ASIAN VOICES ============ VOLUME VI: 1993 **DREAMS** All people dream... but not equally. They who dream by night in the dusty recess of their minds wake in the day to find that it is vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous, for they act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. - Thomas Edward Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) **THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION** at New York University THE ELECTRONIC EDITION ====================== Thanks for picking up the electronic edition of ~Asian Voices~. ~Asian Voices~ is the annual literary and artistic journal of the Asian Cultural Union at New York University. All submissions to ~Asian Voices~ are from New York University students. The original hard copy version of this publication was printed in Spring 1993. This file is composed in the "setext" format, so if you have an appropriate reader, such as M. Akif Eyler's ~Easy View~, you can take advantage of the embedded formatting to browse the issue. Users of plain ASCII text editors should have no problem reading this file as well, although you'll have to do more maneuvering to get through all of it. For best results, use a monospaced font that allows at least an 80 column display. We welcome your comments. Please email at the following addresses: Asian Voices Editor 1993-94: Meng Lin Asian Cultural Union President: Liliana Chen Electonic Edition Formatter: Francis Chin If you would like to write via U.S. mail, please address inquiries and correspondence to: **Asian Voices** **The Asian Cultural Union at New York University** **566 LaGuardia Place, Room 814** **New York, N.Y. 10012** **Telephone: (212) 998-4942** This electronic edition is Copyright (c) 1993 The Asian Cultural Union at New York University Permission granted for non-commercial distribution as long as this notice remains with any copied text and you do not charge for the copies. All other rights reserved. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ---------------- The editors-in-chief would like to extend their appreciation and thanks to the individuals who made this year's journal a success: to all our contributors for their ideas and patience; the ~Asian Voices~ staff -- Arthur, Benny, Bryan, Dennis, Johanna, Karen, Kellie, Meng, Michele, and Wanda -- for their diligent efforts; Francis Chin and Josephina Lee for their advice and assistance; Naft International and ~Outstanding~ ~Investor~ ~Digest~ for use of their facilities; Philip Chin and the ~Washington Square News~ for use of their scanners; Anton Chan at Linco Printing, Inc.; Joseph Park for his perspectives; the ACU executive committee -- Liliana, Dana, Fred, Joe, Arthur, and Francis -- for their support. To my grandmother Mary (Kao Sue) Tang: you will be missed very much. -- Ron **Cover design by Larry Lee** ~Asian Voices~ is a publication of the Asian Cultural Union at New York University, an organization dedicated to serving the social, cultural, and educational needs of all students. The opinions expressed in this journal reflect each author's own views and are not necessarily representative of the ~Asian Voices~ staff nor the Asian Cultural Union. STAFF ----- **ASIAN VOICES** Editors-in-Chief William Chong Ronald E. Mui Senior Editors Dennis Chun Michele Mitsumori Staff Editors Kellie Tinh Du Meng Lin Wanda Lin Editorial Assistants Arthur Huang Benny Lau Johanna Lee Bryan Quan Karen Talaid Advisor Francis Chin ~Contributors:~ Maria Chang, June Chiamprasert, Linne Ha, Cindy Hong, Alex Hsu, Nadda Kanchanagorn, Kenneth H. Kim, Marc Landas, Margaret Lam Marc Landas, Margaret Lam, Katie Lin, Gail Montemayor, Saloni Movani Susan P. Mui, Greg Osborn, Julie Pun, Ivy Sta. Iglesia, Vineel Shah Ricky Weng, Wendy Wo, Raymond Wu, M. Connie Yeung Artist Emeritus Larry Lee **THE ASIAN CULTURAL UNION AT NEW YORK UNIVERSITY** President Liliana Chen Vice President Dana Chau Treasurer Frederick Lee Secretary Joseph Park Operations Officer Arthur Liao Sports Coordinator Francis Hata EDITORIALS ========== Ronald Mui talks about the history of Asian Voices after 5 years. William Chong lets us see a few of his dreams. EDITOR'S NOTES - I ------------------ Ronald Mui In the past, ~Asian Voices~ has dealt with topics that concerned the Asian community, ranging from a family's migration to America and its unforeseen conflicts, interracial relationships, loss of culture, to problems such as suicide, alcoholism and racism. Since its creation, Asian Voices has seen an increasing number of new topics and views. During the time that I have been with ~Asian Voices~, I have seen a transition from works addressing the concerns of the individual to works encompassing societal issues. In the midst of the pro-democracy movement in China, that year's issue was dedicated to the Tiananmen Square Massacre. The theme ~Asian Voices~ thought most closely symbolized the massacre was fire -- a symbol of destruction and conflict that leads to an unknown end. In that issue, fire represented the images of an imprisoned and restless nation awaiting to be set free and given equality. It may be the start of a new beginning or a continuation of what existed before. For China, the fire subsided but left an unknown end to a suppressed nation. In another issue, water was chosen to represent the image of transition: the inevitable change of climate resulting from conflict to the ultimate resolution through peace and understanding until it reoccurs again. As fire is associated with rage, water too can be associated with this same rage. But water has a calm side to it. It can be serene and tranquil until it becomes agitated following its cyclical path. Our 1991 edition saw a transition from the elements to a need for growth, learning and understanding. It was during this time that an awareness for our environment grew. As notions of saving the world were ever increasing, spillage of oil into our oceans continued, and dumping of toxic wastes into our rivers and streams became a reality. In the midst of all the concerns for the environment, Asian Voices set out and dedicated 1991 to the environment. It was a chance for all to try to learn and comprehend what we were doing wrong to the world and how we could possibly assist in righting these wrongs. From what we know today, we must be vigilant and careful, for our actions directly affect the environment. Continuing the learning and growing process, last year's issue was devoted to none other than Home. In the home -- which some unfortunately do not have -- warmth, love, security and guidance are guaranteed to us. It is a haven where we can always return to for comfort and love. Inside the home we are taught to care and respect one another. We are nurtured by our parents and family, obtaining a set of morals and beliefs which are our guiding tools for life. We will refer to this when making decisions and for direction. It is the foundation which we take with us to school, work and beyond. Once learning from this foundation can we then hopefully go out into the world and learn to respect one another and live in peace. As we open this next chapter of Asian Voices, we do so with Dreams. Though dreams can be of fantasies, desires and hopes that are deep rooted within each of us, they too are a means of growth and learning. Dreams can also suggest aspirations and goals. From them, we can set objectives for ourselves by which to live and grow. As we were taught from home how to cope with the outside world, our dreams will further allow us to grow as individuals. Perhaps when combined with our familial guidelines we can use this as a stepping stone to better ourselves and possibly society as well. Suppose there are dreams of destruction? How are we able to mature and grow from dreams such as these? This year's issue holds many articles depicting the darker sides of dreams. Though they are very far from being destructive, the images of dreams displayed here are of misguided opportunities as shown in An Ode to the American Dream," despair as depicted in "The Shattered Dream," and madness as presented in "Minutes." We obviously cannot mature from these dreams but we can learn from them what needs to be changed in society. We are not immune to these problems, but what we can do to change them is what is important. In this issue I hope to get people to start thinking of dreams as a means of learning and growth. Understanding oneself will allow us to understand others. We can always dream and educate ourselves. But what I hope to see with all the dreaming and education that we are fortunate to have gained, is that one day we will return to society what is desperately needed -- our efforts to understand, care and assist so that the peace that we have so long missed could return. So read it and dream for success! Ronald E. Mui Editor-in-Chief EDITOR'S NOTES - II ------------------- William Chong ~D R E A M S A R E . . .~ . . . a succession of images, thoughts, and emotions. They are aspirations, idle fancies, visions, and objects of unreal beauty. . . . the realm of Morpheus; blinding colors and odd shapes; Jim Henson's muppets; An American Tail. Dreams are a lazy Sunday afternoon with Calvin and Hobbes; the cosmic sounds of the B-52's; a day in the park with Booster, my four year-old labrador retriever; the '86 Mets. . . . about freedom and justice. It is a man with the dream and the courage to protest a state that has oppressed his people for centuries. It is the many who have challenged totalitarian regimes, sacrificed safety and security, endured persecution for the dream. Dreams are all some people have to believe in; some are worth dying for. . . . visions of the future. They are the hopes of our youths: power, equality; wealth, generosity; conquest, peace. Their dreams will destroy. Their dreams will save. Dreams are about protecting the environment, being socially conscious, and defending personal freedoms. They are caring for your brothers and sisters, helping those less fortunate, and giving back to the community. Dreams are powerful. . . . nightmares -- a result of a disturbance in the delicate nature of our conscious being . . . or bad tuna salad. . . . of God. Genesis 28:10-13. Jacob left Beersheba and started towards Haran. At sunset he came to a holy place and camped there. He laid down to sleep, resting his head on a stone. He dreamed that he saw a stairway reaching from earth up to heaven, with angels going up and down on it. And there was the Lord standing beside him. . . . of man. Select Eastern philosophies say that our existence, our universe, is a dream -- God's great dream. And that when we complete our mortal journey on Earth, He enters into our universe to wake us out of the dream. But when we wake, we discover that it is really we who have been dreaming the great dream all along. . . . a newborn in the comforts of its mother. . . . listening to Grandma's wonderful stories. She tucks me in -- a boy of six -- and asks me if I'm ready; I eagerly reply 'yes!' I wait silently as she ponders. Then she takes my hand and, holding tight, we begin our voyage to another age, another world. I follow her, my guide, throughout assorted tales and yarns. I giggle with joy; or I tremble beneath the covers; but I always plead for more. . . . thoughts of an old love and the desire to embrace once again. I remember watching her as she rested in my arms, sleeping like an angel. Was it her glimmering eyes or her affectionate smile that captured my heart? No -- I looked beyond the tangibles and into her soul, and there I saw a spectacle that was more radiant, more passionate than even the Northern Lights. I brushed her hair aside and her button nose twinkled. I held her vigilantly and closed my eyes and prayed that the moment, that the darkness of winter's night, would never end. I continue dreaming. . . . the hopes of the Asian Voices' staff to produce the best edition yet. Reality check...this is a damn fine issue. William Chong Editor-in-Chief DREAMS ====== Stories and prose based on the theme "Dreams". Gail Montemayor, **A Perpetuating Nightmare** Kenneth H. Kim, **An Ode to the American Dream** Vineel Shah, **Uniform Shade** Kellie Thinh Du, **Romance** June Chiamprasert, **Minutes** Saloni Movani, **The Shattered Dream** Margaret Lam, **A Farewell to Dreams** A PERPETUATING NIGHTMARE ------------------------ Gail Montemayor My mother claims she's had another one of her prophetic visions just as I'm about to leave the house. "Don't worry, Mom. Nothing will happen," I assure her before slamming the screen door in annoyance. + + + + Vic finally gives in to our incessant whining and reaches over to turn on the radio. Eventually, the familiar tunes of depressing love songs throw us all into a state of nostalgic contemplation. Old loves, buried fantasies, and feelings of hopelessness for uncertain tomorrows resurface into our pools of thought. As I sink into the velvety backseat of Rob's shiny black Nissan Maxima, my hands cradle the half-empty bottle of Sex on the Beach like kitten's paws. The cozy warmth I feel inside can only have been created by this wonderful magic potion that rests snugly against my chest. Flanked by my closest friend on the right, I can feel the alcohol-induced heat generated by our pressed bodies. The soothing motion of the car rocks me gently into a deep sleep . . . I'm floating in a deep and endless darkness. A path of small,white tiles hovers before me like ghostly cobblestones. I look behind me: one by one the tiles drop into oblivion. I watch one fall, fluttering like a pallid leaf until swallowed by the void, and suddenly feel the tile I'm standing on begin to sink. I jump to the next tile, only to feel that one descend as well. I jump and jump and jump, but nothing is safe, nothing is stable. My eyes dart to the expanse below me, just in time to see the tiny whiteness of a tile extinguished like a birthday candle. The fear of losing my balance and meeting the same fate suffocates me, encloses me as completely as the darkness itself. I jump again, and again, until it seems I've always been jumping. And then it happens: I miss a tile. I fall, screaming. The nightmare vanishes as soon as I open my eyes. Tristan's head is flying out the window as he yells something incomprehensible at the driver behind us. Someone has interrupted the blissful, rhythmic motion of our car, and Tristan is in no way sober enough to rationally dismiss it. The driver nervously switches lanes, and shortly after disappears. Staring blankly ahead, I listen casually to fragments of random conversation: "And you forgave her? Does Matt know that you know?" In the front seat, Rob is talking to Vic about Vic's girlfriend, Julie, who had cheated on him last week with Matt. Julie is a childhood schoolmate. She's been sharing an apartment with Vic at a college upstate. Ever