Things My Father Taught Me Part 1.

I never understood the media’s stereotypical images of African-American men. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by a man who worked hard to prove each and everyone of those negative images wrong. When my mother describes what made her choose my father, even though another man had planned on marrying her, she blushes like a school-girl. It was 1980 in South Korea, my father was a G.I. stationed in Seoul and my mother was raising her younger siblings. She was going to a class to learn English, when she met my father. She says, “He was cool, you know? A jazz man. He had a style nobody else had.  He spoke and dressed well. And I never met anybody like him before. And he was so smart.” And he’s still all of this today.

Lesson #1 –

What you do in the dark, will come to the light.

My father used to tell me this all of the time. The first occasion was when i was about 4 or 5 years old and I had discovered that if I spit on the carpet, no one would know because when it dried, there was no mark left. So I spit. Don’t ask me why, I just did. Everyday I would spit on the carpet in the house. My father asked me once – “Did you spit on the floor”,  and I told what I think was my first lie “No”.  I believe he stood outside my door and waited for me to do it again and when he caught me, boy, I was sorry. But that’s when he told me, what you do in the dark will come to the light. A phrase that I hate hearing because he’d repeat it everytime i got in trouble.

 

Like when I got kicked out of my college dorm for having a huge smoke session. The R.A.’s AND Police came the morning after I fit a good fifteen people into my dormroom to smoke weed and hash and the scene would have made Snoop himself proud. Complete with left over rolling papers, roaches, lighters and empty baggies, a full description and photos were sent to my folks. And I was swiftly moved to a dorm, on campus.   I wasn’t given much by way of lectures but the biggest and most fitting punishment was no pocket money for months. All my Dad told me was that i put him and my mother out of thousands of dollars because I did something I thought I wouldn’t get caught for. He repeated, don’ hide things – they will always be revealed one way or another.

Lesson # 2 –

There is no such thing as a “Goodest Student” and “there it go” is not proper English

Though my father was born and raised in one of the poorest communities in Miami-Dade County, he never embraced the stereotypical ghetto decorum. He always dressed conservatively. And he always, ALWAYS spoke properly. However, in my early life I was exposed to quite a number of people who didn’t follow suit and I began to say things like “I’m finna go to the sto’” or “I ain’t hungry“. One time when my father picked me up from kindergarten, and asked how it was going I told him “Ms. So-and-so love me. I’m her goodest student.” and he told me “Nikki, there’s no such thing as goodest. That’s not proper english. You should say I’m her best student. ” Needless to say, I felt like a dumbest student then and there. But I was always on my P’s and Q’s about speaking correctly afterward. I thank my father everyday for drilling this lesson into me. The way you speak says as much about you as any other trait you posses. If not more. My father never wanted to be seen as an ignorant person. He never wanted people to think he was uneducated. He was ever the distinguished gentleman.

Lesson # 3 –

“No matter how good you are at something, there’s always someone out there better than you.”

Humility. Plain and simple. That’s what this lesson was about. I was always cocky as a child. I was cute and people always wanted to hold and hug me and play with my hair. And when I started getting awards in school for things like most books read, or longest hula-hoop session, I gloated.After one particularly successful field day, on the drive home my father explained to me that there would be someone out there who could be me at the things I was good at. He didn’t mean it and I didn’t take it as, “you’re not the best kid” but rather “be prepared to lose someday, we don’t always win first place at everything.” He was teaching me how to not be a sore winner. This is a lesson I’m still trying to wrap my head around, though. Because as far as I can tell, I’m still the best at the things I do. ^^

TheBohemiaRoom

I’m in a new relationship with this lady. We’ve only been together twice, but there’s something about her. Something that makes me smile when I hear a song that played in the background. Something that makes me wanna visit her, but I know it’s too early. And so I wait. But before our next date, I reminisce. Her sweet nothings in my ear, and her aroma linger as I climb into my bed. And I fall asleep only to dream of future dialogues between she and I.

She is warm.

She is welcoming.

