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I'm delighted to announce the winner of the 11th annual Mitali's Fire Escape Teens Between Cultures Prose Contest. In the past, I've award three prizes (first, second, third), but this year I decided to pick only one. Here it is—enjoy.
Bridging the Gap
by Tran D., Age 16
“It was a rough marriage. She left him...” My mom spoke into the phone in Vietnamese, “Poor thing, he lives alone now. He rents the house from an old landlady.”
“Is she talking about Chú Bích?” I asked my sister from the backseat.
Chú Bích is my uncle—”chú” implied that he was my dad’s younger brother. I can’t recollect any memory of him but I distinctly remember getting trouble for stealing a picture of him and his bride because it was the prettiest thing five year old me had seen. He had let me keep it and take it with me to America. It still sits in one of the many dusty albums closed away in my parents’ bedroom.
I stared out the window on the drive home, but still intently listening to the conversation, trying to glean as much information as I could. We were driving home from Wal-Mart where we had loaded up on supplies for our upcoming trip to Vietnam.
“Candy,” my mom said as she rushed to that very aisle, “We have to buy a lot of candies to give to the kids over there.”
I finally understood--even candy was a luxury for them. This made me anxious, this unfathomable disparity between living standards. What if I was seen as too snobby? And worse yet, what if I wasn’t able to conciliate with the conditions there? However, despite these worries, I looked forward to the trip.
It was our family’s first return in nearly ten years and mine since I was five years old. The first five years of my life, I can barely recollect even as I searched into my deepest archives.
The memories I still held on to were like vivid snapshots—memories of eating mãng cầu on the doorsteps of our pastel colored home, facing our neighbors’ houses across the narrow street; of holding onto my sister’s hand as we walked around the corner to a ma and pop store to buy our favorite snacks; of the old peddler lady who sold my favorite dessert, Chè đậu đen, the kind with the soft and chewy black beans. They were fleeing memories, moments captured within the seconds that somehow managed to escape the doom of time. They were all I had, yet they weren’t enough.
During this trip, I was able to replenish my remembrance. Many of these recollections consisted of beautiful sceneries, from the dusty, unpaved roads of the countryside to boundless night skies; moreover, there were the nostalgic memories of the names and faces of whom I had never met, yet inexplicably had played a part in my family’s past. But perhaps the most profound experience was the two week stay in Saigon at Chú Bích’s two-room home, varnished with blue and green floor tiles. It was on these tiles that I had helped lay out breakfast each morning; on these tiles I had taught my cousins to play Double Speed, a card game that we played zealously at every free moment we had. In a place that was so different from what I was accustomed to, I had found comfort and a familial love that resonated through its walls. I couldn’t fully understand all the struggles or pain he had gone through, but Chú Bích had welcomed us into his home and gave us all he had. He represented a fragment of Vietnam that, in my naivete, I failed to grasp: through all the turmoil and difficulties, he still had the strength to love and the perseverance to toil on. Within these weeks, my sense of materialism tumbled away, and all that was left were the people that I love and the place that I had come from.
That summer, I fell in love with Vietnam. Struggling to find its own economic standing, It is a country ravaged by internal conflict, but it was my own. That summer, I found a missing piece of my childhood, and a neglected piece of myself.
In all my struggles and perseverance to do well in my studies and strive to attend the best colleges in America, I had forgotten much of my roots, as Vietnamese classes gave way to school projects during the weekend and cultural festivals gave way to study dates at Starbucks. My parents, in their struggle to survive in a foreign country and raise their two daughters, could not afford the time to reinforce what they had so cherished. They gave up everything they had—money, family, childhood friends— for the sake of my future. However at some point, I realized that I was old enough to understand the importance of tradition and heritage. It was now my own responsibility to not only preserve my roots, but bridge the gap between the country I was born in and the one I live in.
Tran on growing up between cultures:
For me, the hardest thing about balancing two cultures is simply that, keeping the balance. While I am perpetually adapting to and being immersed into one culture, I also have to be careful not to lose touch with the other culture. Not only do I feel obligated to fit in with my family and my friends, I also have to be able to come to terms with myself as a middle point between two cultures. At times, it is a difficult dichotomy to maintain, but at the end of the day, it is something to be proud of.
The best thing about having two cultures is that it allows me to be more open minded, because I am more familiar and comfortable with the idea of 'different'. Having already experienced these two spheres of culture, American and Vietnamese, both of which are quite different from the other, it is much easier for me to grasp that there are thousands of different spheres of culture in the world, each with its own idiosyncrasies.
I'm delighted to announce the winner of the 10th annual Mitali's Fire Escape Teens Between Cultures Prose Contest. In the past, I've award three prizes (first, second, third), but this year I decided to pick only one. Agonizingly, I narrowed the best entries to three and then asked my friend, author and teacher Cynthia Leitich Smith, to select the winner. Here it is—enjoy.
Chow Mein with a Chance of Meatballs
by Whitney S., Age 18
Growing up as the headstrong daughter of Chinese immigrants, I – surprisingly – didn’t question my parents’ strict emphasis on academic achievement. I didn’t fight back against the forced piano lessons, I didn’t begrudge the embargo on sleepovers, and I didn’t sulk (for long, anyway) when I brought home an A-studded report card and got only distracted nods in response. No, I accepted everything except the food.