since I can remember, Julie and I have been competing with each other over everything from academics to physique. In the fifth grade, Julie accused me of cheating when I beat her fairly and won the spelling bee. Although she could never accept it, I was always better than her in spelling, as well as in math and science. We were vicious enemies then, but our cut-throat competition did have its advantages. When I delivered the valedictory speech in the eighth grade, Julie was right there on stage with me as salutatorian. For both Julie and me, grammar school was a breeze. But as far as high school went, Julie won in the end. At Truman's senior prom, she was the one who hooked up with Vic, the biggest crush of my high school career. Attending the exclusive St. Jude's Academy for Girls didn't help my social life at all. As I slowdanced at my senior prom with Tristan, all I could think about was Julie and Vic and how they were so made for each other that it made me envious. After a couple years at college, we came to throw down our arms. Being equally enthusiastic about separate majors helped us to calm the competition running through our relationship. As determined as I was to take up my life-long dream of acting, so was Julie equally determined to make it as a marketing major. Meanwhile, Vic graduated from Philips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire and diligently began pursuing law. Vic is definitely going places. I guess that's why I'm so attracted to him. "There is no red in poppy!" My best friend Marly screams piercingly into my ear. Obviously, Marly and Hanna are continuing their eternal argument about whether poppy is a miscalculated red or a richly deep orange. Both girls are art fanatics who dwell obsessively on the specifics of colors. A fashion prodigy, Hanna is constantly searching for the perfect shade, the perfect color. She spends hours scrutinizing innovative blends of every hue. Fashion design is her life. In the four years I've known her, I can't recall her ever making a fashion blunder. Only Hanna can put together an orange and green and make the clash breathtaking. Everyone says she has great potential. I remember when she designed the gown I had worn so proudly at the annual winter formal. She'd enjoyed making me look stunning as much as I'd enjoyed the glamour of attending a formal evening dinner party. I must have had over a hundred compliments that night. Hanna has so much promise. Marly is a fine arts major who eagerly describes various ranges of color to us when entralled by a painting or sculpture. She visits museums religiously, often allowing me to tag along with her to her sacred institutions. Sometimes she spends hours on end discussing every detail of just one of her favorite works. Picasso's Three Musicians is her favorite. She dreams of one day buying that very painting for a wealthy corporation--her ultimate career goal. Marly and I always talk about our futures, but sometimes Marly seems to exist on art alone. Tristan leans over, seeing my apparent state of oblivion. I turn my head to examine his lips as he repetitively mouths, "Are you all right?" Naive enough to focus all my attention on his lips, I soon realize his true intent is to distract me in order to steal the warm bottle of Sex from my hands. As he presses the mouth of the bottle to his smirking lips, I try to snatch it from him, initiating a flirtatious wrestling match. In a matter of minutes, we end up snuggling together, sharing the bottle romantically, leaving Marly and Hanna to sit side by side and argue. Poor Tristan. He's been interested in me ever since that night we made love in an alcohol-induced heat of passion. I would never have a relationship with him. He's too volatile. Intelligent as he is, he willingly decided to trash his dreams of becoming a doctor three years ago to be lead singer of a band, one whose members betrayed him five months ago by replacing him with "someone with real talent." Yet I can't help but admire his persistent determination to some day be famous. As I become more and more smashed, the mesh of conversations becomes audibly distant, like far-off echoes. As my face lies buried in the crook of Tristan's neck, I again fall deeply into sleep . . . Blackness. I'm hopping from one tile to the next, swinging my arms wildly to keep my balance, to push me forward. I jump with all the strength I have, but each time my feet land closer to the edge, each time I seem closer to not making it. The tiles are drifting farther apart, the distance between them expanding like a black stain. My heart bangs against my ribs. I jump and jump. The tile I land on sinks. I jump. The next tile falls even further. I look ahead. The entire line of tiles is steadily descending, as if someone had just turned off the power. I reach out to grab something. The tile beneath me gives way and slips out from under me. I'm falling, faster and faster, screaming for an end to this inescapable nightmare. + + + + I'm shaken. The hands try to be gentle, but the voice is cracked, irritation seeping through. "Wake up! You're only dreaming! You're alive. Nothing can happen to you now. You're safe." I think I'm opening my eyes, but blackness is all I see. There are none of the thousands of shades Marly had made spring to life before me, no poppy of either her deep orange of Hanna's miscalculated red. Not even the white perforation of tile. Just black. One night of reckless intoxication. I stretch my ears, searching for the voices I had so complacently let wander away from me, but find not a word to relieve my loneliness. Nowhere is the voice of Vic, who had learned the art of persuasion in one of his law-related classes and who was always able to convince or move me with the intelligence of his words. "Nothing below the torso. Blind as a bat, too, poor thing." Not even a clever, pointless line from Tristan, who always found some smart and witty thing to say to get my attention, waiting only for the moment when I'd finally give into his charm and go out with him. "Do you think I should give her a tranquilizer?" Although fully conscious and able to hear an actor enliven the flat words of a TV script, I know I will never be able to rise from my bed or look into a handsome actor's eyes with theatrical passion or be one of those famous voices. "No, she seems calm now." Nothing glamourous is in store for this once-promising paraplegic. But I guess I came out the lucky one. Rob, Vic, Marly, Hanna, Tristan. Their dreams are buried along with their broken bodies beneath cold and inescapable slabs of stone, whereas I can lie here in the darkness and dream forever. I feel a cool, rough hand clumsily push the hair away from my forehead, feel a wet and wrinkled cheek press against mine. Is it too late to comfort her? "Don't worry, Mom," I say. I wish I could see her. "Everything will be all right. Please don't worry. Nothing will happen." A screen door slams behind me. AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN DREAM ---------------------------- Kenneth H. Kim How mesmerizing and enchanting you seem to be... Your golden lights attract the desperate and proud from lands beyond; How seemingly limitless and beautiful you truly appear to be... Your blinding glare taints the innocent and blinds the foolish of their youth; But they kneel helplessly before you with lustful eyes and insatiable greed, As if you were their Second God, as beautiful as He... The falsehood and worthlessness they do not see, So They come in herds searching with dreamy eyes for that gilded road, Only to be disheartened by age and weariness with the passing of time. As these dreamers pay their unavoidable respect to the shadows of death, Though their pockets are content with the fruits of that American dream, They no longer see beautiful visions of that initial dream. How beautiful you seem to be... The disappointed and the prosperous are no longer dazzled by the Lights, For Time and Fate has given them Second Sight; At old age with newfound wisdom, they no longer dream of wealth, but of life. When it seems too late to be... If only They could see beyond what it seems... UNIFORM SHADE ------------- Vineel Shah One day, I bit into my pen and a rainbow spewed out. The vibrantly colored liquid light quickly flooded my room. It found my open window and poured out into lower Manhattan. It found true color in everything it washed over. Grass became brilliant green, leaves glowed in candy-apple reds and citrus-fruit oranges. Water in puddles turned blue, mica in sidewalks turned sparkling silver. All the people turned rainbow. I rode down the bridge of light from my window to the street. I grabbed a passerby by the shoulders. Her skin was white and black and yellow and brown and blue and green and red and orange and I said "This is you. Do you understand? This is you!" She looked into my face, crying. Her tears fell like refracting drops of oil rolling down a prism. "I'm lost." "Now you are true," I told her, shaking her a bit to make her understand. But the truth was too much for her little mind to bear. I let go and watched her walk away. Her tears slowly washed away the rainbow from her face, her skin returned to the color it had been before she met my dream. Where she walked, colors returned to their normal drabness. In a few hours, everything had faded into what it had been before. I tried to hang on to my colors, to the rainbow in me, but I couldn't resist the fading. Race left an ugly mark on me, leaving my soul in uniform shade. ROMANCE ------- Kellie Tinh Du Hand in hand walking slowly across the meadow We play hide-and-go-seek with one another's shadow Looking at the wondrous color of each butterfly Listening to the melodious song of the magpie Smelling the flowers strewn like confetti all around Drinking in the magic of this paradise we together found Face to face sitting in the train Traveling towards the future we see quite plain A happy home complete with white-picket fence And of course a poodle named Romance Never again contend with the outside world or all its madness We surround ourselves with only solitude and happiness Bells toll our cheer to all, Suddenly from my bed I fall! No wonder the bells were getting so loud, My alarm clock was trying to pull me down from the clouds. Back in my room and the phone won't stop ringing, Can't believe I was only dreaming! MINUTES ------- June Chiamprasert **"Paul, stop it! What are you doing?!"** **"Come on, Melissa, stop playing games."** **"STOP! What are you doing?! I said NO!"** **"You know you want to, so stop pretending."** **"Paul, I'm serious. If you don't stop, I'm going to scream."** **"Go ahead. Who's gonna do anything? This is New York City -- ** **people scream all the time."** **"How can you do this to me? I thought you liked me?"** **"That's exactly why I'm doing this...I like you a lot."** **"Paul, I'm only going to ask you this one more time. Stop it or else!"** **"Or else what?"** **"Or else...THIS!!"** There. I did it. I stabbed him in the throat with the steak knife I used for that "wonderful" dinner he promised me. Not just once, but over and over again. That should teach him. A girl always means no when she says no. I can't believe what a jerk he turned out to be. After two months of Philosophy class, you finally got me to come over to your place, you bastard. An awesome cook, my ass! And this place, it's so clean that you wouldn't even let me walk on your precious white carpet without taking my shoes off first. You're so anal, Paul. Well, now there are blood stains all over the carpet and walls. It's actually kind of pretty, like an abstract painting. It's a pity that your shirt got stained too, I like Perry Ellis. How do you feel? Was it good for you too, Paul? Perhaps you would like me to pull up your pants for you now? Or perhaps we can just snuggle together and smoke? What's the matter, Paul? You didn't have much trouble talking and moving around before. Are you trying to say something to me? Do you want me to call an ambulance or something? I don't think so. Wait -- he moved, I saw it. Oh God! He's still alive. Don't get up, Paul, or I'll kill you again! I'm not kidding. I've got to get away from here. What if someone comes or what if some nosy neighbor starts poking around? They'll blame me for his death. It's going to happen all over again; they won't understand. Gotta get my stuff and catch the . . . . . . train. There aren't many people on the subway tonight. Weeknights are usually...what's that noise?! Who's there?! Oh...oh Lord...I'm so tense; I can hear everything, from a rat scurrying away to that bum's breathing -- boy, he stinks. There's nothing like a ride on the subway. The roar drowning out reality, the rocking easing my body. How can anyone not like it? What a crazy world! There goes some jerk moving from car to car; and another one picking his nose. Why's that old lady staring at me? Is she scared of me? Just what is she staring at? My clothes, my hands, they're all bloody. What am I going to do? I'll...I'll just pretend I have a bloody nose or something. Get a tissue and -- the steak knife, I'm still holding the knife! I took it with me --Êwhat was I thinking?! What have I done?! I've got to get away, I've got to get . . . . . . home. Hmm...the shower felt really good. Funny how blood comes off so easily with a little soap and water. Hope it comes out of my new outfit, though. I'll see what's on the idiot box, then go to sleep. Ross Perot's in another one of his stupid infomercials. Another rich guy trying to pay back his debt to society...right. Hope Bill Clinton wins. "Basic Instinct" is on HBO tonight. I'll have to remember to catch it sometime. Wait! There's Paul on TV, what's going on . . . . "Thank you, Jack. The breaking story in tonight's newscast is the bizarre murder of Paul Brooks in his apartment here on East 10th Street. He died apparently from multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. Neighbors say they saw him with a young female earlier tonight. However, there are no suspects at...." I really killed him. Oh God! What did I do? But he deserved it, bastard that he was. But why did it have to be me? Why do these things have to happen to me? I can't think straight; so exhausted, so tired. I should rest, sleep. "...Anyone with information regarding the murder of this man please contact...." + + + + Melissa.... What? Who's there? Melissa.... Who's there?!! Why are you shouting Melissa? I can read your thoughts. There's no need for you to shout. Where are you? What do you want? I'm right here, Melissa. I'm part of you. I don't want anything. I know everything there is to know about you. Liar! Stop it! Why, don't you know me, Melissa? I've always been a part of you. It's just that you haven't been able to hear me before -- until now. Go into the bathroom and