She is The  Bohemia Room. A quaint poetry event which happens at Vlada Lunge, downtown Miami. I was informed about this venue by the daughter of the hostess, Ingrid Bazin. And it felt like I had been invited to witness the traditions of a secret society.

My first time attending, the host for the night, Anomaly, called out my fiance and I for looking unhappy (this happens to us quite frequently).  And she actually did it over the mic. I was mortified. My sole purpose for going was to be inspired. I wanted to find my voice again as a poet and becoming more and more timid was killing me. And here this lady was, calling me out in front of everybody. And at the end of the night I went to my car and lo and behold, my window had been smashed. A tad more than disgruntled, I called the police and waited. I didn’t go back for over a year.

But one is not the cause of the other. Though I was thoroughly embarrassed by a one, Ms. Anomaly, it actually made me feel more at home. My fiance and I were standoffish, as we always are. I don’t socialize. Ever. Hence, my not returning for over a year. Going out at night was something I did for maybe two years of my life. You have to be pretty darn special for me to roll out of bed. And The Bohemia Room is. It SO is.

While she scolded us for our sour demeanor, Anomaly ensured us that we’d like it there. That we’d have a good time. And the minute the first poet performed, her promises were made true. Every poet comes to the stage with their very best. It’s not the age old adage of “competition breeds excellence” here. Each poet here is unique, and they have a community where they encourage one another while onstage.

And so the first time I go out aside from a film viewing, of course, I got back to my lady. And the night is Christened Men’s night. And BAM, the light from the heavens fell and I am thoroughly, magically, awefully inspired. I am proud to say that  I am currently working on a poem for my father, inspired by Asia and Analogy who both performed poems about fathers/fatherhood. And last night, as I sat back I watched, Anomaly asked the audience if they  were doing good. Then she asked someone in the audience why they didn’t answer. HA! she had called someone out, and this time it wasn’t me. I felt like I wasn’t the new girl anymore.

The ambiance is warm, inviting, slightly seductive and somehow other-worldly. And though I don’t yet have the guts or what I consider acceptable words to actually hit the stage myself, I am basking in the glory of the artists who do. And something about actually seeing live again what I hadn’t seen for years, something I shied away from, is helping me get my footing. It;s real. And like the illustrious Ingrid Bazin told us last night, we’ve got to take our art seriously. We must take other poets seriously. And mainly take poetry seriously. I took that to heart. There’s no more doubting, or waiting. I’ve got to put my pen where my mouth is.

When you’re there it’s like you’re part of a community of artists. And you wonder, is this Paris of the thirties? All of these artists sitting around, feeding off of one anther’s energy. Is there a Hemmingway, DooLittle, or Beckett here? Of course. And you’re reading one of them.

Niggers and Chinks

So as part of my building this blog i’ve been checking out a few others and this morning i stumbled upon CAUSE4CONCEIT . it was niiiiiiiice. aesthetically it has to be one of the best i’ve seen. real professional-like. Then I spot something that catches my eyes:

Run the World Girls Asian Style.

But I haven’t even watched the video yet. The thing that bothered me the most was the caption under the video

“Those clever chinks cease to amaze me, this time they’ve regaled us with a low budget rendition of Beyonce’s hit single ‘Run the World’. “

CHINKS?!?!?!?!?! really?!?!?!?!?! i’m sorry did you not get the memo that chink is an offensive word? i do not dig derogatory terms for any race/culture. Nigger, chink, gook, cracker, spick, wetback all say the same thing to me.

Honestly, like most Miami born teens I used the word “nigga” in damn near every sentence when i was in high school.   It was used in interjection with boy/man/person, kind of the urban “dude” or “bro”.

EX:

Dude, where’s my car =  Nigga!, where’s my car

damn bro, i’m hungry =  damn nigga i’m hungry

This boy in my fifth period is so cute! = this nigga in my fifth period is so cute!