I first realized my own gastronomical ignorance in elementary school, when my friends discussed their favorite restaurants and I could only name the two fast-food places I passed daily on my way to school. Before that, I had lived complacently under what I assumed were the unspoken, unquestioned rules of my household: No sodas, candies, or carb-based munchies could be found in the pantry. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served at prescribed times, with one afternoon snack of fruit and no nibbling allowed in between. Getting a hamburger from McDonalds was a twice-a-year treat for outstanding behavior (like winning a spelling bee) or consolation for a serious misfortune (like getting stitches when I cut my scalp open). And formal restaurants? I was lucky I knew what real, “Western” silverware looked like.
“Why don’t we ever eat out?” I demanded once, in a fit of indignation.
“Do you want to weigh 500 pounds? Americans put so much oil and flavorings in their cooking, it’s disgusting,” said my mother in dismissive Chinese. “And how much money we’d waste if we ate out every week, like American families do! Do you think we’re rich?”
My parents loosened up sometimes – if only to sample genuine Chinese restaurants where the owners and servers all spoke Chinese. They’d order standard mainland dishes, furrow their brows as they ate, and spend the rest of the night debating the authenticity of the food. For someone like me, with a sweet tooth and an adventurous appetite, it simply wasn’t enough.
I could pinpoint with 99% accuracy what we’d be having for dinner any given night, before even coming home from school. There was always the essential staple, rice. Then there was steamed or stir-fried bok choy (and if not bok choy, some other leafy green vegetable). Lastly, a meat dish, maybe mixed with more vegetables and maybe standing alone. On the rare occasions that we didn’t eat rice, we ate dumplings or noodles. And oh, how I hated fulfilling popular stereotypes – but we did all of the above with chopsticks.
My classmates complained about eating Brussels sprouts; they whined about not being able to have dessert before the entrée. My dreams (okay, perhaps my speculations when I got bored) were made of the stews, casseroles, lasagnas, pizzas, and steaks they ate at home. My peers gasped at the multisyllabic words I recited and rolled their eyes whenever I churned out another math problem at record speeds. How would they see me, though, if they knew that the great Whitney had no idea how to pay the check at a restaurant?
When my parents finally allowed me to carry pocket money around, I got sneaky. My middle school hosted a snack booth, and I felt a small high every time I purchased a forbidden pastry or soda. But it was immediately followed by an overwhelming cascade of guilt. I saw, in my mind’s eye, my mother lecturing me on how hard she worked to cook meals with minimal salt and oil, how much she despised “American” foods, which were inarguably fatty and unnatural. A part of me always hung her head in shame, promising never to venture down the road to sin again. The other part of me wanted to lash out against my parents. Was it really such a big deal if I deviated from their oh-so-precious customs here and there? I was a model child in every other department. Fortunately, I had never been bullied for my ethnicity; in my stubborn independence, I had rarely folded under the pressure to conform either. But this, the food – it was my way of saying Yes, I do want to be an American! I do want to share in a part, however trivial, of this society!
My parents started to relax their grip when I entered high school, most likely because they grew worried. “Stop studying so much, Whitney,” they told me. “You’re too stressed. Go out with your friends once in a while.” That, and once the trips I took with clubs dragged on past lunchtime, it became inevitable that my teammates and I would stumble into a restaurant. Learning basic skills like ordering from the menu and tipping etiquette were cheek-reddening experiences, mortifying both for me and my friends. I would explain awkwardly that my parents were traditional, that they – cue self-deprecating chuckle here – disapproved of American cooking, for some convoluted reason. I was lucky; most friends nodded and smiled and didn’t ask anything more. Their seeming acceptance soothed my insecurities, but not by much.
It was difficult for me, when I was younger, to justify my parents’ prejudices. How could they be so closed-minded? I thought angrily. Did they want our family to be outcasts? In my childish bravado, I would often proffer various favorites (“They’ll change their minds when they taste this spaghetti!”). As time passed and my parents kept turning away my offerings, though, I had to swallow the truth. They weren’t going to change. They were middle-aged immigrants; they had grown comfortable with their ways, which had endured the grueling transition to a different hemisphere.
But that doesn’t mean I have to remain a shut-in. My parents have begun to loosen their hold in this tug-of-war. I still keep a rigid diet at home, but I have been allowed to sample multicultural cuisines, even if it is always by myself and always out of necessity. My parents don’t understand it, but they are finally acknowledging it. For me, cultural immersion and exploration will always lie in the next order of macaroni and cheese.
Whitney on growing up between cultures:
The hardest thing about balancing two cultures is trying to fit in with other kids when you're young. Most kids now have been brought up to be tolerant and accepting of other cultures, but there are still those who are narrow-minded or just not ready to accept others who are different. I definitely felt a distance between me and other kids when I was young because of the different traditions I practiced at home.
The best thing about balancing two cultures is enjoying the added richness to your life when you're older. I can speak two languages, make authentic foods from different cuisines, enjoy two different styles of entertainment, and connect to people from two different ethnic backgrounds. Now that I can appreciate the depth that being both Chinese and American has brought me, multiculturalism has become a benefit rather than a burden.
The lovely Isha Roy of Global India Newswire interviewed me recently while I was in D.C. attending the South Asian Literary and Theater Festival. I talked about the benefits of growing up between cultures, what Americans think of India these days, my gratitude for other South Asian American writers, and a bunch of other stuff, including my forthcoming projects.
It was a Monday morning, the start of a new school year and students were settling into their classrooms, faces eager to learn or just to converse with all their classmates, some old, some new. In their minds, this was the day where they could make the friendships and bonds that would last them a lifetime or maybe just for the rest of the school year because, no one wants to spend the rest of the year as a loner.