see. Fine! Now, where are.... Oh my God!! What are you? You're...you're...horrible. Dear God, please tell me this isn't happening. Look at me closely, Melissa. Tell me what you see. You...you seem so familiar. Your eyes are so bloody red, so cold, so hard -- like the marbles I used to play with. I can see my reflection in them. It feels as if I'm drowning in its darkness. I saw what you did tonight. You didn't think anyone would see, did you? Well, I saw it, Melissa. I see everything that you do. Stop looking at me like that! Get away from me! Why, Melissa. What an awful thing for you to say. After all the things we've been through. Shut up! Just shut up! This isn't really happening. It's just a dream. Any minute now I'll wake up. Just relax, Melissa, any minute now. So, how did it feel to kill a man, Melissa? Did it feel good? Right now, Paul's having a popsicle in the morgue. How did it feel to put your knife into his flesh? That steak was a lot tougher to cut than he was, wasn't it? You're not real. Why are you acting like I don't exist? That really hurts. I'm part of you. We're closer than any friends or lovers could ever be -- and I'll with be with you until the very end. So tell me, what did it feel like? He deserved to die. He didn't stop when I told him to. I did what I had to do. Guys like that shouldn't live. Oh...that's exactly what your father did, didn't he? He didn't stop when you told him no, either. How do you know about that?! Melissa, how foolish of you. I was there. Remember that morning when you were playing with your marbles near the top of the stairs? And you pretended to forget to put them away? Didn't your father always tell you to put away your marbles? Well, he sure was mad when he fell down the stairs, wasn't he? He didn't even want to talk to you...though, he couldn't say very much to you or anyone else anyway. That was an accident! Why can't anyone understand that? It was an accident! Sure it was. Oh God! It's coming back to me. I can see it all happening again. Daddy's at the bottom of the stairs, laying lifeless on a bed of marbles. Mommy's yelling at me, what did you do?! I'm sorry. Forgive me, Mommy. Forgive me, Daddy. I didn't mean to hurt you, but you hurt me. Damn you! Stop tormenting me! Go away, please, go away. I can't bear it any longer. I will not go through it again. I will not be tormented ever again. The steak knife.... Melissa, what are you doing? Do you realize what you are doing? Shut up! Leave me alone. Oh God.... + + + + "What happened here, Bob?" "I'm not sure, Sarge. Poor girl, looks like she stabbed herself all over. Did it with that steak knife. Look at her eyes! I've never seen such eyes before. Blood red. I wonder what could've possibly run through her mind for her to stab herself like that." "It's a sick and crazy world out here. Sometimes things like this don't even shock me anymore. Okay, bring in forensics and let's get Homicide on this one, just in case. And Bob, it's about noon -- Italian or Chinese?" THE SHATTERED DREAM ------------------- Saloni Movani Born in a land where struggle presides, when life is a burden and sorrow fills young eyes. This place where man and beast are but one, and none can distinguish, but the color of one's tongue. As poverty and crime pollute homes and streets, terrors of abuse and neglect cripple young feet. When hunger and disease destroy all forms of life, and a quest for food and shelter is a continuing strife. Where drugs and filth are found in school, as the forces of terror and fear prevail in rule. In a world where peace and harmony are unknown, and every young creature fights a war of his own. Even a mother's love no longer exists; yet the curse of money no man can resist. And if this child will survive in this game; Heaven is his savior as Misery his name. A FAREWELL TO DREAMS -------------------- Margaret Lam Those bare footprints upon the beach -- Perfect toes pointing forever forward; Pairs of feet burning their imprints Upon a field of silken sand. The waves pounded in from the ocean And lapped gently toward the shore. She danced nimbly in the icy waters As they twirled about her legs Only to swiftly retreat in playful taunt: A game of tag inviting the grown-up child. The tide crashed upon the rock-like sentinels And sprayed a fine mist of golden diamonds under the sun. She laughed and is once more a child -- Braid flying and teeth flashing a gamin smile, Sturdy legs tottering after seagulls Offering the hot dog cupped in her hands. Giant breakers hurtled from the depths And daintly approached in frothy lace. Five again in the heart of childhood -- Building fairy-tale castles from pails of wet sand -- Carefree and unhindered, Her imagination shapes drawbridges and towers. The ocean thunders across the beach And sweeps its mighty hand across her playground Yesteryear's footprints are smoothed away As the castles of youth crumble into sand. FEATURES ======== Marc Landas, **The Asian American** An Asian American's view of the Los Angeles riots. M. Connie Yeung, **Anti-Asian Sentiments in the 90's** Katie Lin, **Beneath the Surface** A student teacher tries to get though to her students. Greg Osborn, **Higher Education: Asian Stories** Tales of students from Hong Kong, the Phillipines and China. THE ASIAN AMERICAN ------------------ Marc Landas I'm sitting in the dark of my living room, tired from studying for my up-coming finals. I rest my aching back on the soft cushions of the sofa, searching for a comfort denied by the wooden seat I had been sitting on all day, and gaze blankly at the television set. Flashes of light shoot from the screen and dance chaotically on every object in the room. On the screen, a city is burning, building upon building set aflame by an angry and mistreated people. A white truck driver is pulled from his vehicle and beaten to a lump of flesh: the image lingers throughout the newscast. The commentators express a disgusted shock, seeming to have forgotten the centuries of similar beatings handed out by their ancestors. Although they say nothing verbally, I can tell that for once they know how it feels to be a "minority" in America: their glamourous faces shine with a nervous sweat, and their eyes which usually stare so confidently out of the screen now seem to be pleading with the viewer, searching for compassion. For once, they feel helpless. The tables are turned. Los Angeles is being destroyed and there is nothing anyone "in power" can do about it except flee to the churches and pray for it to be over. For an entire day, democracy and law lie beaten and bone-crushed like the white truck driver. Anarchy stands triumphant, a Black fist that frightens a nation to idiocy. Suddenly, a Korean man runs out of his store. He runs not in fear, but in anger. Yelling something I can't make out, he lifts his arms, in one hand the cold, black steel of a 9mm Gloc. Calmly, he lets off a couple of shots, his arm jerking back from the kick of every shot as empty shells spit from the side of the gun fall to the ground. Finish. I'm sitting in shock. The scene plays and replays in my head in an endless loop. The grocer running out, shooting. The grocer running out, shooting. I have to smile. Nowhere to be seen are the rank stereotypes I have always detested and which had even turned me against my own. For once, the wise Oriental man wearing a hat and slippers, the slanty-eyed gangster, the nerdy, astronomically I.Q.'ed Asian scientist are gone, and an Asian man stands pointing a gun at his tormentors. He stands a man, holding a gun and commanding respect. True, some of the respect is for the gun, but the true respect is for its user. In my mind, the spinelessly obedient Asian man has been banished forever, replaced by a powerful Asian man. A violent Asian man. I stare at the screen for another few minutes, hoping to see something -- anything -- of the Korean grocer. Nothing. The future has come to me like a bullet to its target. It is a future which looks shaky and uncertain, one with possibilities of harmony, but only after an inevitable period of violence. What I see of the future bothers me: I see the Asian American standing alone against non-Whites on one side and Whites on the other. One side glowers with animosity for the "condescending minority group", the other demanding the return of their "stolen" jobs. When this time comes, the obedient Asian need not show his face, for there will be no place for him and his "peaceful nature. " There will be no place for meekness, only action. Slowly, I rise from the sofa, stretching my arms to the ceiling, hoping for my back to loosen up. But the muscles are tense like the strings on a guitar. A miserable future and a miserable back. Lethargically, I drag myself to the bathroom. Time to sleep. Sleep will be the remedy of all my pains. I turn the faucet. Water gushes out violently, slamming itself into the white metal of the bathroom sink like a miniature cataract. Images. Feelings. The grocer running out. Calmly. Shooting. Throbbing. Damn, my head hurts. I cup my hands to catch the falling water before it can be lost down the dark swirl of the drain. I splash my face. No throbbing. The cool water offers a temporary solace from the incessant pounding of my mind. I reach for the towel and rub it into my face, catching my own bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Perhaps there is an alternative to the future I have seen. The future demands change, change on our part. The future demands a realization of who we really are as Asian Americans and where we stand in this society dominated by Whites. In America, all non-Whites are "minorities" before any nationality, non-White before being African, Hispanic, Native American, or Asian. What we are, is not White. Sadly, most Asians have forgotten this fact in their attempts to assimilate into the White man's society, an exclusive society we will never belong to and should not want to belong to. Blinded by the decent position alloted to him in the social strata, the Asian American has become a domesticated animal, the freedom, self-reliance, and dignity of his past lost in the mental stupor of the American Dream, thankful and ever so faithful to the White hand that feeds it, the White foot that kicks it, ever hoping to someday be like his gleaming master. We have adopted the mental shackles other oppressed groups have ripped off. Pathetically, the Asian American wears these manacles with a senseless pride that I simply cannot understand. WAKE UP! I fling the towel into some distant corner. It hits the wall and slides crumpled to the floor. The future is still one of violence before peace. History dictates this be so. It is inevitable. But we need not stand alone. Strength comes with numbers. The condescending attitudes must go. We must . . . The thought is interrupted by the steady throbbing of my brain. Sleep. I inch my way to my room, one hand cradling my tormented temple, the other comforting my aching back. I crawl beneath the blankets, the pain within my skull unaffected by the cool softness of my pillow. The future makes my head hurt. Asian Americans make my head hurt. AmeriKKKa makes me sick. I curl up like a dog and go to sleep. ANTI-ASIAN SENTIMENTS IN THE 90'S --------------------------------- M. Connie Yeung * "The Chinks are all right if they remain in their place. I don't mind them working in the laundry business, but they should not go any higher than that. After all, there aren't even enough jobs for us whites, without them butting in." (Takaki, p.240) * "Japs Keep Moving -- This Is a White Man's Neighborhood" (Takaki, p.240) * "It's because of you mother-fucking Japs we're out of work!" (CAAAV Voice, p.2) * "Down with Chinks!" (CAAAV Voice, p.2) Certainly not isolated remarks, the striking similarity of these four statements both characterizes the attitude many Americans towards Asians, and also highlights the lack of progress made towards the acceptance of Asians in America: whereas the first two statements were made in the 1920's, the third was expressed in the last decade, precipitating the fatal beating of Asian- American Vincent Chin, and the last was expressed three years ago on a flyer circulated at the University of Santa Barbara, CA, three years ago. Beginning with the early arrival of Chinese immigrants in the 1800s, manifestations of anti-Asian sentiments took shape in the form of racial slurs, physical harassment, economic and moral deprivation. However, despite the growth of Asian-American communities and the supposedly democratic melting pot idealogy unique to American society, bias against Asians has not decreased. On the contrary, a recent study by the U.S. Justice Department reports a 62% increase in hate crimes against Asian-Americans over a period of one year. (The Monitor, p.13) In an article in The Korea Times, Charles Kim notes that physical violence against Asians in America "has gone beyond just being on the rise," that in fact, over the past five years, it has increased by at least 680%. In an era of political correctness and an increasing awareness of diversity and cultural identity, why has there been such a drastic increase in racism against Asians? One of the major reasons cited as a cause of anti-Asian attitude is threatened economic interests. In a period of economic turmoil for the U.S. -- while Japanese imports appear voluminous and takeovers by Japanese companies cover the front page -- Japan-bashing as a defensive reaction seems inevitable. Nonetheless, Japan-bashing should, not be tolerated not only because of the negative consequences it brings to the Asian-American community at large, but also because of its underlying assumption that Japan is the leading cause of America's economic problems. The current economic slump is largely of our own making, due to of a huge national deficit accumulated through years of overspending by our federal government and as a result of our low national savings rate -- the average American saves only about 3% of his or her income. But the causes of Japan-bashing are not simply due to the general public's ignorance of economic realities. The Japanese, and subsequently, other Asian groups have become America's scapegoat not merely as a result of their economic success, but also because of their race. While Mitsubishi Estate's acquisition of Rockefeller Center caused an uproar, the possession of the World Financial Center by a Canadian company is largely unknown. Similarly, the fact that the Dutch own as many American assets as the Japanese, and that British investments are more than double Japanese holdings in America have evoked little objection, or even attention (Garner, p.4). While the Japanese have been helping to boost the American economy, they have been construed, with large support by the media, as hostile foreigners whose main goal is to take over the