You see? Nigga wasn’t nigger for us. It wasn’t the term that whites threw at my great-grandmother as they shut down the only school in her area, refusing an entire town education. It wasn’t the term a little white boy called my dad on his frist day at an integrated school as a boy. No, the community had decided that, henceforth, it would be an endearing term. Used to show love and brotherhood. But when I went to college I learned a great deal more than I knew, more than I wanted to know. I saw the videos and pictures of the KKK marching, and for the first time I got to see Birth of a Nation. Have you seen it? It’s about the KKK and how they are knights here to save america from “the nigger”. I read more books, articles, letters and watched more films than I even knew existed that taught me how much people fought against that label. I also had a few personal experiences which let me KNOW  nigga/nigger were one in the same, and they both meant ignorant, dirty, scum. We have been bamboozling ourselves to think that we could take this word and like yankee make it something to wear proudly.

Nigger is not to be worn proudly.

Neither is spick, cracker or kite.

And derogatory terms for asians: chink, gook and as i’ve recently been told Jap aren’t event thought about. Most Americans today don’t know anything about gook, and consider chink  and jap  acceptable replacements for asian or japanese. WHAT????? is it because the asian population in america is so small? or is it because they harbour these stereotypes and prejudices and most americans haven’t come across enough asians in real life to debunk these ridiculous prejudices? and rid our vocabulary of these hideous terms. someone, please fill me in.

did i miss the memo where racial slurs were now cool to use?  

Halmony

Not too long ago I was given an image of my grandmother. one that just may stay with me forever. my mother and aunt, reunited for the first time in nearly thirty years, sat me down in a cozy living room in Gilroy, California and proceeded to tell me stories of my halmony. I sat beside my aunt on her all-too american big comfortable couch and watched my mother twirl like a young girl as she sat in a chair in the middle of the living room.

i knew some things about my grandmother. like, she used to wear ballet slippers and cardigans, a trait I am proud to say i posses myself. and she was unbelievably punctual, a trait I will probably never posses.  and she was perfect. she was educated, Martha-Steward domestic, and beautiful. With a porcelain face and a petite dancers frame, she dressed in pearls, poodle skirts, hanboks, and beautiful shoes. She could prepare your hearts desire from scratch, sushi, bulgogi, pastries, bi bim bop, and cakes. And she believed in the arts. When my mother showed the slightest interest in dance, my grandmother immediately enrolled her in private lessons with one of Korea’s most celebrated dancers and landed her a position in an art school in Seoul.

But where there is such brilliant light, there is always sadness. My grandfather, brilliant, charming, handsome, and kind worked out of the country most of his time for his engineering job.  When my grandmother got sick, later discovered to be Cancer, she spent most of her time with the kids, alone. When the she made their bento boxes and they went off to school she would climb on a rock, to get a view of the river to wait for my grandfather. He’d stop in every so often, buying more medicine and checking on the children, but he never stayed. And when he was gone, as the children would take the walk back to their home, they would see their mother, a lone figure, waiting, yearning for her husband. It’s not that he didn’t love her, not at all. This was a woman he left his arranged marriage for. They weren’t just married, they were lovers. They’d dance to Frank Senatra in the living room after they put the children to bed. He’d surprise her with wonderful gifts and outings to see movies and just about anything to make her smile. But, when she was sick, he, well, he lost. He was lost, maybe, depressed beyond belief. He didn’t understand that she was going to die. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just couldn’t stand the pain. Whatever it was, my grandmother had faith he would be there, and though he always came back, he wasn’t there when it mattered. And because she passed on a day traditionally thought to be bad luck, none of her friends came to her funeral either. It was her children, Kyong, Miae, Hung, Sung and Moon in the cold Korean winter who alone mourned her. This swan, this muse, expected the most of the world on that rock, waiting.

i HAVE to tell her story.

on race and identity Pt. 1

my cousin once called me a halfbreed and it made me so angry. he and i were about ten or eleven and we were outside of the house at some family function and we started arguing. then he said something along the lines of “shut up you halfbreed”. it hurt.

