Leave the Chinese Out of Chinese New Year
Happy New Year!
Yes, I’m wishing you a happy New Year way past January 1st. This is the time of the year where millions of people are celebrating the Year of the Horse. Families have cleaned and decorated their homes from top to bottom, altars have been constructed, special New Year’s meals have been cooked and consumed. Everybody is doing whatever they can to ward away evil spirits. Traditions run deep during these celebrations. But there is one tradition I want you to break…please take “Chinese” out of Chinese New Year.
Just because over a billion Chinese citizens celebrate the Lunar New Year doesn’t make it exclusively their own. That’s right, it’s not Chinese New Year, it’s the Lunar New Year. On the same day, Vietnamese people celebrate Tet and Koreans celebrate Seo naal.
So what’s the big deal you might ask? Who cares if it’s called Chinese New Year? Well, I do.
By calling it Chinese New Year, it once again reinforces the ideology that Asians fall into two categories: Chinese or something else. Inherent in this ideology is that being Chinese is superior and not being Chinese…well, just sucks.
All my life, the first question people ask me concerning my ethnicity is, “Are you Chinese?” No offense to my Chinese friends and associates, but the question provokes an intense reaction. So when well-intentioned people wish me a Happy Chinese New Year, I have to control the urge to not throw a full-on-yelling-pull-my-hair-thrashing-on-the-floor tantrum. Yes China has the lion’s share of Asians in the world, but that doesn’t mean they get dibs on making the Lunar New Year exclusively theirs. They can have Chinese lanterns, Chinese horoscopes and even Chinese buffets…but I say hands off the New Year.
Also, since when does a New Year have to be ethnically descriptive? When was the last time you heard someone wish another person Happy Caucasian or African-American New Year? When Jews celebrate the New Year, you’ll never hear them say, Happy Jew Year. People simply wish each other a Happy New Year and so the same courtesy should be extended to those who celebrate the Lunar New Year. Trust me, even Chinese people while wishing each other Happy New Year leave out the “Chinese” part. It’s time the rest of the world should too.
I know that change can come. I am impressed that nowadays more and more people are accepting and acknowledging different cultures and traditions. For example, more people know about Vietnamese pho and banh mi then I ever thought possible. Not long ago, Sirracha hot sauce was a condiment only found in Asian restaurants and households, but now I find the iconic bottle in Target and grocery stores. Perspective and attitudes can change. So when the Lunar New Year comes around again, don’t wish people a Happy Chinese New Year, even if they are Chinese. Just wish everyone a Happy New Year like you would do on January 1st. Non-Chinese folks like myself will not only appreciate the sentiment…we’ll also appreciate the inclusion.
February 4, 2014 Leave a comment
South Florida Asian – A Rare Breed
If you prefer to listen than read, please enjoy the audio version of my story, South Florida Asian.
November 13, 2013 2 Comments
The Night of the Gun
Initially, David Carr’s The Night of the Gun wasn’t a book I thought I would be interested in reading. First, the title is very Soprano-ish, second, it’s another addiction memoir and third, it’s expansive (almost 400 pages). As I started to read, I discovered that, yes the book was about his epic battle with cocaine and crack, but what I found more interesting was his attention to the fragility of memory. How our memories, even the ones we believe as solid and unbreakable, can be nothing more than our attempts to hide our personal demons propagated with our desires to be someone else, someone better. Such was the case on the night of the gun. Carr steadfastly believed that on this night of binge drinking and cocaine indulging, his friend pointed a gun at him to make him vacate his friend’s apartment. But when Carr dug deeper, it turned out his friend wasn’t the one with the gun, but Carr who wielded the .38 Special. That false memory was the tipping point for Carr’s book. As Carr stated, But if I was wrong about the gun, what else was I wrong about?
Thus began Carr’s journey, well actually more like in-depth reporting, on as what he dubbed as the darkest story of his life. As impressive as his writing was, it was not as impressive as his exhaustive reporting, documenting, video recording and transcribing of all his interviews. In the end, he recorded 19.3 gigabytes worth of material. Astonishing. All of this because he couldn’t trust his memory. He wanted to get the real story, not just his version of what he believed happened. He even hired an investigator to follow up behind him, just in case he missed any key facts. For him, Memoir is a very personal form of creation myth, and perhaps less and less truthful.