country. The same was true in the 19th Century when jobs became scarce for Chinese laborers after the completion of the railroad on the Pacific Coast, and Chinese laborers were forced to compete with white settlers. The influx of Europeans at the same time aggravated the competitive atmosphere, transforming the Chinese, who had once been welcomed when work was plentiful, into objects of racism who were treated worse than the newly arrived Europeans. This unremitting hostility towards Asians is due first of all to our obvious differences not only in physical appearance but also with respect to our cultural backgrounds, both of which are not as easily assimilable to Westernized, white American culture as those of European immigrants. Obviously, it is easier to attack those that stand out from the crowd than those that blend into it, and so Asians are more vulnerable to animosity arising out of either a sense of economic disparity or simply xenophobic tendencies. Second, the common stereotype of Asians as the "model minority" not only pits them against white Americans but also against other minority groups. The perception of Asians as diligent and successful provokes other groups to question their own standing in society, and the apparent differences in areas such as academics and financial status ultimately create tension. Third, these stereotypes and the antagonism they provoke are encouraged to a large extent by the media, which does nothing to combat society's ignorance of the realities of Asian-American life. Negative aspects, such as the population of Asian refugees living on welfare and the numbers of Asians living in crowded slum areas like Chinatown, are either downplayed or completely overlooked. The media blackout on violent crimes against Asians has not been due to a lack of front-page material, either. Consider the following stories from New York City alone: * In March 1990, a Hong Kong immigrant was stabbed to death on a crowded N train. The murderer yelled, "Hey, eggroll! What are you looking at?", killed him, and then calmly stepped off the train at the next stop. * In Bensonhurst, flyers were distributed warning that Koreans and Chinese acting as drug dealers and drug lords planned to take over the community by 1992. * An Asian man was beaten with bats and rocks by thirty African- American and Latino youths calling him a "fucking Chinese." * The truck of an Indian family living in a predominantly white neighborhood was blown up while parked in their driveway. In comparison to the Howard Beach and Bensonhurst cases, the publicity given to these incidents of racism was miniscule at most. Even when cases involving Asians are mentioned, the media influences public perception of Asians through the focus and timing of the article. The 1991 rape and murder of Konerak Sinthasomphone by Jeffrey Dahmer called the public's attention to bias against the black and gay communities, while the 1989 shooting of Southeast Asian children by Richard Patrick Purdy resulted in an outcry for gun control. But not a word was spoken about racism against Asian- Americans in either of these cases. At other times, incidents of anti-Asian violence are covered only to fault other groups. As Miriam Ching Louie reports in Asian Week, the media's focus on the fight between blacks and Vietnamese, just when the verdicts for the murder of Yusef Hawkins were about to be announced, was only to divert the public's attention from Bensonhurst and show that blacks are capable of racism too. In this regards, then, these media actively contributes to the growth of "another American racism." (Zia, Helen) Thus, anti-Asian racism is more than merely a reaction against a perceived economic takeover by the Japanese, nor will it disappear simply when America's economy recovers. Anti-Asian racism can be overcome only if the myth of the model minority is abandoned as the ultimately negative stereotype that it is, and the broad reality of the Asian-American experience is fairly and responsibly explored and reported. Racism and the hostility and violence caused by it will continue to exist as long as we are perceived as foreigners in competition for limited resources, rather than as the Americans that we are, as equally and as unconditionally any other group in this country. REFERENCES Garner, Al. "Why are we picking on the Japanese?" Pacific Citizen. March 18, 1992. Hashimoto, Ben. "Stop the bashing on both sides, he says." Pacific Citizen. March 28, 1992. Kim, Charles. "Asians Increasingly Targeted in Mounting Waves of Ethnic Violence." The Korea Times -- New York. August 3, 1991. Louie, Miriam Ching. "New York Group Fights Growing Wave of Anti-Asian Violence." Asian Week. July 6, 1990. Takaki, Ronald. Strangers From a Different Shore. New York: Penguin Books. Yamauchi, Deni. "For Asian Americans, U.S. climate of 90's is more hostile." The Monitor, Center for Democratic Renewal. May 1990. Zia, Helen. "Another American Racism." The New York Times. September 12, 1991. BENEATH THE SURFACE ------------------- Katie Lin "I would like all of you to sit in a semi-circle, I have a surprise for you." As I spoke to my tenth-grade English class they slowly walked into the classroom and seated themselves. "We're going to do a 'Donahue Show'." As I'd expected, this new idea stirred some excitement in the class. Curiously discussing the idea among themselves, they formed a semi-circle with unusual promptness. The "Donahue Show" came to mind when I was sitting in front of my computer trying to think of a creative lesson plan for the next day's class. I vowed to myself to come up with something interesting, something special that would make the students excited about Amy Tan's ~The Joy Luck Club~. I can still remember the pressure I felt at that time since her book was the last I would be using before my term as student teacher ended. After the discouragement of my initial days of teaching, I needed some reassurance that I was a capable teacher, that I hadn't chosen the wrong profession. My experiences using other materials for class prior to Amy Tan's book were not successful. I remember panicking over what materials to choose when looking at a class that consisted of mostly Hispanics, some Afro-Americans, one Asian, and a few others whose nationalities I wasn't certain of. My cooperating teacher, a certified teacher who worked with me on my lesson plans and observed me while I taught, suggested I teach a grammar lesson for my first class, and in my confusion, I took her advice. Though the class seemed successful in that the students behaved well and seemed to be learning something, I had a feeling that they were bored. Furthermore, I didn't like spending a whole class period on grammar. So I decided no more grammar lessons and chose to do short stories. From then on we spent nearly half of the semester on short stories such as "The Birds," "The Most Dangerous Game," and "The Lady and The Tiger." The first few weeks were terrible. Attendence worsened as the days went by. Class discussions were dry and unproductive. Most of the students either didn't want to do their homework or would hand it in weeks late. I would threaten them with zeros if they didn't do their work, but that only made the atmosphere of the classroom more unpleasant. "What went wrong?" I asked myself whenever I had a bad day in school. At first I blamed myself for the uncreative lesson plan. Then I blamed the students for not being motivated. I blamed my cooperating teacher for discouraging me from using more progressive methods such as group work. I even blamed NYU for feeding me so much of the newest teaching theories without preparing me for dealing with the students and teachers who were firmly entrenched in old habits and approaches. Desperate, I tried to make my lesson plans more fun and creative. Without telling my cooperating teacher my plan, I asked the students to write stories in groups. Althought most used the time to socialize, a few worked on their own to create wonderful stories. Class dicussions became livelier and my relationship with the students improved. But this was not good enough. I still felt that everyone had to try too hard. I had to try very hard to enjoy teaching, and the students had to try very hard to stay interested. After some soul searching and meeting with my classmates at NYU, I decided that the main problem was the curriculum. Did the students find "The Most Dangerous Game" intriguing? Could they relate to the horror of "The Birds?" Did they find the treatment of love in "The Lady and The Tiger" meaningful to their lives? And did I as a a teacher care for these subjects? Did I show enthusiam when I taught? Sadly, I had to answer "no" to these questions. ~The Joy Luck Club~ was my last hope in my quest for meaningful, interesting material. When the bookroom teacher informed me of the arrival of the books I was overjoyed, but yet also worried. Would the students be interested in learning about a culture that they had almost no knowledge of? Would exposure to the suffering in Chinese society have a negative effect on how they'd view Chinese people and culture? Would they understand the family values that were deeply rooted in each character? Most of all, would they label me as the Chinese-American teacher who liked to teach from Chinese books? With these questions, I began the first chapter while comforting myself that nothing could be worse than it already was. To my surprise, a controversial issue came up in the very first story. The mother in the story had to abandon her baby girl when running for her life during the Sino-Japanese War in the 1930's. Some students reacted quite emotionally to the abandonment. Some sympathized with the mother and agreed that she had to do so in order for both of them to survive. One student said that the mother should not be blamed since even today, during times of peace, some parents still have give up their children. Another student bitterly described his own abandonment when his parents divorced and he was left with his grandmother. After this, a few other students spoke of similiar instances, some of which I suspected were from their own personal experiences. By the end of ~The Joy Luck Club~, I was so surprised and moved by this outpouring of emotion that the idea of the "Donahue Show" came to mind. I saw a need for them to get into the characters more, to find their common grounds, perhaps, even to find a voice within them. I asked a few students to be guests for the show by taking on the role of some of the characters from the book. As the host of the show, I introduced the students by the name of the characters they were portraying and asked them to tell their stories based on their understanding of that character. Almost all the students were able to adopt the personality of their respective character and answer the questions raised by the audience comprised of the rest of the class. The discussion often got heated when we came upon a controversial issue. One special moment occurred when we were discussing the "shou" (a Chinese term for honor and respect for parents, in-laws, and elders) in the Chinese family. Some felt that shou was blindly given by the daughter to her mother-in-law in ~The Joy Luck Club~. I responded by explaining to them that at that time, people were expected to have shou for older family members unconditionally. Most of the students understood my point. However, when relating this issue to their own lives, some shared that they did not feel that their parents had earned their respect. I saw a great deal of anger, resentment, bitterness as the students shared more of their personal stories. The characters' experiences seemed to provoke many hidden feelings, feelings that were strong and that had been buried for some time. From the very first day I'd come to class, I noticed and was shocked by the students' backgrounds. Most of them were from broken families. If they were fortunate, they had at least one parent. Very few lived with both of their parents. That day, for the first time in my life, I wished I had suffered like they had so that I could tell them that I understood. But I couldn't. I didn't plan to use the class as a therapy session. Traditionally, as I remembered, teachers didn't like dealing with their students' personal lives. Though I didn't understand why, I felt the need to get involved. I could not heal their pain or solve their problems, but I wanted at least to be able to see the person behind the face, to recognize and understand their suffering. I could no longer simply blame the students for not being motivated. I still don't know what to do as a teacher when the reality of my students' lives surfaces. I didn't know how to respond when one of my students came up to me with court papers, after a two-week absence, explaining that she had testified against her mother's boyfriend for raping her. By the time I realized that it was a rape victim standing before me, she had already gone back to her seat. What is my job, my duty, as a teacher? I don't quite know yet. However, I do know that there is a person behind every face, and I as a teacher, have to see that person. HIGHER EDUCATION: ASIAN STORIES ------------------------------- Greg Osborn Residence hall prank fire alarms at 2:05 in the middle of the night . . . Food fights in the cafeteria . . . Typing the term paper at four in the morning while on the twelfth can of 'Jolt' . . . Ah, the plight of the typical American university student! It's as if our entire world rotates around each semester's events and particular requirements. It certainly seemed that way to me anyway, at least until I spent three years living and working in Hong Kong. In August of 1988, I boldly journeyed where no member of my family had gone before and took a position teaching at Hong Kong Baptist College in their business and education departments. My second year there, I also worked as a Student Affairs Officer, teaching English conversation both years in my spare time to Chinese students eager to improve their grasp of the "international language." My third year found me working in Hong Kong's international garment industry, a job which brought me into contact with customers from all over the world. While working in Hong Kong, I had the opportunity to visit many other Asian nations. In my travels, I often visited foreign universities and met many students. The contrast between what I experienced here in the States and what I witnessed in many of these places is truly sobering. **HIGHER EDUCATION IN HONG KONG** One of the most striking contrasts, generally speaking, is the difference between how Asian students look at education, especially higher education, compared with how American students look at it. In Hong Kong, only about 3-4% of those young people who have recently graduated from