Class had already begun and the teacher at the moment was calling roll, making sure that everyone was at school, in the right class, sitting in the right seat. It was the first day for me at this school. I looked around the classroom, starting from back, all the way to the front where my teacher stood. Everything about the classroom screamed, “small town.” Most students had been in the same grades together so everyone knew each other. Others, from what I could tell by the lack of people sitting around them, stood out as being the new students, including me. The teacher and all of the original students didn’t wear the latest fashions, but the type of clothes that suited them—pleated skirts, small sweaters, and well pressed khakis. This was where I coined the term, “suburbia wear”. Most students were white with Southern accents and wore hairstyles that were recognized by the town. Everyone sounded like they were from the Deep South. I thought Raleigh, North Carolina was the deepest that one could get but I was proved wrong. Monroe, North Carolina surpassed Raleigh. Noticing all of this in only 30 minutes surprised me and made me feel uneasy. I could tell that my year was off to a bad start.
The teacher was still calling roll and I knew that she was getting closer… closer to my name and I was dreading it.
“Sarah Lowell?”
“Here.”
“John…John Mathews?!”
“….I’m here!!!!”
“Ashley Nancy?”
“Here.”
Then the teacher stopped talking. There was a moment of silence. I knew, and I think everyone knew that it was my name that would be called next since I stood out as one of the new students. This was the moment that everyone had been waiting for and I could sense it. I really hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t happen this way but I knew it was inevitable. My name and looks gave everything away. Just by one glance, anyone could tell that I did not have a common name, and that I was not common. But the thing that everyone didn’t know was that my name was not one of those generic names that usually people of my color had. It was unique, different, and beautiful. I just hoped that everyone could see that in my name. The teacher began to speak.
“Okay, now this is not a name that I usually come in contact with so I’m sorry to the student who has to hear me butcher it up.”
In my head, I thought, “This is a new reaction. I’ve never heard my name referenced to meat before…”
“Okay, so is it, Chrriiisssseemmmeeedee Onwaaateeekitaaahh??”
I raised my hand, as soon as I heard “my name.” I was m
I love this story, it makes me think of all the students that I deal with on a daily basis who have names that are "different" from the norm (including my daughter's last name, which is Arabic). I, too, am always interested to know where the name comes from and to find out more about that place through the student. I am glad that Chisimdi is proud of her name and culture!
I'm privileged to be editing an anthology published by Candlewick Press tentatively called OPEN MIC, a compilation of funny short pieces written by some of today's best YA authors, people who grew up along the margins of race and culture in North America. One of my dreams has been to introduce one or two fresh, relatively unknown voices in this anthology, so I'm excited to announce that I'm calling for submissions.
WHY HUMOR AND RACE?
It’s easy to see teens exploring boundaries, definitions, and trends in ethnicity and race in standup comedy, sitcoms, and funny short and long films. Meanwhile, many teen novels confronting these topics tend to be serious, reverential, or sad. Humor crosses borders like no other literary device, right? Shared laughter fosters community and provides the freedom to talk about issues that might otherwise cause division or discomfort. It also gets teens reading, and that's what we're aiming for in this book. Our authenticity and humor, hopefully, will inspire teens to talk about their own experiences as they share the book in classrooms, families, and through social media.
THE DETAILS
Your OPEN MIC contribution could include poignant, deep content as well as laugh-out loud hilarious scenes. You don’t have to focus specifically on racism, but your piece will explore or illuminate coming of age and/or growing up along the margins of race and culture in North America. Hopefully, it will also be funny.
Your target audience is middle school to early high school, grades 7-9, so keep your protagonists at that age level or above. If your piece is chosen, you'll receive an advance against a small royalty percentage on the sale of the book across formats. As for promotion, along with Candlewick’s usual stellar marketing efforts, we’re going to spread the news like crazy through social media to publicize you and your other work as well.
HOW TO SUBMIT
I'm considering submissions to this open call on a rolling basis until January 15, 2012. Maximum word count is 2500. Send your story or essay (noting word count on the first page) along with a brief introductory cover letter to OPEN MIC, Attn: Mitali Perkins, Candlewick Press, 99 Dover Street, Somerville, MA 02144. Manuscripts will not be returned.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Do not put your name on the manuscript itself, only on the cover letter. Candlewick will keep the cover letters and number manuscripts to track them. I'm hoping to consider submissions without knowing the identities of the contributors—and I can't wait to read your piece!
In honor of the NCTE's African American Read-In, the book blogging community has decided to pick and discuss a book during February. Doret, Edi and Ari (bookseller, librarian, avid young adult reader—great combination) narrowed it down for us to 6 YA titles by African American authors about African American teens. Vote here for the book you want us to read and discuss.
You may also vote on (and submit) videos about diversity in America created by young people at "I Am This Land," like this one about a young Muslim girl who has to stand up for herself both inside and outside her home. Which confrontation took more courage?
"I have nightmares that half my body is getting beaten up."
Thanks to the wonderful Lee and Low blog (put it on your must-surf list), I'm posting this video as a follow-up to my thoughts about the Princeton lecture on race.
Sandra Cisneros' poem, You Bring Out The Mexican In Me (listen to the poet read it here), is inspiring other Americans to respond with poetry of their own. Here's the poet Bao Phi performing his acclaimed version, "You Bring Out the Vietnamese In Me":
What about you? What does Cisneros' poem bring out in you?
Phi blogs for the Minnesota Star-Tribune, and his recent essay exploring the catch-22 of being a non-white Tolkien-loving geek, Nerds of Color, is worth a read. Here's an excerpt:
... I always chose to ignore the weird feeling I got when I realized that, in my dreams, I was always, literally, a white knight. When I dreamt I was a superhero, I was a white dude with superpowers and the Mary Jane to my Peter Parker was always white. Even though I had a nagging feeling about it, I thought I was justified in my dreams because, hey, none of King Arthur’s knights were Asian and therefore my dreams wouldn’t be real if I dreamt otherwise ...