That’s what made this book brilliant. Instead of just writing about his struggle and the eventual overcoming of his addiction, Carr allowed the reader to step into his mind, to get his perspective and then flipped that perspective around, giving the reader the real truth, the really oh shit moment that truly happened. By doing this, the reader can’t help but trust that Carr is giving them the rawest, most truthful account he can provide. A couple of years ago, I read Augusten Burrough’s Dry and I thought it was a good book, although a tad bit sensationalized, about his own struggle with addiction. After reading Carr’s book, I now wonder about the validity of Burrough’s recollection. Burroughs didn’t do as nearly as much reporting as Carr did. Honestly, it’s not just Burrough’s memory that has left me in doubt, but my own as well. Carr’s book makes me question the accuracy of my memory and if what I’m writing about is really the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The only way to tell, as Carr proved, is to dig deeper, to ask those uncomfortable questions and to listen to what actually transpired.
After reading this book, I’m left with the impression, that when writing a memoir, it’s important to choose the right story but more importantly, if not more, it’s getting that story right.
December 23, 2009 2 Comments
You’ve fallen and I can’t stop laughing
I have an admission.
It’s not something I am proud of but, as the old adage goes, the first step in solving a problem is to admit you have one.
So here it is. I laugh when people fall.
I don’t mean a slight snicker but a jackknifing so hard, I get whiplash. Someone could trip from a bump in the sidewalk and I will laugh so violently, my convulsions could be mistaken as seizures. I don’t know why I find falling, tripping, sliding, face planting and bum crashing down right hilarious. Actually, I don’t limit my outbreaks to the lower extremities, anyone stubbing their fingers, bumping their funny bones, going face forward into a glass door all get the same reaction: me holding my sides, tears streaming down my face, yukking so loudly, people stop what they’re doing and stare. And if you think I only laugh at people, think again, animals are definitely fair game.
Now before you think I am this heartless, insensitive creature, I do want to clarify. I do have the ability to discern the difference between fainting, collapsing or tumbling due to medical emergencies and I do act appropriately. However, all bets are off if the person revives and manages to walk away, albeit limping. Then, and only then, in my opinion, is it OK to laugh.
Once, when I was at dinner in a quasi-formal restaurant with a bunch of friends, we got on the subject of tattoos. There were some debate about who had one, who wanted one and who wouldn’t be caught in hell with one. The conversation steered towards the pain and the needles involved. One of my friends, a State Trooper, mentioned casually he doesn’t like needles or anything blood related, in fact, the mere mentioning of either topic causes him to feel queasy. With three to four years of Trooper experience, he’s a tall guy, at least 6’3, probably around 200 pounds, teetering on the slippery edge of being thirty, not overly muscular, but no couch potato either. Sitting at the end of the table, he pleaded softly for us to change the topic. Not taking him seriously, I carried on how the needles really didn’t hurt, how it felt like someone pressing the bristles of a hairbrush against my skin and that’s when it happened. My friend’s eyes rolled back into his head like stuck numbers on a slot machine. Before we could grab him, he fell face forward, intimately going to first base with the shag carpet. His face dug deep in the carpet while his body teepeed up with his rear end flashing us. Imagine a giant upside down V. Of course, we all jumped up and ran to his side, flipped him over and began slapping his face. His eyelids fluttered like the quick beats of a moth’s wings. As he came to, he muttered incoherently, “What happened? Where am I?” “On the floor,” I said, “You passed out”. With the help of some cold water, he regained consciousness. We quickly paid the bill, pulled the car around and carried him out. Afterwards, he had a huge strawberry that skunk tailed down the front of his face. He told his co-workers he got smacked with a branch while working in the yard.
The whole time I was in stitches. First, the image of him – a State Trooper, face smooching carpet, ass up in the air – was hysterical. Second, him lying supine in the middle of the restaurant, diners huddled over, managers frantically wanting to call 911 was something out of a comedy. Third, because of his size, everything was exaggerated – the dramatic fall, the awkward positioning, the hunched over rescue. Afterwards, each time I saw him, I would imitate a redwood tree falling. Knee slapping, eyes watering, I would guffaw like a barking seal when I was done. He didn’t find it very amusing, nor did my other friends. You are evil, they told me.
