Row the Boat Ashore
I have several vivid memories of preschool; one is continually asking the teacher (a very patient soul) to tie my shoe, because I never learned how until kindergarten. In fact, I was under the continual threat to have velcro-closed shoes even after learning, because my knots would inevitably fall apart halfway to school. The middle of show-and-tell; at a dramatic junction in the story: "Teacher, can you tie my shoe?"
That was also the year that Mt. St. Helens blew up, and left the west side of the state almost entirely unscathed, while we got hit with the plume. We were visiting family friends at the time, and when we went outside, I marveled at the prospect of snow in the middle of May: strange, warm, dirty-grey snow that failed to pack satisfactorially. Every year (and even now), when the local schools aerate their grounds by digging the little turd-shaped pellets out, an inch or so down, there's a half-inch band of grey ash, Washington's own contribution to beautiful early-morning sun. Before too long, we were forced to wear a painter's mask on our way to school -- no one really knew what the ash would do, and I suspect that no one still knows.
I stole and was later forced to return a piece of wood. For whatever reason, they put woodworking tools (hammers, hand-drills, and crosscut saws) in the hands of five-year-olds and wanted for us to be creative, although on a first-come, first-serve basis, so you might understand my frustration when the wood I'd earmarked as perfect (with two corners sawed off and a cross-piece nailed on for a guard) weapon, the sort to ride off and rescue dragon-napped maidens with. So before I left for the day, the magical wood was hastily moved between lockers. The next day, as destiny was forged and battle-cries sung with guttural little noises, as I fitted the guard to perhaps the most balanced blade ever to see light, the same tier-of-shoes seized the deadly razor -- by the cutting edge -- and returned it away from me with a shake of her head.
It's strange how the most familiar surroundings become a source of terror when faced with abandonment. Just once, my mom was about half an hour late in picking me up (school ended at noon, and she worked only a few blocks away); the horror of bravely saying goodbye to friends as their parents arrived and departed, watching until you were the last short person left there at the window -- you couldn't cross the street by yourself, let alone remember the tricky route back, and to be trapped and never again see the inside of home -- overwhelming. Thankfully, she arrived in time to dab my welling eyes and confidently move out the door again, steady pull back for a nap and Tinkertoys.
We also had our fun being cooks. That was the year that we brewed tea from chamomile we'd found in the alley behind the school, and topped it off with a hearty stone soup. And so were we similarly distilled and mixed together: the great American Melting Pot, after all ...
We all came from roughly the same backgrounds -- most of us were University-employee children, enjoyed the comfortable suburban life of a small town, Caucasian. My brother entered preschool speaking mostly Mandarin, or so I hear (I was two and can't remember that far back), so my parents made the decision to immerse me in English while I was growing up. It was a town that, despite a substantial international student population (from the University), remained staunchly homogeneous and managed to churn out plenty of the same. I don't feel the vague disposession I think I should or the sense of having lost all of my heritage. I remember hearing the Gettysburg Address for the first time and thinking that my forefathers didn't bring forth much of anything upon this land. And at the same time, the unsynchronous dialogue of kung fu movies inspired only contempt for those incredibly stupid performers and their ilk. But it wasn't just for the performers; my family used to attend a Baptist church merely because it was the only predominantly Chinese congregation for fifty miles around. I hated everyone, the funny smells and wierd foods; the grating greetings and the teasing hellos, interminable conversations, back-slapping; goddamnit, that wasn't how the Cunninghams acted when the Fonz came over: he'd say something smart, and Richie's dad would harrumph behind the paper and Mrs. C would set the table. I wanted so much to be able to sashay in and bang on the jukebox; to say cool daddy-o hows-it-going and waltz out again, friends at hand all paying rapt attention to the moves, the slickery.
But who should I get as a role model but Pat Morita, Arnold when Arnold wasn't able to run it any more, Mr. Miyagi to most, a cryptic badass rendered impotent by losing his wife decades ago. Speak in riddles but know kungfu secretly; put on the comical accent, look small, be small, bend with the wind and turn the other cheek. No, not me: gotta be Daniel-san, Damn-you-son; he was the outsider, the lone horseman riding in on a dirt bike and making good, making woo with the local heartthrob. Go to Japan and do the same thing, make sure that you find some implacably angry Asian folks to play villain for you. This is the problem I have with Jon Guterson's Snow Falling on Cedars which really is a beautifully written book otherwise: why, after all that goes on in the story, why is the Japanese-American Nisei who stands accused of murder rendered in the broad sweeping generalization of a proud yet impotent man? Why should his freedom depend on the presumably more-weighty more reputable word of the lively-drawn Isaac?
How about this, then: why is it so hard for popular media to create admirable Asian male characters? No, the patriarchal thought that has ruled East Asia for thousands of years is not acceptable, and provided ample opportunity for egregious abuses against women. Why should there be such a national obsession with fitting in that we applaud, loudly, those who've fulfilled "The American Dream" as though there is a universal motivator for all people to achieve obscene wealth? You say that we all still celebrate our differences in ethnic festivals and by holing up in enclaves and neighborhoods divided racially; tell me then, that you don't see Asian women as exotic and men as wimpy and either inoffensive/clumsy or diabolical, plotting some complex torture.
I heard a couple of years ago that a Chinese-American actor would be playing the character of Charlie Chan in an upcoming feature film. Wonderful. Now instead of the equivalent of a blackface actor playing a stereotyped role, we're supposed to be happy that the same role is now being "authentically" portrayed.
I don't know any martial arts. I like hockey. I've lusted after women of varying size, shape, age, and race. I get angry. I can speak fairly good English. I took German in high school. I've wanted a BMW six-cylinder coupe (E9 body class) for as long as I can remember. I like to take photographs. I get in trouble. I procrastinate. I've failed tests. I didn't score a perfect SAT. I've watched Jeopardy enough to suspect Alex Trebek is a jerk. I laughed at Cheers, often more when Shelley Long was still in the cast. I watched a lot of Saturday morning television. I played a sport in high school. I took a date to the senior prom. I can't drink without becoming uncontrollably sleepy. I bleed spit cry pee too, and laugh shriek live frown anger love. I do-si-do'd around my partner when I thought it was necessary and tried to reach out when it wasn't.
The differences are really rather negligible. We ought to celebrate the similarities and leave someone else to pick at the differences. At this point, though, the lines have already been drawn and I can't say what it was like to grow up you more than you understand my formation. Better, perhaps, to just accept differences' existence and see what common bond you can build upon them, rather than trying to press out factory-spec People of America (tm), ready with credit cards to plastic the world, Martha-Stewart-manic grins plastered on faces, long shorts cut just so, and sunglasses, god yes sunglasses. Tell me it's more interesting to live in a predictable world, and don't feed me the crap line about "may you live in interesting times" two-edgedly. Tell me that everyone should be the same, and tell me when you get out of junior high.
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