Enjoy the poem that tied for third prize this year in my annual poetry contest for teens between cultures. Read it aloud for the rocking Fijian rhythm.
Coconut Cowgirl by Hosanna, Fiji/USA, Age 16
Island princess, barefoot and brown Classroom’s a forest, birds all around Happy go lucky, no need for worry Me go slow when me go, no reason to hurry.
But soldiers they come, and rebels they fight Running to safety, run through the night Get on an airplane, fly up so high Over the dateline, me stubborn to cry
Land in a desert, tumbleweed brown Mountains of purple, live in a town Girls they be laughing, my shoes be too small Boys they be jealous, I outrun them all
Lonely and weary, accent so strong Teacher so phony, me don’t belong “Hey! little girl, where you come from? Looks like you cooked too long in the sun!”
“I’m not a racist! My best friends are brown, Just don’t let my father see you hanging around.” Me smile and pretend me don’t understand Me choke back my shame, hide tears with my hand.
Me don’t wear lipstick, me don’t use perfume Me don’t need TV or big living room Me not a cowgirl, me eyes they not blue No matter I try, me won’t ever be you.
Me want to go home, climb a coconut tree Me want to eat mango, drink lemon-leaf tea. Me hate this whole town, its shiny brick houses Me hate wearing wool and me hate starched white blouses.
Me want to go fishing, pick pink and red flowers And listen to Nana talk story for hours Me want to be barefoot and swim in blue sea Me want to see people who look just like me.
America’s promise, Land of the Free Liberty shining from sea to sea Be who you are, but learn how we be Be who you are, but be just like we.
Me tired and sad, me have no friend Me thinking it better if all this would end And then through sorrow, eyes seeking mine A friend understanding, quiet and kind.
Me now hears her voice of truth and of hope, Freedom is ringing! Hope is springing! Me lift my crying eyes and stand to see, Waiting there for me, my Liberty.
Thanks for sharing this. What a great voice. I love the lines, "“I’m not a racist! My best friends are brown,/Just don’t let my father see you hanging around.”
Enjoy the poem that won second prize this year in my annual poetry contest for teens between cultures.
Untitled by Selorm, Ghana/USA, Age 16
The drums sound, and her village hands slap like thunder onto the paved city streets and crumbling suburban sidewalks. The baked gold dust of the Motherland has speckled the back of her hands, though her blue jeans and sneakers are stained red, white and blue; red, gold and green. Her dance is backbreaking and classic, though her spirit was born long before 1776. Her soul resides with the Blackened Ones, her body in the West. But she is not torn nor troubled, split nor shaken. She dances fearlessly on the border of two worlds. Photo courtesy of Lieven SOETE via Creative Commons.
Poetry Friday is hosted this week by Kate Coombs at Book Aunt.
That Sanjay Gupta! He's been lurking around the Fire Escape and stealing my ideas. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, since most of us with aging parents share a worry about losing that generation's stories. The Gupta brothers, though, are doing something about it.
Co-founded by brothers Dr. Sanjay Gupta (CNN) and Suneel Gupta (Mozilla), the Kahani Movement (not to be confused with our beloved Kahani Magazine, although we hope it's a win-win situation) is a non-profit project aiming to inspire generations of Indian-Americans to capture and share stories from their ancestors that immigrated to the United States from India.
The project takes a Hollywood 2.0 approach to sharing these stories by motivating young Indian Americans to pick up a camera, interview their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and then post that footage to Kahani's web platform. The eventual audience for this content is a generation of people who may never have the benefit of a real conversation with their immigrant ancestors.
"These cherished stories are evaporating along with the people who lived them," Sanjay Gupta said. "It is our generation's responsibility to preserve those stories, so that they are never lost."
For once, the buzz is about a book I've already read. My recommendation? Don't waste time. Get a copy and read it as soon as you can.
Yes, Outcasts United is about a small town in Georgia, an influx of refugees from war-torn countries, boys, and the sport of soccer. But the book also sheds light on immediate demographic and cultural forces that are pulling and shaping our society -- forces that must be understood if we are to serve the next generation well.
While St. John steers clear of pontificating, I couldn't help making the didactical leap as I devoured the book on a nonstop flight from Boston to SFO. What do the Fugees football team, the town of Clarkston, and Coach Luma Mufleh teach about serving young people in America's fast-changing communities?
1. Lesson from the Fugees: Sports can change lives.
Fugee players fled here from different countries, worship in different ways, speak a wide variety of languages, and are racially diverse, but end up bonding like family. Why? The answer's easy to see in the book -- because they all want to win.
Kofi Annan, as Secretary-General of the United Nations, launched the Year of Sports in 2005, reminding us that "when young people participate in sports or have access to physical education, they can experience real exhilaration even as they learn the ideals of teamwork and tolerance."
The Fugees Family website describes how exploiting the strong internal motivation that comes with sport can help kids at risk:
Soccer draws these players together. Before they join the Fugees Family, they already love the game. It's the most popular sport in the world, and the fastest-growing youth sport in the country. On the field, the players experience the freedom, release, power, and sense of achievement that they do not experience in school. Soccer builds their confidence, and gives them the lift, the spirit, to persevere in their academics - long, slow work that does bring rewards, but not instantly. Their enthusiasm for the game is what attracts the kids' participation, and, once involved, they are impelled to excel not only on the field but off it.