When I went back home to Vietnam, my reserved cousins were absolutely shocked at my brazen laughter. When one almost tumbled into the creek, I was doubled over in hysterics. When she straightened herself out, she looked at me and said, “How can you life at the misery of others?” Hmmm, easily I thought.
But I’ve gotten better. I have controlled my fits of laughter so that I don’t bust a gut immediately. For instance, a couple of months ago, I was washing my hands in the bathroom, when a man, using the urinal, lost his pants. I don’t mean lost as in he couldn’t locate them, but lost as in the middle of relieving himself, his pants plunged to the floor. I couldn’t see the reaction on his face nor could he see mine since he was facing the wall. For that, I was grateful because I was desperately trying to suppress my reaction. Another man came in, stopped and did a double take when he saw the underwear-clad man. He saw me and tilted his head towards the semi-naked man, I shrugged, feigning ignorance. I left as the man bent down to lift his pants back up. I barely contained my laughter as I walked out.
I think Miss Manners would probably advise us to ignore these situations and pretend they didn’t happen, but that’s easier said then done. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exclude myself when I fall or trip. If I take a tumble, I’m the first one hunched over laughing afterwards. It’s funny. It’s the reason why videos of people nose diving or ass cracking are the most watched videos on the Internet. C’mon admit it, you chucked a little, if not a lot, when you imagined my friend with his face buried in the carpet and ass to the ceiling. It’s ok if you did, he’ll never know and trust me, I won’t tell. We’ll just make it our little secret.
December 15, 2009 Leave a comment
The Gangster We are All Looking For
Le thi diem thuy’s (according to her, she likes her name in lower case) The Gangster We Are All Looking For is not so much a biography but a collection of vivid poems beaded together to form a succulent narrative. Although the book is a work of fiction, she borrows events from her real life (her assimilation to American life and the deaths of her brother and sister) to weave a powerful and moving tale of overcoming adversity and sorrow.
le’s background as a playwright is evident in this novel as she crafts tremendous scenes portraying the hardships her family endured. Using simple but eloquent sentences, the majority of her paragraphs are no more than five or six sentences long. Like clipping along a fast current, this style enhances the back and forth time and location shifts as she writes about her life in Vietnam as well as her life in America. She prefers to paint the scenes with dramatic imagery rather than deliver a straightforward approach,
He would gaze beyond a person’s shoulder as though watching storm clouds gather on the horizon. Neither holding the clouds back nor inviting them on, his eyes merely took in their approach. More than once I have seen people talking with him turn around to see what was behind them.
As a Vietnamese writer, I understand and relish what some may describe as an over-dramatic style of writing. The Vietnamese language is inherently flowery so when writes this Vietnamese English, I appreciate its complexity as well as its simplicity. For example, she doesn’t just write about war, she allows the reader to partake, to suffer and more importantly, to imagine what war was like for her as well as her family.
Ma says war is a bird with a broken wing flying over the countryside, trailing blood and burying crops in sorrow. If something grows in spite of this, it is both a curse and a miracle. When I was born, she cried to know that it was war I was breathing in, and she could never shake it out of me.
A good writer knows when you can show more then tell: show. And does this wonderfully.
Even though the theme of the book is centered around tragedy, the book doesn’t bog you down in pity or deep reflection. Structurally, it reads more like a fairy tale and an adventure novel. By telling the story in brief, fragmented spurts, it keeps the reader’s attention and builds tension along the way. As each scene unfolds, I found myself quickly turning the pages. Her words, like morsels of good food, made me want to consume more.