secondary school (or "high school" for us) have the opportunity to attend a university. This percentage might now be slightly higher now with the recent opening of the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. Only another 9% are able to attend polytechnic and trade schools. This is in sharp contrast to the United States, where nearly a fifth of its youth attend colleges and universities, with still more enrolled in trade and specialty schools or attending as part-time or evening students. What's more, these percentages could be higher if America's youth was more inclined to take advantage of these great opportunities. There are hundreds of thousands of colleges available in the United States, many with entrance requirements that are relatively low, but a large number of these are not functioning at full capacity. In contrast, there are so few colleges and universities in Hong Kong that the other 87-88% of Hong Kong's youth can never attend simply because there is not enough space to accomodate them. This situation is very similar to those of the other Asian countries I visited as well, and because of the difficulty of getting into any institution of higher education, by far the majority of the students I met took their studies very seriously. The spirit of the students is remarkable. Just pondering the things they go through on a regular basis leaves me mentally drained. Many of their lives touched my heart, and I'd like to share a few stories about some young people I met whose experiences and personalities changed the way I looked at higher education, the United States, and my life. **EMILY DE LA CRUZ, FROM THE PHILIPPINES** Emily de la Cruz is a young Filipino woman who is currently working as an amah -- or domestic helper -- in Hong Kong. Of the six million people living in Hong Kong, nearly 60,000 of them are Filipinos, making this ethnic group the largest non-Chinese population group in the colony. (Americans comprise the second largest group, with about 35,000 living and working around the isles.) Probably 90% of these Filipinos are women who work as domestic helpers. A small percentage of the Filipino men who are there, and an even smaller number of Filipino women, work in the entertainment industry as singers, musicians, dancers, and other professions. These are considered as the "Elite Filipinos" because they enjoy the prestige and financial reward that come with their positions. Still others work in prostitution, which is rampant in many parts of Asia. Working and living conditions for most Filipinos in Hong Kong are extremely poor. The average Filipino worker makes approximately HK$3200 (about US$400) per month, most of which is sent back to the Philippines to support the family. Many Filipino workers have children at home, often infants. They are allowed to return home only once every two years, usually for about two to three weeks at most. Most domestic workers live in the home of their employer, but their living quarters are generally about the size of an average American bathroom, if they're lucky. The room is usually too small for a window or a regular-sized bed, has limited storage space, and no air-conditioning. The last is especially significant in Hong Kong, where the humidity level is above 80% for nine to ten months out of the year, and well over that figure, with correspondingly high temperatures, in the summer. In Hong Kong, you can literally turn wet from sweat just walking down the street. In most cases, amahs are treated as second- or even third-class citizens, literally as modern-day slaves. As well as cooking and cleaning, they care for all the children. They do all the household shopping, run errands, wash and do laundry -- sometimes by hand -- as well as iron. Those even more unfortunate do this as well as work in their employer's factories, and some are even sexually abused. But these women generally do not or cannot complain for two reasons. First, it usually doesn't do them any good as it is extremely difficult to win such a case in the Hong Kong labour tribunals and courts. Second, it is a loss of "face" for someone to either fail or have problems on the job. To be fired or to quit before finishing their contract is a disgrace to the family they are trying to support financially, and no one at home really tries to understand their situation. Thus, the large majority of them choose to suffer silently and survive the best they can until their contracts end and they can move on to another position. One of the saddest parts of this story is that most of the Filipinos who come to Hong Kong are educated. Emily, for example, studied engineering at the University of Manila, the most prestigious university in the Philippines. Finding her savings running low and limited financial aid opportunities in her country, she decided to come to Hong Kong and work as a domestic helper for a short time to save enough money to complete her final year of study. However, for various reasons, after more than three years, she is still in Hong Kong working as an amah, and has sadly even lost her initial ambition of going back and completing her degree. Unfortunately, her case, and her broken dream, is all too common. **ZHAO PANG ZHANG, IN BEIJING, P.R.C.** Pang was a graduate student at the University of Beijing, the most prestigious university in the country. (It is important to note that the university has lost some of its preeminence since the Tiananmen Square crackdown due to their mandatory requirements of military training for all new students.) The university accepts only about 100 graduate students each academic year in all fields for all of China. In a country that has over one billion inhabitants, acceptance into this school is an honor highly coveted and almost impossible, and only the most talented, the hardest working, and the best connected can get in. When I met him in April of 1990, Pang was a Ph.D. student studying law, and he dreamed of someday being involved in history-making events. But despite being at the "Harvard" of China, Pang lived an extremely humble existence in the men's dormitory. His hall was, at best, disgusting. I have worked in college dorms for many years and seen numerous others, but I have never seen one so lacking in modern conveniences and so run down in basic facilities as Pang's dorm at China's "premier" university. The entrance of the building greeted one with overgrown bushes and a generous scattering of lunch boxes, cups, and newspapers. Inside, the hallways were cluttered with old, rusting bicycles, the occasional trash bins were all overflowing, and the windows were often either partially broken or boarded over completely. On his floor, the combined kitchen and community bathroom were both filthy and foul smelling, obviously cleaned very infrequently. His room had a cold cement floor and walls that were dirty and peeling. He slept in an old metal bunk bed on a worn-out mattress. He made the best of it, however, and was pleased to have the opportunity to be there. In other ways, too, the University of Beijing reminded me of a river whose surface calm belied the strong and turbulent currents below. The university campus had a quiet peacefulness to it and seemed in fact to consist of a series of water scenes. I particularly remember the islands which had traditional Chinese pagodas tastefully speckling their landscapes. €There were always lots of people meandering around, riding or walking their bicycles or strolling with their hands clasped behind their backs, and their faces generally appeared open and cordial. There were more than just students on the campus. Elderly men played card games on park benches near the water, and fathers bought treats off vending carts for their children who were jumping rope in the streets. The campus buildings were functional in design, not very fancy but sufficient. Construction took place at various points throughout the campus, but it appeared to me that many other buildings in need of general maintenance were being ignored. But beneath this apparent tranquil beauty are students who, if they dare open up to you, will reveal that they feel extremely bitter, hopeless, and lost inside. After all, this is the university that inspired those protesting "hooligans," and where, in June of 1989, thousands of pro-democracy demonstrators were suppressed by the People's Liberation Army, a military "for the people." These people are now very careful with what they say and whom they associate with these days. No one really trusts anyone else, since everyone is potentially a government informant. The place we stayed at on campus was quite possibly bugged, and the students often turned on the radio to drown out their voices when they did open up. These students, including Pang, know what really happened and what is truly going on within the government, but they are powerless to do anything about it. The majority of China's one billion inhabitants, however, have no way of learning the "truth" other than the information that is controlled by the Party. They believe what little they hear because it is from the government and because, isolated from all other forms of communication, they have no reason not to believe. Particularly in northern and internal China, most people have limited or no access to the outside world, and rarely if ever do they get to know foreigners well enough to hear differently from the party's official version of the world. The communists learned a long time ago that if you control the media, then you control the people, and those presently in power are determined to hold onto one of the last bastions of communism. These and other social and economic injustices drive many students to schools in the United States and other countries freer than their own. Pang served as our tour guide for many of the worthwhile sights in Beijing during my trip, and both he and I shed tears when we had say good-bye. I wanted so badly to help him. It's very frustrating to know that my letters probably will never reach him . . . . **YIM CHI SHING, FROM SHENZHEN, P.R.C.** I first met Chi Shing in Shenzhen, a growing city right across the border from Hong Kong. He was working at a relatively new and modern university, but he wanted desperately to come to America for his master's and eventually his doctorate degrees. He made friends with all Americans who crossed his path, practiced his English diligently, and seemed open to the religion that many of these people believed in. At this time, a good friend of mine was working in China on a six-month sabbatical from a university in Pennsylvania, and he befriended Chi Shing and arranged for him to come to Hong Kong. This was the first time Chi Shing had ever been outside his home country. He stayed with my roommate, a fellow American, and me. I talked with Chi Shing about Christianity and took him to a Chinese Christian fellowship in Hong Kong. He appeared very interested and made a friend at the church, a Chinese girl who teaches in Hong Kong and has a fascination for things in China. After Chi Shing returned to Shenzhen, we wrote to each other often, and Chi Shing's English constantly improved. Meanwhile, my friend, upon returning to Pennsylvania, worked hard to open doors for Chi Shing to go to that state for graduate work. It seemed his only obstacle was getting out of his own country, obtaining the all-important and much-sought-after exit visa. I did what I could for Chi Shing by channeling forms to him which were extremely difficult to get in China through a private service in Hong Kong. In the meantime, Chi Shing made friends with two American missionary teachers in Shenzhen who immediately took a liking to him. They spoke about Christ with him often, and eventually paid for his plane ticket over to America. My friend from Pennsylvania was very excited when Chi Shing finally arrived in Pennsylvania to go to school and work on his master's. After two weeks, however, Chi Shing showed that he had other ideas. He went to Washington, D.C., to visit several Chinese students, some of whom were old friends and others who were acquaintances of people he knew in China. He loved it there and was able to secure a job working immediately in a university lab thanks to a last-minute opening, and he was also able to go to school there with his Chinese friends. He had already applied to this school before leaving China, but had decided against it due to the high expenses involved. Because my friend was able to do so much for him at the Pennsylvania university, it had seemed the better option at the time. Since arriving in Washington, Chi Shing has seemed to go his own way and not be too interested in doing much with those who helped him get there. This whole experience has been quite disheartening for my Pennsylvania friend. Some people familiar with the situation have even questioned whether Chi Shing may have simply used all the kind-hearted and helpful Christian foreigners to facilitate his departure from the repressive P.R.C. They question whether he was ever truly interested in their friendship and religion. **WHERE DO THESE STORIES LEAVE US?