How might we use the universal competitive drive and love of sport to shatter barriers and motivate success?
2. Lesson from Clarkston: Commandeer change instead of resisting it.
One of the most revelatory sections of the book was chapter 19, titled "Getting Over It." Here St. John features a few people and groups who rose to the challenge of Clarkston's demographic change by innovating -- a church, a grocery store called Thriftown, and the police force. I especially enjoyed the ecclesiastical example, since religious institutions are so often portrayed in our culture as barriers to change:
As refugees moved to Clarkson in the 1990s, many members of the church's white congregation became so uncomfortable with their changing surroundings that they decided to move away ... Membership in the church plummeted from around seven hundred to just over a hundred ... A group of church elders met to discuss the congregation's future. They looked to the Bible for guidance, and read a passage in which Jesus described heaven as a place for people of all nations ... [As a result] the Clarkston Baptist Church renamed itself after 125 years: it's now the Clarkston International Bible Church. On Sundays, separate congregations of Liberians, Ethiopians, French-speaking West Africans, and Sudanese meet ... and a bigger, come-one, come-all service takes place in the main sanctuary in English ... Pews in the sanctuary, once nearly empty on Sunday mornings, are now near capacity, and membership has grown to over five hundred.
The Thriftown Grocery and the Clarkston police force were also willing to take risks for the right reasons in response to changes they couldn't control. Are we?
3. Lesson from Luma: Leave your bleeding heart at home.
Steven Roberts, in his Washington Postreview of the book, notes that tender-hearted readers may not like Luma Mufleh's coaching style:
In truth, she can overdo the "tough" part of "tough love." I cringed when she banished Mandela Ziaty for insubordination, called her players "a pathetic excuse for a soccer team" and told them that they "deserved to lose."
But undoubtedly Luma's toughness brings out the best in these boys. She requires them to participate in after-school tutoring at least twice a week. If the boys miss tutoring, they miss playing in their game that week.
As I read the book, my heart went out to one boy after another, but one of my favorites had to be Kanue Biah. This fifteen-year-old dedicated player originally from Liberia was heartbroken after Coach canceled the under-15s' season due to the absences of his teammates -- one of her harshest decrees.
But Kanue didn't give up. The Fugees meant too much to him. He painstakingly organized his teammates to advocate for a second chance. He recruited new players and chased the old ones until he had enough players to form a new team. And somehow he convinced Coach to let them try out again.
After Luma agreed to reinstate the team, St. John writes:
Kanue dropped his head in relief. His team was alive. He had vetted the newcomers and let them know Coach's rules -- he'd read the contract to many of them himself -- and he was going to make sure everyone was there on Thursday afternoon, on time ... "I told her I appreciate her," Kanue said later. "I told her thanks, and that we were going to do everything to follow the rules and give her the respect she deserves."
What an exercise in advocacy and leadership -- skills this young man might not have learned without Luma's strong boundaries in place.
Despite my lesson-gleaning, Outcasts United isn't primarily out to convey tips and morals for the good of society. It's replete with stories about boys who have endured much, a sport that they love, and the Coach they learn to trust and respect. And that's what makes it such a great read.
Note: Author Warren St. John will be visiting us on the Fire Escape for an exclusive follow-up interview, so stay tuned!
I loved Warren ST. John's NYT article on this Clakston soccer team. I was reading this last night I am struggling through the part before Luma begins coaching the refugees. I will probably skip ahead,I really want to get to the stories of the players. The movie rights to this book have already been sold
I want to write race, my white writing buddies confess. Demographics are shifting in America, and I know I should. But I feel stuck.
Most of them don't feel comfortable writing a nonwhite protagonist. How is that authentic? they wonder.
They don't feel free to create antagonists of color. How is that not racist? they ask.
And the answer isn't simply including secondary characters -- foils, sidekicks, or "magical negroes" who exist only to help or inspire a white protagonist. How is that not tokenism? they ask.
How in the world, then, can my white writing friends safely write race?
The answer is easy. They can't. Write race safely, I mean. None of us can. But we can be brave enough to try.
In The Atlantic's The End of White America?, Hua Hsu describes how white people feel in circles of influence:
... If white America is indeed “losing control,” and if the future will belong to people who can successfully navigate a post-racial, multicultural landscape—then it’s no surprise that many white Americans are eager to divest themselves of their whiteness entirely ...
Matt Wray, a sociologist at Temple University ... has observed that many of his white students are plagued by a racial-identity crisis: “They don’t care about socioeconomics; they care about culture. And to be white is to be culturally broke. The classic thing white students say when you ask them to talk about who they are is, ‘I don’t have a culture.’ They might be privileged, they might be loaded socioeconomically, but they feel bankrupt when it comes to culture … They feel disadvantaged, and they feel marginalized. They don’t have a culture that’s cool or oppositional... We’re going through a period where whites are really trying to figure out: Who are we?”
Talk about irony, right? Welcome to life between cultures, people. It's about time you got here. Those of us who've crossed ethnic and racial borders since childhood know this place well. We know about feeling constrained and stiff and unsafe when it comes to writing race and ethnicity. Sometimes you tell yourself yes, and sometimes you tell yourself no, but at least you ask the hard questions and listen to thought-provoking criticism. In a fast-changing time without clearcut rules and definitions, there's grace for mistakes and rewards to anticipate, especially for the kids and teens we serve.
I've heard this a lot in the last few weeks. People are trying so hard not to be racist that they've failed to be inclusive. My answer always is, "You do your best. You apologize when you make a mistake. You're not being punished when you're being corrected- it's a chance to learn and try again."