November 17, 2009 1 Comment
HELP, another four letter word
The other day, my friend Todd and I decided to go out for a bite to eat. We’re pretty open-minded when it comes to food, although he stops short of eating the steamed tripe I usually order when we have Dim Sum. He says it’s tasteless but I think he can’t get over the fact that tripe is the intestinal lining of a cow or pig. Before you wince or ewww yourself to death, you should try it, if you haven’t already. Too many people immediately pass over a dish because of its appearance or texture. For me, I like the flavor as well as the rubbery consistency of tripe, sort of like chewing on steamed ginger-flavored jelly strips. I have succeeded in getting him to taste it but have yet to get him to take a second bite. I don’t even attempt to order chicken feet€
This time, we chose a Chinese restaurant down the street from my condo. The place has been there awhile. It’s not the best Chinese food I’ve ever had but it’s edible and close by. The restaurant, located in an old run-down strip mall, is typical of many Chinese restaurants – a Chinese calendar hangs behind the cashier, lucky bamboo plants in glass cylindrical vases sprout up like persistent weeds around the restaurants, paintings of tigers, dragons or phoenixes on canvas material resembling straw placemats decorate the walls. It’s a no fuss, no thrills restaurant with a mixture of booths and card tables hidden underneath red tablecloths. We were seated at a table, our chairs, with padded cushions, were similar to ones found in convention halls. We ordered our food: ginger garlic chicken for me, chicken and broccoli for him. I opted for brown rice, my attempt to be health conscious.
About fifteen minutes after our dinner arrived, an older, heavy-set man suddenly collapsed to the floor. I don’t know if he was sitting near the front or if he was on his way out, but he buckled over like a sack of potatoes. The man was passed out, beached on the tile floor, not moving. His dinner friend was leaning over him, trying to resuscitate him. Luckily, there were some police officers in the restaurant and they called for Rescue. Todd, with his back turned, missed the drama.
In a city filled with older retirees, it is not uncommon for people to collapse, whether it be at the grocery store, the mall or at a restaurant. So it wasn’t the man’s blackout that shocked me, but the people’s reaction, or lack thereof, sitting around him. When he fell, I immediately pushed my chair back and was about to rush over but before I could, the police officers were already there. When they stayed with him, I pushed my chair back in. What amazed me was that the people, literally inches away from him, watched him fall and did nothing. I’m sorry, I stand corrected. They did do something: continued eating. The man was sprawled out on the floor with his friend huddling over him and they continued cutting up their General Tso’s Chicken, slurping up their Wonton Soup and dipping their eggrolls into orange duck sauce. One guest glanced down on the fallen man looking annoyed almost as if he was expecting him to apologize for interrupting the guest’s conversation. Nobody made an effort to help the man or his friend. They all sat and ignored him like a child misbehaving in public.
To make matters worse, the restaurant employees, deciding they would not be upstaged, demonstrated a whole new level of indifference. The front house staff including the receptionist, the cashier and the manager, circled the man and just stared. No one asked his friend if he needed help or offered a cool wet cloth or even water. I could see each staring down at him and then to one another. It was as if they were thinking how they could move him so he wouldn’t block patrons entering and leaving the restaurant.
The wait staff was even more callous. Each time a waiter came out with a tray of food, they looked disgusted when they realized they had to walk the long way around to deliver the food. One waiter, deeming the food an emergency, stepped over the helpless man to a nearby table. He didn’t skip a beat, after all, there was Chinese food to be had.
The man finally recovered and managed to sit in a chair salvaged by his friend. Fire Rescue came and placed him on a gurney and wheeled him out. The relief on people’s faces didn’t seem like they were concerned but more for the fact they could continue their dinner in peace.
I sat there and wondered if this is what we have become? Have we, as society, been reduced to becoming cold, insensitive, turn-a-blind-eye kind of people? We, myself included, see homeless people on the street and we stepped over them or cross the street to avoid them. We roll up our windows in an effort to shield ourselves from panhandlers at a stoplight. People witness accidents, robberies and beatings and don’t report anything. We see someone fall to the ground and we continue to eat our Moo Shoo Pork. Hell, we can’t even say thank you when someone opens the door for us. I know when it comes to natural disasters, people are more then willing to offer help. I’ve witnessed the generosity and outpour of help. But why can’t we do the same for smaller scale catastrophes? What if that was you who had fallen down or your mother or your father? After all, in the big scheme of things, how much time and effort does it take to offer a hand, a seat or a smile? And if you are at a Chinese restaurant and someone falls, help them. Trust me, Chinese food tastes even better a little cold.
October 8, 2009 Leave a comment