** It's important to remember that life is a journey pieced together by various experiences. These stories and the lives they depict are certainly in no way concluded. The experiences and dreams of these students continue today, influenced by the people and changing political climates around them. After personally sharing in them, I for one will always have a much greater respect for what others go through daily in other parts of the world, as well as an appreciation for what I have in the United States. POETRY ====== Ivy Sta. Iglesia, **The Unwritten Will** Vineel Sha, **Landing in Love** Alex Hsu, **The White Horse** Dennis Chun, **Archaeology** Michele Mitsumori, **Sightseeing** THE UNWRITTEN WILL ------------------ Ivy Sta. Iglesia i caught scraps from the table of our conversations father wait . . . woven in imagination I'll leave you dreams, he said chickens scratched at patches of brown earth the whistles of workmen wandered along the road a week's laundry flagged at passing birds the stones in my hand thrown to splash in the murkiness of a pig's trough father please i don't see . . . a webbing of words, of his time-eaten memories whispered in an afternoon doze collected in puddles left by a mid-day shower seeping into freshly-dug holes and creeping out in the wheezing labored coughs of a passing train (of thought) father slow down i can't hear . . . the silence he wrapped around himself dribbling gibberish in the fading brightness of twilight onto the clinical white of his hospital gown dull stares from dark pupils non-words that seemingly saw only me i held my breath he forgot to take his and when he left it was quiet i had his images but father kept his eyes and i i lost my hearing long ago LANDING IN LOVE --------------- Vineel Shah They swore to be together forever. When forever came, they were alone. They stood at the edge of time. Should they jump and risk their souls? Or should they stay safe and sound in our reality? In the end of their beginning, they kissed, grasped hands, and leapt into the abyss. They fell.... Falling, slowly their bodies melted, slowly their minds dissolved. They became essence spirit emotion, their projected souls spun about them in a swhirling whirl of color light shadow. Their emotions coalesced into a circle of solid gold, revolving and holding them, binding them. Was the fall forever? They dared to hope. The gold gradually turned to green. Their love turned to fear. They hit forever, hard. The landing shattered the gold green band, their bodies lay in the dust of their emotions. They picked themselves up, and, standing on eternity, looked at each other. Saw, in each other's eyes, isolation. Forever, alone. THE WHITE HORSE --------------- Alex Hsu If God doth truly guide and walk with me Then why am I entrapped in this Abyss? Excessively I grovelled for life's lees. I lived my life as purely hit or missed. When saddled up I ride without restraint. Dismount and stakes doth once again ensnare. And so I dance and cry in this black rain, Why loved ones blind to promised land so rare? Oh why can no one see this light but me; Why allies censure, scold in name of care? Prosaic life doth come alive with steed, Why family weep and leave with hatred bear? I laugh and sneer at thoughts of "slave" with bliss Just please, white horse, just give another kiss. ARCHAEOLOGY ----------- Dennis Chun What lies behind those eyes of yours? Those eyes that can lay waste to my world with only the barest flicker Or when you smile and those eyes of yours glint and gleam and crinkle Don't you know what that does to me? Then let me tell you: I am a child again just a child and that world is not so dark after all When you are silent buried beneath words too strange to utter those eyes of yours contain depths unknown like fossilized sheets of earth I know there are flames and volcanoes within you I've seen them But don't you know that your silence burns me so much more? It's true: words are just "clothes for our thoughts" but I am naked so naked you'll never know I could rush on and on with these thoughts from a discarded night hoping to reach you beneath your layers But my fingertips are wet with blood from scraping at the ground And my voice has grown thick with scars Because you won't listen Or will you? Yes father: it's me only me SIGHTSEEING ----------- Michele Mitsumori The tonsured monk closed his eyes and chanted slowly, his arms swinging like censers, splashing himself with fuel. The serenity of his blackening form amidst the snapping banners of flame caught their eyes and imagination: How he must be drifting cut loose from sensation by incense and sutra, even now dissolving among the lotus and the sounds of one hand clapping. They watched with awe as the flames took hold, wished for themselves such transcendant resolve, and turned away finally, sighing, regretful, envious. FICTION ======= Dennis Chun, **Mia's Serenade** Michele Mitsumori, **Fear of Housewives** Linne Ha, **Cage** Wendy Wo, **Coty** MIA'S SERENADE -------------- Dennis Chun In this busy Seoul street, where the traffic and people swarm by in a faceless tide, where one feels either an intense loneliness or intense belonging, where nightfall brings with it a mysterious beauty, Mia looks around the room she is standing in, which opens directly onto the sidewalk and street -- the front wall having been torn down -- and fidgets nervously. Her fingers pass restlessly over the cracked, peeling plaster of the side wall. Everything -- the chairs, the stained carpet, the hanging strings of bamboo beads which guard the entrance to the back room -- is cast in a fiery, but strangely cold shimmer: the result of the red light bulb which hangs from the ceiling. She notices that all down the road there are the same red lights, the same open rooms, so that the entire street is bathed by a blood red glow, like one big, gaping wound. She can feel that red light on her bare skin, and even through her clothes -- the blue denim shirt with the sleeves cut off and her skin tight shorts. It reminds her, she thinks, of the time she got that rash from some plant, and the way it spread all over her body, until it nearly consumed her. This red light too, burns all over her body, like some fierce disease. Keep calm, she scolds herself. You'll get used to this. She thinks back to the time when she was a little girl -- even though she is still a little girl -- when her grandmother set up a bathtub of scalding water, and how her grandmother had entered first, then told Mia to get in. "Hurry up stupid! Get in before it cools off." And how she had dipped just her one finger in, testing the water, and said, "I can't, it's too hot! I'll burn up into smoke and disappear!" "Ya! Do what your grandmother says, otherwise you'll get a beating, you silly fool! Besides, the hot water is good for you." So that's why you have all those wrinkles, Mia thought to herself. All this hot water has dried you up like a prune! But she knew the beating was not just an empty threat. So she put her right foot in first, carefully watching for tendrils of smoke to drift out of the water -- in which case the beating would have sounded much better -- then slowly her entire leg went in, burning, screaming, feeling as if she would surely die. And when she was completely immersed, it suddenly happened: she couldn't feel the pain anymore. She remembers this now, as she has done before in moments of darkness, to draw from it that strength which in childhood seems so majestic, so invincible. A few days at the most, she thinks to herself. A few days, and I will get used to this too. She can recall other moments from her dark past, if she allowed herself to, when she would huddle in the thick, night air outside her house, with her arms crossed tightly against her flat chest, like the straps of a strait jacket, feeling the sting of a rebuke from her father -- the venom of his words -- and at other times the familiar, but vague, feeling that she belonged elsewhere, in another time, another place, that wherever she went, she would always feel the part of the stranger, the imposter. And she would cry to the night sky. She would wonder why God had made her so sensitive, so fragile, so weak, in a world that demanded strength and the sweet numbness of indifference in order to survive. She cried often, feeling her emotions rage within her like an inferno, uncontrollable and chaotic, dangerously fierce, and because her young mind could never find the words to explain or describe these feelings, she suffered from not knowing WHY..."Why do I feel this way?"..."Why am I here?" And when she couldn't find the answers, she learned to numb the pain, to anesthetize it with injections of cold indifference. She learned to wipe the tears with the back of her hand, inhale deeply, scold herself, curse her tears, her weakness, and allow the numb vacancy to spread its tentacles throughout her body, calming her sensitive spirit into dull, sleep-like submission. Mia can feel her belt bite into her waist, printing a raw strip of flesh. She sucks in her stomach, and wedges her thumb into the gap, trying to be as inconspicuous about it as possible. She breathes a sigh of relief. Her eyes pass fleetingly over each passing person, some of them men and women on their way home from work, or just strolling about indifferently, others, businessmen with a lusty glint in their eyes. She does not call out to them, not like Chunsa, Jinyae, and Eunyoung -- her "co-workers." She does not strut around in long, slinky strides, or, like some of the more aggressive girls down the street, forcibly grab unwary passers-by, taunting them with a seductive drawl, "Come into my room and talk with me." She wonders how long it took Chunsa and the other girls to act so casually desperate, so calloused. A part of her admires these women, for their raw, sexual honesty, but another part, the utterly frightened one, sees her own mirror reflection. "Ya! Mia!" It is Chunsa. Her Korean is harsh and informal, not the deferent form usually used by strangers. "Ya! Why do you look so scared? No one's going to want to be with you if you look as if someone's trying to kill you. Here," she says, placing her hands on her hips and gyrating them in a sensuous grind, "move around like this, and you'll have men coming to you on their knees!" Chunsa erupts into laughter and turns to Eunyoung and Jinyae, who shriek back their approval, bending over and slapping their thighs. Mia turns her face away and leans her cheek against the doorway. She thinks of another not so distant memory. In this one she is walking home with her mother, helping her push the large wooden cart her mother uses to sell the rice dumplings filled with sweet black beans, the dried squid, and other snacks. Mia's short arms can barely reach the handles, but she feels proud in helping to ease the burden off her mother's tired shoulders. Some day, she dreams, she'll go to school and make something of herself. Her mother abruptly stops the cart. Mia pokes her head around, and sees in front of them an injured magpie, its right wing clipped, tattered and bloody. It hobbles around in a drunken dance, futilely flapping its one good wing and squawking a high pitched scream. It is just a baby. Both Mia and her mother stand above the fallen bird. "Mommy, what happened to it?" Her mother does not answer, and instead clucks her tongue in sadness. "Can we take it home? Maybe we can fix whatever's wrong." Her mother bends down and gently places the bird in her palm, softly stroking the slope of its beak with her finger, until it finally calms down. It looks quiet and peaceful, and for a moment, Mia thinks that it's dead, until she notices its breast rising and falling in a weak, soft rhythm. She also hears a flutter of sound, the tiniest trace of a song, escaping from the bird. Her mother raises the bird up to eye level, carefully examining its wing, which is streaked with caked blood. Then, she wraps her two fingers around its tiny throat, and, with one swift jerk, breaks its neck. Mia gasps in horror. She looks first at the motionless bird, then at her mother, the first cries of anger rising in her throat. But she is silenced. Her mother's eyes contain not the satisfied gleam of the kill, but that of the defeated, of the hopeful turned despairing. Mia has never seen that look before and is frightened. When did she become so old? she wonders. She is suddenly distracted from her daydream by the appearance of two men, one an older gentleman wearing a tattered gray suit, the other considerably younger. They are both standing in front of the room occupied by Mia and the other girls, and it is immediately apparent that the older man knows these girls well. "Ah, Chunsa! It's been much too long since I've last seen you. But you know, I'm not such a young man anymore, and certainly not what I used to be." He pats and prods Chunsa none too affectionately, but she laughs nevertheless. "God knows, none of us are," she replies. "But people are like ~kimchee~. As we get older we become more flavorful." She traces her fingertip down his left cheek delicately. "More spicy." He laughs and draws her hand away from his face. "You don't have to convince me, you know that. We've shared some very good memories, you and I..." His eyes turn glassy with the thought. "But anyway," he says, with a sudden burst of energy, "I'm not here for myself. Where are you?" He turns around to the other man, who has been anxiously looking up and down the street, the whites of his wide open eyes tinged red from the lights. Mia looks at the young man, and notices in glimpses his closely cropped hair, the mole on his left cheek, the brightness of his green and white checkered shirt, but her eyes rest finally on his hands, and the way they clench and unclench silently, like lips mouthing empty words. "This is my nephew," the uncle says, pulling him by the arm to draw his attention. "He leaves for military service tomorrow, and, well...he is still just a boy, if you know what I mean." He smiles slyly, as if to say, "He's only my nephew, don't blame me€ for his 'condition'." "Uncle, please. Let's go. I want to go back --" The sound of flesh meeting flesh -- a backhand swipe to the face -- flashes like a crack of the whip, and Mia, who had all this time been listening, feels her own hidden bruises clamor for attention. She can feel her eyes welling with tears and she struggles fiercely to control the fire, to douse the flames, to soothe the burn. "For the last time we are not going back," the uncle says angrily. "We're here now, so just do this and I'll drive you back home. You should be thanking me for making you into a man." He turns to the women and chuckles uncomfortably. The nephew is surprisingly calm, his hand slowly tracing the red track under his right eye left behind by his uncle's wedding ring. But Mia keeps her eyes on his free hand, which is now clenched tightly, the veins raised in stark relief, and she can almost feel his nails digging half-crescent trenches into his palm. "Which girl do I go with?" he quietly asks. "There, that's better." He turns to Chunsa. "Take him and show him a good time. Make sure --" "I want to go." It is Mia. "Let me go with him." At first, both the uncle and Chunsa look at her angrily, but starting with a low, soft chuckle, Chunsa erupts into hysterical laughter, which is soon joined by that of the other girls, a chorus of cackles. The uncle looks confusedly at Chunsa. When her laughter ebbs, she leans over and whispers something into his ear, and now it is his turn to burst into laughter. "It's settled then," he says. He grabs his nephew's arm and pulls him toward Mia. "Go with her, she'll take good care of you." More laughter. Mia leads him through the hanging beads, barely listening when Chunsa says, "Remember what I taught you!" They both enter the back room, which is sparsely decorated, with one hard mattress placed in the center of the room, a bureau with a mirror by the far wall, and hanging on the near wall, a traditional Korean painting of mountains rising out of a mist. The one naked lightbulb sends a bright, harsh light from the ceiling, so that both Mia and the young man squint when they enter the room. She undresses quickly, and does not hear him when he says, "I'm not so sure about this. Maybe we can just sit here and talk. My uncle will never know." She does not see his trembling hands, as her own steady ones unbutton his shirt tenderly and take off his shoes and pants. Nor does she feel him, as he enters her, gasping in