I'm thankful for the dialogue you've opened up here, Mitali.
Anonymous said, on 4/10/2009 3:26:00 AM
Don't remember the title but I recently read an excerpt from either a Mid. Gr. or YA novel in which the main char. opens the door to a conference room and sees pinks, browns, yellows, and blacks sitting around a table. Took me a second to realize that by "pinks," he meant whites. By using the term pink, whites would have a color, too, like American minority ethnicities do. We'd all have pigmentation as a common uniting trait. Pink writers might feel easier about their main char. being brown, yellow, black, or any other color.
Oh, wow, that statement by Hua Hsu really, really hits home. How often I have felt much the same way, in a weird sense Other, by not feeling like - or being told that I am not - reflecting my culture, yet not being sure altogether that I can be what someone else thinks that entails. My goodness, are we all in the corridor together? Maybe we can sit down and make a new space between the rooms...
Can I just say it is so helpful as a white writer to have people of other cultures help edit a manuscript and educate me? Justina Chen Headley has been a dear to me as I write about my life in Korea. It was a painful revision process, but with graciousness and patience, the writing I hope has really been strengthened and is more fully accurate!
Ostensibly, my sons and I traveled from Boston to the San Francisco Bay Area this past weekend to celebrate Baba's birthday.
That's what I told people, anyway.
But the truth is that these regular trips to Didu and Dadu's house -- note the open door and my Dad waiting on the porch -- are a shortcut to keeping my heritage alive in the next generation.
The best part is that it's never forced. Bengali music constantly plays in the background. Ma lavishes them with her fresh-cooked specialties, and the boys are always free to eat with their fingers as they would if they were in Kolkata. Baba tells them stories about his high school days, and we laugh at his jokes. Both my parents forget and speak Bangla as if the boys understand it, and I watch in amazement as sometimes they seem to.
Like me, authors Edwidge Danticat (Haiti), Junot Diaz (Dominican Republic), and Salma Ali (India), came to the U.S.A. as children. As part of NPR's series on the children of immigrants, they reflect on the "transformation of immigrants in America as the next generation assimilates." Danticat reminds us of the power of grandparents, which our family experiences each time we visit California:
Do you have older living relatives who, in addition to everything they represent, also represent a culture that we're no longer living in? So having these sort of living libraries, I think, is important to this next generation.
It's clear that North American older adults of all races and cultures are an untapped source for young people struggling with identity and self-esteem issues. In a culture that divides seniors and teens, it seems daunting to connect the generations. Perhaps stories told by newer Americans like Danticat, Diaz, and Ali are uniquely able to inspire and inform our communities in this challenge.
Anonymous said, on 4/6/2009 12:27:00 PM
Grandparents are so important in defining identity. I grew up as an Air Force brat but whenever my dad went overseas we went back to Denver where the grandparents and great grandparents lived. My great grandparents, despite being born in Colorado never spoke English. I've always felt well connected to my roots even when I didn't know much about them. When I was 16 I went on a road trip through Mexico with my grandparents and years later discovered that the places we visited were places that played a role in our family over generations. Vera Cruz were the fist Vigil in North America landed, Zacatecas where the Vigils lived until moving to what is now New Mexico in the 1720s, and more.
Your parents must have loved having all of you there! How I envy those who knew their grandparents or other older relatives who could share stories of the past.
The book by Warren Lehrer and Judith Sloan was published in 2003, but Crossing the Boulevard is still collecting stories of new immigrants who came to the U.S. after 1965. I added my story. Why not add yours, or encourage the newcomers in your community to tell the story of their big move?
Our thoughts on age, politics, beauty, race, and self can all be communicated by the way we keep our hair.
Check me out with three different dos, for example. If I were to (lie and) say that one of these was my high school yearbook photo, what would you learn about the me I used to be?
Ooh. That last stanza really does sting: everything you have is wrong. And don't dare try and do anything different, like an asymmetrical cut... WE know what's best.
Anonymous said, on 10/29/2008 6:52:00 AM
wWat a powerful poem!
But I do disagree about the hair connection. I have always had crappy hair, fine and scanty... and recently, it started to pain too and the scalp is showing.. took all tests, nothing is wrong with me (till this minute)... just one of those things that doctors say that i have to live with :).
However I style it, I end up looking bald, lol. And I don't think my hair has anything to do with my personality or the way I view or interact with the world :)
Anyways, I love your blog... and congrats, by the way, on the award :)
An odd interaction between President Zardari of Pakistan and Governor Sarah Palin brought a blush to many cheeks between cultures:
“I am honored to meet you,” Ms. Palin said.
“You are even more gorgeous than you are on the ...,” Mr. Zardari said.
“You are so nice,” Ms. Palin replied. “Thank you.”
“Now I know why the whole of America is crazy about you,” Mr. Zardari continued.
An aide tells the two to shake hands.
“I’m supposed to pose again,” Ms. Palin said.
“If he’s insisting,” Mr. Zardari said, “I might hug.”
And the title of this post has nothing to do with my opinion of Condi Rice's appearance vs. Sarah Palin's -- it's an attempt to poke fun at the ways South Asian cultures have traditionally viewed "fair" skinned folks as more attractive.