the asian student union at the university i attended was handing out t-shirts to members and would-be members. when i asked for one the man looked at me and said “yes, you don’t have to be asian to be in the asian student union”. that REALLY hurt.

i used to tell myself, being half black  and half asian doesn’t make me any less of either. but does it? i don’t really know too much about being looked at as either black or asian, so i don’t know much about the prejudices either of my ethnicities go through. i’ve been blessed to just be seen as foreign, exotic. (though a southern blacke american family isn’t exactly “foreign”, a korean one is.)

but i’ve had some experiences that are typical for either of my cultures. I had a southern baptist grandmother who sang spirituals and gave me home remedies. i had an asian mother who taught me asian traditions. i had family and support that told me i was just as much one as i was the other. but i was not fully either in anyones eyes. and so, I developed a mentality that put me on neither side. i was unique, special, and what could be better than that?

Perspective

I have been down and out lately due to losing my job as a teacher (which I had been secretly hoping I lost anyway and feeling extra guilty about this wish). This morning, still in my funk, I headed to my local Starbucks for a nice cup of joe and a paper. Hoping to find some inspiration from some great New York Times writer,  I started reading in my driveway and immediately fell to tears at the article on the front page : “Lead Poisoning in China: The Hidden Scourge” in which I learned about three year old Han TianTian from Mengxi Village, China.  Her parents slaved away in a battery-factory which could not have produced a decent income. Based on the photo of their home, the family lived well below what we would call “the poverty line”, but as evidenced by the bicycle with the child’s seat on the back, everything they did, was for TianTian. Heartbroken, her father Hang Zongyuan tells reporters that his three year old daughter, his baby girl, has irreversible damage to her intellectual capacity thanks to lead poisoning brought on by the factory he and his wife worked for. He says “At the moment I heard the doctor say that, my heart was shattered…We wanted this child to have everything. That’s why we worked this hard. That’s why we poisoned ourselves at this factory. Now it turns out the child is poisoned too. I have no words to describe how I feel.”

But Han TianTian, and her parents Wen Yuni and Hang Zongyuan are not nearly the only ones suffering something like this. The entire village destroyed the battery factory responsible for over 500 cases like this in the town. As well they should have. According to the New York Times article, the government f China has covered this up and ignored the illnesses for quite some time.

One may have the urge to say, “Where’s Erin Brockovich when you need her?” Here in the States, we’d like to think something like this could never happen. But it has. Things like this are occurring across the globe, and all so we can have cheaper products. When we start our electric cars, charge our phones, or watch bikers race down the road do we think about who is responsible for the things we have? Do we ever, for a moment, wonder what human hands slaved away for my comfort? Of course not. We’ve all got appointments to get to, new boyfriends or girlfriends to talk to for hours. What do we care if 1/3rd of Chinese children are suffering from high levels of lead poison? We don’t.

And that’s the sad part about it. We don’t care that 3 year old TianTian, or 5 year old Sun Guotai have irreversible health and neurological issues. The batteries are cheap and we need them. We may read this article and tell the person sitting next to us, or post it to our facebook, but the next minute we forget. We forget that our world is tiny and that each and every individual walking this earth is in some way connected. You see, the battery company responsible for this is covering up the problems because they need to compete in this global economy and raise China’s status. They don’t give 100% when thinking of the environment they’re damaging or the lives they’re ruining. Why? Because their consumers – us – don’t care. We have all forgotten that the butterfly effect isn’t just for butterflies. We need to do anything and everything we can to fix occurrences such as this.

China’s children aren’t China’s children. They’re our future. Guatemala’s children, Zimbabwe’s children aren’t their own. It takes a village isn’t what we need to think anymore. It takes all of us to raise these children. To protect them from ourselves. How dare we send them into harms way for a materialistic convenience? for any convenience? We should be angry about this, livid. And we should do something. Start by reducing what you use. Start by voicing your opinion or making others aware of things like this. And keep going until you actually get your hands dirty by putting in actual work – volunteer or donate money to people who will go in and do the actual work. It’s nothing more than our civic and social duty to protect the future.