alternating fits of fright and ecstasy: a sunset seen for the first, or last, time. She feels and hears only the squawking of the magpie, the one who couldn't fly, whose song of pain reaches her even now, and she is a part of that melody, has become a strain of that music: a mournful serenade that lingers with the finite grace of an echo, only slowly bowing down to silence. And when he is done, expelling one final, heaving breath and collapsing in a heap on top of her, she rolls to her side and quietly tells him to leave. Put the money on the bureau. Outside, the red lights burn all down the street. FEAR OF HOUSEWIVES ------------------ Michelle Mitsumori One recent Sunday afternoon in Hong Kong, a record number of housewives packed themselves into the Shatin New Town Plaza. I emerged from the railway turnstiles only to be jostled, poked, squeezed, and ultimately lifted off my feet and carried past the KCR bell and the music fountain by a vast and irresistible current of marshmallow bodies. As I was taken past the middle of the mall, I beheld a sparkling exhibition of brand-name kitchen appliances. My eyes glowed, my liver twinkled: for far too long our flat had needed a blender, and here at last was my chance. I fought my way through the crowd, shoving and squeezing past pretzeled couples, schoolgirls linked like barricades, and little old men with cages of lucky birds, until, bruised and dishevelled, I crossed the cordon. Within the cordon was a small island of peace, order, and enticing, state-of-the-art time-savers. The din and clamour of the crowd swirling madly just five feet away from me faded to a hum, and my ears were caressed by a youthful voice lauding the company's line of microwaves. The air was fresh and clean, and all the salespeople were dressed in soft, white fabrics. I stretched my arms above me, reaching for the bannered ceiling, and spun on the balls of my feet. Freed from the dictates of the crowd, I wanted to rejoice, I wanted to dance. "Hey, Miss Gym Teacher!" growled a nearby security guard. "You gonna buy something or teach a class? Wai!" His attention was arrested by someone on the other side leaning across the cordon in an attempt to get a better view of the displays. "Keep away, keep away!" He jabbed the trespassing shopper fiercely with his baton. The offender staggered back, clutching the area where a bruise the shape of a dumpling was already emerging through his shirt. His girlfriend wrapped a velvet arm around him and shot a painted scowl at the security guard before they disappeared together into the swarming hordes. The object of their grievance took no notice. His duty done, he tottered to his stool, where he settled himself down and slowly deflated. Confident that the exhibition area was safe from the gawking, uncouth, window-shopping masses, I now began my search for a high quality blender at a low, low price. One reason I was so excited by this exhibition was the manufacturer. Sure, there were dozens of blenders on the market made by the likes of Sanyo and Molineux and Toshiba, but nothing I saw ranked above a ho-hum. Just as I'd been about to resign myself to a life of blending by hand, a former insider trader now turned appliance salesman clued me into a company new to the field but, thanks to the use of space-age technology, was revolutionizing the world of culinary time- savers. Toodle-oo, Inc., he said in a low voice, if you're serious about blending. That had been two months ago, and now here I was, salivating before a glistening display of Toodle-oo blenders and spice- grinders. I had only just begun testing my eighth blender when a deep and hate- filled growling snaked around me and forced me to turn around. At the table next to me, two women were in fighting stance, each with one hand clenched in a fist and the other gripping the same food processor. The one closer to me was tastefully draped in a Diane Freis, the flower print complemented by a pair of Joan and David heels. "I believe I reserved this particular model by phone in advance," she said, the tones of her Cantonese euphonious, the consonants distinct yet mellifluent. I gasped, dazzled. "So get another!" snapped the second lady, her body a collection of spheres and ovoids sheathed in gray-blue polyester. "This is mine! I had it first!" "It's the last one in stock. Pray give it to me and find another model. My chef simply must have this one." The housewives around them watched, spellbound by the musical sublimity of the first woman's voice. Who was she? How did she learn to speak that way? Could she teach me? And how much of a discount could I get if I brought along ten or so of my friends? "Chef? Wah! You dirty capitalist! You imitation foreigner! Go learn how to cook! This food processor is mine!" "Imitation . . . ! How dare you! You educated-at-home, loose- intestined rice bucket! You moon-eclipsing, cancer-causing . . ." "You call me what? You unwashed, turtle-eyed, cloud-farting toilet- cleaner of fornicating elephants! You . . ." So it went. Slaps were exchanged. Opinions were aired. As the first woman began cursing and yelling, we forgot the former beauty of her speech, entranced as we were now by the descriptive power of both combatants. Around me housewives repeated the phrases to themselves quietly, memorizing them for future use. As the slaps became scratches and punches, three or four housewives tried to pull the two women apart, but because they tried to do this by wrestling either opponent to the floor, they, too, were sucked into the skirmish. The altercation quickly escalated into a war between those who believed in first-come- first-served and those committed to the right to reserve, and soon everyone on both sides of the cordon was yelling and slapping and scratching and shoving. Displays were knocked over. Children were slammed against walls. Egg-beaters and toaster ovens were used in distinctly anti-social ways. The clerks ran around panicked, trying to calm the crowd, right the displays, protect the appliances, and guard the cashbox. I was terrified. I climbed onto a table, still clutching my blender lest some frenzied housewife steal it from me, and tried to keep out of the fray. I noticed that the two women were still battling, but now the polyester housewife had picked up a friend or two, and the three of them were really pounding into the dress suit. Her right ear was bleeding where an earring had been ripped out, her coiffure had fainted, and the flower print was soiled and tearing. I knew I couldn't simply stand by and watch. "Stop! Stop! This is inhumane!" I shouted in English. They ignored me. "Not good! Not good!" I then yelled in Cantonese. My pathetic American accent caused them to halt momentarily to see who was speaking. Even the small clusters briskly whacking each other with electric rolling pins stopped mid-whap to investigate. "ABC," sneered someone nearby. "Educated-at-home, loose-intestined rice bucket," jeered another. Her adeptness at using the new insult won nods and a murmur of approval from the crowd. Other housewives, thus encouraged, rolled up their sleeves and appeared ready to fling out a few insults themselves, only to be distracted by a stuttering whimper from the flower print, who was lying on the ground in fetal position. "Unwashed, turtle-eyed, cloud-farting toilet-cleaner!" "Cancer-causing, bed-hopping, sale-missing imitation foreigner!" They were closing in on her, fists clenched, tongues poised to deliver the coup de grace, a group insult so killing as to produce a loss of face that was irrecoverable. The woman would never be able to shop here again. I had to distract them somehow, appeal to some other, deeper passion within them. "Seiyu!" I cried. Heads swiveled around, almost in unison, and eyes locked upon me, half in suspicion, half in the hope of being further entertained by my accent. "Saitin!" I cried again, giving the Cantonese pronunciation of the nearby Japanese department store. "There's a big sale, very big, very, very big, at Saitin! Must hurry! Must very big hurry!" For a moment there was a stunned silence, then excited whispers, which gathered and grew to a thunderous, tooth-jarring roar as the housewives stampeded. The mall trembled, and the vibrations set off the music fountain, adding the electronic melodies of "Hooked on Classics" and a pounding of falling water to the din. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaws, trying to endure the pandemonium because I couldn't risk letting go of my blender to cover my ears. The table below me rattled and bucked, and several times I was nearly thrown. What had I unleashed? And suddenly they were gone, swallowed up in the vastness of another wing. The fountain switched itself off in the middle of "The March of the Toreadors," and the mall throbbed with emptiness. I heard a groan of pain at my feet. It was the Diane Freis. "Are you all right?" I asked, bending down beside her. "ABC," she moaned. "Can you walk? Do you speak English?" "Give me my food processor." I was helping her revive her coiffure when two security guards arrived and took over. Carefully they lifted her to her feet, but she would not leave the area until a food processor was placed in her hands. Actually, it was only the box -- torn, dusty, and empty -- but she cradled it in her arms and crooned to it softly as the security guards led her away. When she had left, I took in my surroundings for the first time. All around me was carnage: blenders, microwaves, coffee grinders, toasters, all that had once twinkled with newness was now dented, cracked, or dismembered. I felt something jab me in the side: my precious Toodle- oo blender and spice-grinder, the single, last untouched appliance in € exhibition area. A clerk limped up to me, one hand still gripping the cover of a rice cooker he had used as a shield, eyes darting left and right nervously, and asked if I wanted to buy it. Despite my shock and impending hysteria, I managed to laugh scornfully and say I wouldn't take this heap of scrap metal if he paid me for it. In twenty minutes I had haggled a discount of 20% for the "damaged" good and hurried away, fearful that at any moment the housewives would discover that I had tricked them and come back searching for me. I made it safely back to my flat, but for some days afterwards, I couldn't bear to go shopping. The incident had revealed to me the bestial violence inherent to the consumer soul. I shook and cried uncontrollably merely passing through Shatin on the way to Kowloon Tong. At home, my flatmates begged to use the blender, but I was haunted by an image of an exhibition area bestrewn with slaughtered appliances. My blender was the lone survivor. No one, not even me, would ever use it. Such was the state of affairs that I would never have visited the New Town Plaza again had it not been for an irresistible craving for a pizza croissant from A-1 Bakery. It was a Tuesday evening. I was making my way through the crowd, jumping each time someone touched me, when I was suddenly embraced by the gentle strains of "The Blue Danube." Ahead of me variegated lights played upon dancing, liquid monuments. It was the music fountain. I pushed my way through the crowd straight to the center of the fountain. Streams of water swayed like stalks of rice brought to bow to their reflections by the wind. I felt as if my soul were being cleansed by the sight of such grace. And then it happened: my gaze collided with another across the fountain. It was a housewife. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion and hostility as she clutched a package closer to her bulbous form, so tightly that the top flap popped open, and through the shifting spray I read the words, "Toodle-Oo." My own arms loosened of their own accord, exposing the glittering surfaces of the blender. Across the fountain, I saw her limbs also relax. She had a toaster. She turned the box towards me and lifted the top flap, and from within the darkness I saw a sparkling reflection of colored lights. We inclined our heads. After a mighty rush of water from all seventy-two outlets, the music faded and the fountain returned to its unspectacular, garden-variety self. Bodies once more bustled and knocked, voices again hurled themselves after misplaced children and friends. For a long while I simply stood there, hugging the blender to me and letting the crowds wash over me. Then I smiled to myself and turned towards the railway turnstiles, envisioning myself fixing a banana milkshake with my new, Toodle-oo blender. CAGE ---- Linne Ha From the side of my eyes, I can see my mother's profile against the backdrop of the moving mountains and the gray sky. She is unusually quiet and I notice for the first time that her body has shrunken, slumped to the steering wheel like a worn-out rag. She had been washing dishes since 5 o'clock this morning and now we are headed home. As the sun disappears into the horizon, our truck moves quickly along with the traffic on the freeway. My mother is driving and I am squashed between her and my younger sister Paula in the cab of the pick-up truck. My mother says something, but her voice is low and barely audible as it blends with the drone of the engine. She speaks in Korean, almost to herself, "If you think about dying, then you should die...rightfully you should die...." I make out her words like a jigsaw puzzle, patching sounds in my rough Korean. I don't say anything and instead look down at my lap. I am still clothed in my tennis outfit from that afternoon's lesson. My skirt glares white and I can't help but look at my mother's dirty apron. Paula is listening to her walkman, her head bobbing as her lips move with the lyrics. Up until a few minutes ago, I had been angry because my mother was late again picking us up from school and now my thoughts dissipate into listlessness. My mother repeats herself in her broken English, this time louder. She turns her head toward us as if waiting for a response, then turns back to the road as we remain quiet. In the silence, I am acutely aware of us sitting in the truck, its wheels moving on the road. We are rapidly steering away from the rest of the traffic, guided by metal guards, onto an empty freeway. Up ahead, the road bends exposing a last glimpse of the sun and the expansive land below us. "There," my mother points, "where the trees are. Everyday, I drive this road. Sometimes, before this turn, I want to drive straight into the sky...into the trees." I imagine their weak branches burdened by her weight. My sister taps her feet with the music and I continue to look away without saying a word. There aren't enough Korean words that I know to talk to her, and English wouldn't work. + + + + At school, in one of my classes, there is a map as big as the wall of the world. From the door to the window, the continents are zigzag lines