Actually something like this did happen to Ms. Rice. I had to go refresh my memory. Gaddafi said this a couple weeks ago. "I support my darling black African woman. I admire and am very proud of the way she leans back and gives orders to Arab leaders. She beckons to the Arab foreign ministers, and they come to her, either in groups or individually. Leezza, Leezza, Leezza, I love her very much," There are probably more things out there but this was all I could find quickly. I think it has a lot to do with them being women and powerful women at that. Here is where I cut and pasted the quote from http://www.newsbusters.org/blogs/brad-wilmouth/2008/09/07/msnbc-sees-condoleezza-gaddafi-pillow-talk-libya
Kids in North America learn fast how dangerous it is to do or say something to earn that judgment. Adults take racism seriously.
Consider the world's careful discussion about the Spanish basketball team's hand-to-eye maneuver. It's painful to watch journalists struggle to report the story with the "correct" expressions and words.
Thank goodness for those with the gift of enabling us to laugh at ourselves. Listen, for example, to Russell Peters' riff about the Indian accent (Warning: some potentially offensive content):
That's why we'll miss the likes of Bernie Mac, one of a host of honest storytellers unafraid to use humor to prod us along in the journey.
Okay, Mitali, you had a couple of us huddled around the monitor laughing at this. In fact, there's someone in this room on the other computer reading about the comic on the Internet even as I type this.
I love Russell Peters! And yes, the thing that makes him truly hilarious is that he makes fun of *everyone*. No one is exempt, and he keeps it good-natured.
And I completely agree: humor allows dialogue in a way that other approaches don't, especially around prickly issues.
One of my indulgences during time away from the Fire Escape is voracious reading. I finally had the chance to devour NEVER LET ME GO by British author Kazuo Ishiguro, a gripping novel about cloning that was honored by YALSA with an Alex Award (given to "adult books that will appeal to young adult readers.")
I've enjoyed a few of Ishiguro's other novels, relishing the author's mastery of understatement and his description of non-verbals. I've also marveled that as an Asian-born immigrant writer, Ishiguro has managed to escape being classified as such. Are Brit writers given more freedom than Americans to create protagonists of many ethnicities, I've wondered?
Ishiguro himself has said he doesn't write at all like Japanese novelists. In an interview with Allan Vorda and Kim Herzinger ("Stuck on the Margins: An Interview with Kazuo Ishiguro," FACE TO FACE: INTERVIEWS WITH CONTEMPORARY NOVELISTS), Ishiguro said, "if I wrote under a pseudonym and got somebody else to pose for my jacket photographs, I'm sure nobody would think of saying, 'This guy reminds me of that Japanese writer.'"
After reading NEVER LET ME GO, which like THE REMAINS OF THE DAY features no Japanese characters, I found myself wondering how much Ishiguro's first five years in Japan informed his writing.
A theme in both novels is the stultifying power of duty. As a public-school educated Brit, Ishiguro is definitely challenging the unquestioning obedience of the oppressed in British history. His grasp of how honor can blind us to injustice, however, also reminds me of how Japanese culture can be caricatured.
Here's my question: did a life between cultures enhance the ability to see how duty can dull our humanity, perhaps giving Ishiguro a double-edged advantage when it comes to writing this theme?
Read Margaret Atwood's review of NEVER LET ME GO in Slate.
I put my high-school Spanish to test this past week South of the Border. During a bunch of tourist activities (yes, that's me hurtling into a canyon), I re-discovered the power of looking like you know a language.
If a blonde or freckled American would attempt to communicate in Spanish, a guide would turn to me in bewilderment. I'd shrug and repeat the question, often word for word. Inevitably, the look of bewilderment on our host's face would disappear, and he'd rattle off an answer at full-speed.
Makes me wonder how preconceptions about appearance affect how I hear and understand voices. Do I tune in only when a person "looks" like they should be in the know? And do I ignore the words of those who don't?
I owe you an apology many years in the making I am sorry that you were always last in line That when my mother said you look so much alike I would scowl I am sorry that I loved Summer over you that her blond hair and green eyes made me smile like I never smiled at you I am sorry that when my grandmother made matching dresses I never gave you one that your thick dark hair never was braided never was brushed I am sorry I pronounced your name with a stiff and angry J Josephina I knew it was wrong but most of all I am so sorry that I hated my own skin and that you had to live in it
The Language of Smoke by Laura, Brazil/America, Age 17
She spends her twelfth birthday in the corner of a large, white room, farthest from where pork-scented smoke cloaks charring meat with wide, slow strokes. She will smell thoroughly of the day soon. Already she feels like meat, prodded and passed, reduced to lukewarm, malleable flesh. Unknown cousins have touched her neck with smooth, dry hands, kissed her cheeks, stood close to her next to the salads, offered her Guaraná in murky English: You want… some…Guaraná?
And she has managed to turn her head to the left and to the right and up and down and to let one side of her mouth crease into an oval dimple; she has managed to shuffle, her back bent forward as if weighed down by her head, to the food and then to this corner.
She is ugly today. Especially here. Her cheeks are flecked with pimples that fatten as they near her hairline and her hair kinks uncertainly around her face, as if its shape is the result of several bad grooming decisions instead of its genetic prowess. The men and women surrounding her have skin in shades of caramel and mocha and their hair looks like thickened silk; their clothing is white and light and it hangs on their bodies, their long-legged, long-necked bodies, as if on tinted manikins.
"Você quer mais arroz?" her aunt asks, face fading from laughter at someone’s joke. More rice?
"No, obrigado," she whispers, and her aunt turns away. Portuguese sounds hard and cold off of her tongue, like she is trying to craft silk out of wound bits of plastic. She is ashamed to speak it in Brazil, to add her whittled efforts to the warm, pretty sea of it.
Her sister joins her, sits next to her on a plastic bench. "Did you try this?" She indicates something on her plate.
"No, I didn’t."
"It’s pretty awesome."
"It probably is."
