little girl…

shao mei-mei

nothing changes

as a woman you will also cry

you will also want to come home

you will also have difficulty waiting

you will keep crying

nothing changes

you will cry for pain

for discomfort

for hunger

for love

you will keep crying

you will still cry

oh mei-mei

nothing changes.