How dead their American words are, dry as cut trees, charismatic as dust, blocky and pithy and stunted, each one stagnating in its place, all while the party is markedly Brazilian, all while everyone is swaying and clearing the tables to her cousin’s guitar, all while everyone looks lush and damp, all while everyone is speaking together, at once, part of the same musical note.
The party will last until after midnight. Her uncles and grandmother, her vovó, will get tipsy and will unabashedly dance with each other to clear, smooth bossa nova from the stereo they’ve set up, will sip champagne to her birth and have tears in their eyes, probably, from the drinks or because they love her. And she will sit and look down and smile politely, say thank you, feel shelved. Suddenly she wants so much to adhere to the perfume of the day and its voices, to get up and dance and feel warm, to be smoothed of her apprehension, to kiss her cousins’ cheeks with undaunted lips.
She closes her eyes.
When she opens them her vovó’s hand is hot on her back and her lips are on her forehead. "Meu amor," she says, smiling, holding her hand now. "Meu amor."
Heavy snoring at night after a long day's work, you soldier on through the quagmires of life. Cries of children all day, teenage tantrums at night, you swim your deep dark oceans, force painful new strokes into the water, no man to appreciate your agony, burden of your beauty.
Arthritic legs from weeks of caring for strange babies, yet you run through sword sharp fields of elephant grass, unharmed. Dirty-diapered mornings, dirty-dished nights, yet you carry our family on your embracing wings, flying through green-back storms, no man to understand your struggle, a selfless burden.
Puffy, red eyes after years of working every day of the week, yet you guide my hands to the lighted door in life's dark caves. steps missed at sunrise; sunset meals unprepared, yet you gallantly dance through burning forests, avoiding the rain walking in the fire, no man to respect your virtue, a mother's burden, your life.
Existing as a blend of two different heritages does not necessarily imply that you are a harmonious blend. Some people coo that you are "so lucky to be able to experience two cultures," to live the American lifestyle at school and go home to the smell of Bengali home-cooking. Others, however, notice the oddly shaped edges of your piece of the puzzle. You don't quite fit in anywhere. You notice it on a daily basis.
Your mother asks if you would like pancakes or porathas for breakfast – in Bengali. You reply in clear English, "Neither, I want cereal." Your mom clucks her tongue, a subtle reminder that makes you freshly aware of how fortunate you are to live in a land of wealth and opportunity, an infamous land called America. In Bangladesh, nearly every breakfast would consist of porathas, fried squares of dough used to hug vegetables so you can enjoy two food groups in one sitting. The only variety breakfast allots is meat or sughee instead of the redundant dose of vegetables.
You shuttle to and from school by bus each day because your parents are steadfast on taking full advantage of the free education transportation system. However much of a hybrid being you feel like, the clothes you wear to school are uniquely American. A cotton tee, as breezy and light as the selwar kameze your mom urges you to wear to weekend dinner parties, clings to your ethnic love handles. You sport jeans that you have found to be so comfy you've suggested them to your father on more than one occasion. Why he continues to wear a flimsy, plaid, wrap-around lunghi on his waist with such accessibility to good Levi's is beyond you. Unlike your father, mother, and friends at school, you do not dangle by the rules of one book, know loyalty to just one set of customs. Today you chose to have cereal; tomorrow it may be porathas.
After school an American friend with honey-colored hair asks if you want to hit up a movie this weekend, something new at the box office, or just hang out at her house. Without thinking, you politely decline the invitation, regardless of how appealing it sounds. You know your parents have already made plans for you, as they have virtually every weekend of your life. There are always Bengali parties on weekends. Birthday bashes, house warmings, baby showers, and casual gatherings for cups of chai when simply no other occasion presents itself. To each of these parties you are expected to wear a selwar kameze, a billowy, knee-length top with matching pants of equal fluidity. The outfit hides your curves under a mass of sequined fabric so you can stuff yourself with laddoos and payesh without revealing the fact outwardly.
Sometimes the weekend get-togethers spill over into Monday night as well. On rare occasions like this weekend, however, you are grateful to discover that there is only one party to attend. This gives you the chance to call your friend back and RSVP with good news!
Even carefree hang-outs with friends are not entirely blithe. You are always on tiptoe, conscious that your habits do not coincide with those of your American buddies. On your honey-haired friend's doorstep, you inquire into whether you should take off your shoes before stepping inside the house. At a Bengali household, this is not debatable. You would slip off your Bata sandals immediately. Your friend says her mother doesn't care if you take off your shoes.
You manage a smile as you stroke the massive dog that bounds toward you, licking your calves and jumping psychotically. You have never known the presence of other creatures in your house. Even without allergies, your parents would never allow pets. Your mother would be utterly perturbed knowing that you are eating dinner tonight without first disinfecting your hands. You have a great time with your friends, watching TV at a record high volume and spilling popcorn in the couch crevices. You go home without the familiarly heavy belly laden with rich desserts.
Every day your actions remind you that you are isolated in viewpoint. While you do some things that are Bengali and some that are American, you are not strictly defined by either culture. This idea nestles in the back of your mind but is constantly provoked – from the early morning decision between pancakes and porathas to your persistent suggestion of denim pants to your father. Some say you cannot be identified, that you have taken to falling between the cracks just like the popcorn in the sofa. But really you are more identifiable than not. You are two identities wrapped in a warm, crisp poratha and served with a side of vegetables.Add a Comment
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Jennifer R. Hubbard said, on 10/21/2011 5:59:00 PM
I love this essay. Congratulations to the author. A delightful read.
Keep writing. I like your style