filled with different colors on each side. They are as flat as the chalkboard across the room. Beginning with Europe, I follow the Mediterranean to Paris, where I've never been. Then a bit north to Britain, an island scrunched with words. The bell rings for class to begin as I cross the green-blue Atlantic. Each square makes up a thousand miles to New York. There are sounds of people gathering for class. My neck is crooked as I take in all of America. The United States is the shape of a wild boar roped and waiting to be roasted. Maine makes the snout; Florida the tied front legs. California is its ass. My desk is in front of California. Alaska is so far away. Mrs. R. says something but I am lost in the Pacific. The Pacific Ocean is broken into three vertical words with specks of Hawaii near the center of the deep blue. The Soviet Republic is the solid orange undisturbed by letters. At the far left, I reach Asia. I step closer and my eyes are two inches from the wall. I follow the outlines of Korea, a foreign and odd shape, recognizable but unfamiliar. Its cities are but sets of jumbled alphabets. It is difficult to make sense of them. I inspect them carefully but they do not tell me anything. Slowly, I turn back to the class and sit down. Their faces poking out at me with their round eyes. Like the continents, they too are blank and unfamiliar. + + + + My father's only friend is his parrot. Out of the blue one day, he comes home with a parrot and a cage which he sets up in his bedroom. Since then, every evening when he comes home after a day of driving his cab, he heads straight to the bird, ignoring us in the living rooom. My sister and I would watch with envy, through the crack of his bedrooom door, my father feeding his bird. We have never seen our father like this. Once we even witness him feeding the bird a slice of apple from his mouth. My sister and I look at each other in a state of disbelief. Then she returns to the TV as I go tell my mother this news. My mother is in the front yard carefully inspecting the leaves of her plants. I stand in the door jam of our trailer house. She is unaware of my presence. I watch as she bends down to dig something out of the earth. She pulls out a long worm and tosses it aside. "Father's feeding the bird with his mouth now," I announce. She continues inspecting the leaves, then says in Korean, "These plants, if you take good care of them...feed them and water them...they will grow up to here by the end of the summer." Then she looks at me for the first time. "Have you ever tasted this plant?" I shake my head. "They taste better if you water them every other day," she continues. "Wait till you taste them...they make your knees strong. But of course, they taste much better in Korea. Here, it's all I can do to make it a hint of what it used to taste like...." She shakes her head and releases a deep sigh. She is crouching in front of her garden, raking the soil with her bare fingers. Even from where I stand, I can see that my mother has plotted the plants in neat row, her fingers thick with cold dirt. Last month when she started her garden, the ground had still been frozen. I watched her out there, clad in her winter coat and gloves, hacking at the permafrost. "It's only April," I had told her. "The ground won't melt until probably June." Even after five years, she is still not used to the Alaskan seasons. Without stopping, she yelled in Korean, over her shoulder, "I've got to make use of this sun. Anyway, I can't sleep." I stand here watching her again. Her hands quickly pulling out the weeds then putting them on a pile off to the side. I look at the pile, green leaves with roots grasping onto flakes of dirt. "Are you going to be there all night?" I ask, tired of waiting for her attention. She giggles mischievously to herself at the tone of my voice as I turn back into the house. + + + + Most evenings, my father spends in his room either teaching the bird to speak Korean or grooming him. While my father is away at work, he keeps the door to his room locked. Paula and I sit in the living room after school, trying to watch TV but inevitably listening to the bird say hello in Korean. We sit with the TV off sometimes as the parrot's tiny voice echoes through the door. One afternoon, Paula stands up abruptly and goes into the kitchen. "What are you doing?" I ask when I see her return with a table knife. "Don't worry," she says with a determined look on her face, "I only want to peek." Paula expertly plies the door open to a dark and quiet room. She immediately tip-toes to the cage as I hold back, watching from the door. I see her cautiously peer into the cage as the bird flies around nervously. Paula gestures for me to come closer. "Look," she whispers, "It's no big deal. It's just like the ones we've seen on TV." Suddenly, she shakes the cage with both hands and laughs when the bird squawks. She circles the room a bit before she loses interest and retreats back to the living room. I stand there for a moment, staring at the bird. The bird looks fragile and harmless yet I know that it holds a secret which makes me curious. I watch its movements, hoping to solve the puzzle: the mystery of attraction. I stand absolutely still, pretending to be a fixture of the room. The bird plays, ignoring me. On the floor of the cage, there are pieces of apple, the apple my father fed to his bird. + + + + Many weeks later, I come home late after tennis practice, and as I walk towards the trailer, I notice that all the lights are conspicuously out except in the room which Paula and I share. Worried that I am in trouble for being late, I quietly avoid the living room and sneak into my room. Paula lies sprawled on her stomach on top of my bed, flipping through a magazine. "What time is it? Is Dad mad 'cause I'm late?" I whisper as I change out of my tennis clothes. Paula shuts her magazine and rolls on her back. As she pulls her arms behind her back, I see that she already has hair growing on her underarms. "The bird is dead," she says matter-of-factly. "What do you mean, dead?" "D-E-A-D," she spells with annoyance. "He came home today and killed the bird." She stretches her body with a yawn. "It bit him, I guess....It was really gross," she continues, "I was sitting there listening to him say 'apple' in Korean then the next thing I knew, the bird was freaking out. It bit his hand." I drop down next to her, trying to absorb all of the words. How can he kill the bird? I imagine his big thumb forcing the bird's thin neck to a snap. I shudder at the thought. "And where's Mom? Are they sleeping?" I want to know. Paula shrugs her shoulders and moves to her own bed. I look at her for a moment. She is obviously not upset by the inc€ident. I watch as she stuffs a stick of chewing gum into her mouth then return to the magazine. Helplessly, I put on my nightgown as I walk to the window. There is a full moon beaming light onto the quiet streets of my neighborhood. Off to the side, something catches my eye. I see a figure crouching in the yard. My mother digging in her garden. Her flowerbed has been rearranged around a bald mound of dirt, her neat rows disturbed. COTY ---- Wendy Wo The door down the hall from her room had been closed -- vaulted like that of a coffin's -- for over a year. For over a year she and her parents had lived in a mechanical stoicism, coming, going, interacting, yet avoiding what they tried so hard to bury. For over that year she had listened to the silent echoes of her brother's ghost wandering and mocking them on his visits in the dead of night. As Leah stared at the closed door in front of her, lost memories entwined with lost emotions consumed her. The brass knob of the closed door glared back at her, daring her, taunting her, to take hold of it, turn, and go beyond it. A strange cold feeling rose inside her as her pulse sped up a notch. She slowly reached out for the knob. Encircling, enclosing her warm fingers around its cold smooth surface, she hesitated and swallowed hard, then finally turned it. Click!!! She quickly pulled her hand away, startled by the loud clicking noise that cut the veil of silence. Now unlocked, Leah gently pushed the door open. It creaked a little, and she let it open a mere crack. Then, gaining a bit more courage, she pushed the door fully ajar, and took a step inside. The soft pastel colors of twilight graced through the sheer white curtains of the windows, casting an eerie hue upon his furniture. Leah's eyes wandered over the details of the room. Everything was just as she remembered. On the top of Coty's shelf, dressed in dust, yet shining just as it always had, was one of Coty's greatest prides: his treasured golden baseball trophy. Folded in a neat pile next to it was his beloved lucky red and white baseball jersey and cap. His enormous pile of comic books occupied the rest of the shelf. His bed was still neatly made, with his baseball glove tossed casually over the pillow, as if he had just stopped by today after baseball practice and tossed it on his bed. His computer sat in silence on his desk, accompanied by a pile of Coty's textbooks, and a couple of computer disks sprawled carelessly on the edge of his desk. Sheets of unfinished lyrics, untitled songs, and music never played lay stacked between the computer and the disks. Next to his bed, still covered with dirt and mud, were Coty's sneakers, the same pair that she had jokingly claimed to have stenched up the whole house. Her eyes finally, reluctantly, wandered toward the one thing that she had tried to avoid looking at: the disheveled mop of wavy dark brown hair, the gentle and sincere dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement, and the unforgettable lopsided grin. Coty. She walked over to the nightstand where his picture stood. She stared at the face that had been absent from her life for over a year. A tight knot twisted inside her stomach, and for a moment the air around her seemed to thicken, suffocating her. She noticed an envelope peeking out under the picture frame. Scrawled upon this envelope was her own handwriting, addressing it to Coty. She gently took it from under the picture frame. Instead of disturbing any part of Coty's room by sitting on his chair or bed, she kneeled down on the floor next to his sneakers. Inside the envelope was a letter she wrote to Coty after he died, along with the farewell poem Coty had left behind for everyone. She tenderly unsealed the envelope and unfolded the letter. Her pink stationary paper was still smooth and fresh. The places where her teardrops fell were exposed by the scattered bleeding flaws of the ink writing. May 6, 1990 Dear Coty, The beautiful red roses I left for you last week have now dried and wilted. The once silky petals have fallen, and the stems are turning into an ashy shade of brown. They said it was your body they found washed up by the lake. They said it was suicide. I couldn't go look at it, nor could Mom. Only Dad went and confirmed that it was you. Grandma and Grandpa flew in from Endocino. Everything has been so chaotic. Your funeral was last Monday. Mom freaked out. Logan was there and she couldn't stop crying. She had the class ring you gave her dangling around her neck, and she wore your baseball jersey under her black blazer. She was so upset, she made me cry. I held her hand as they lowered your body down into the cold earth. I should be very upset with you. You lied to me. All those nights when we talked till the morning, I thought I knew you so well. I told you everything. You were the only one I told when I lost my virginity to James. Why didn't you tell me something was wrong? I would've tried to understand, I would've done anything, everything to help you. Coty, how bad was it to make you kill yourself? I can't believe you are gone, Coty. I don't want to believe it. Damn you! How could you do this?! It feels like you've stolen from me. You took a part of me down with you into that grave. You took with you all those unborn memories, that now will never be conceived -- ever. I hate you for that. Do you realize that you will never get that record deal? Do you realize that you've given up on any chance of making your dreams come true? What kind of farewell poem is "Happily Evermore"? How could you leave Mom, Dad and me with all these pieces that we can't fit into a picture? I don't think I can ever forgive you Coty. Leah She felt a dull familiar ache in her heart. Suicide... Coty... Suicide... Coty.... Suddenly she felt cold all over. Her hand holding on to the letter began to tremble. Her vision blurred with the rush of tears, and she closed her eyes to try to stop the flood. She wiped the tears that squeezed their way out. Why?! Why?! The unanswered question screamed angrily through the tunnels of her mind. She remembered the nights she had lain awake waiting for the phone to ring, hoping to hear Coty's voice on the other end, telling her it was just a joke. He wasn't dead at all. As a matter of fact, he'd been touring with his band, and they'd finally acquired a recording contract. They had just finished recording their debut album, and he'd be home soon to surprise everyone.... Slowly, hesitantly, a memory danced into her mind. It was the night she and Coty had snuck out together when they were in junior high school. They were prohibited from going to a high school party, but Coty had this great idea of sneaking out of the house by climbing out through her window. They'd had such a hard time climbing down the tree, she scraped her leg, squealed in pain, and they had gotten caught. She could still see the many nights that Coty would climb through her bedroom window because it was past curfew and coming in through the back or front door would wake Mom and Dad up. "Coty what are you doing? It's 3:45 a.m.," she had mumbled sluggishly. "SHHHH!" he'd shushed her, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "My car ran out of gas." He grinned that adorable lopsided grin. "Yeah right!" she'd teased. "SHHHH!" Leah shook her head now, as if to wipe those images out, and put down the letter. She opened the envelope again and took out another piece of paper. This paper was wrinkled. She had crumbled it a year before in frustration. It was the farewell poem Coty had left behind for everyone. She had read and reread this poem countless times, searching for a clue, a hint, anything to explain why Coty had taken his own life. A chill crawled down her spine as she began to read the all too familiar words written by Coty. HAPPILY EVERMORE Encased within this flesh A diseased young mind, Lives a depraved soul The endowed gift of mine. In battlefields of life Some wounds never mend, And despondency has Victored in the end. Yet there is a heaven I have once been told, Sweet serenity awaits Behind gates of gold. Coty She missed him so much that it hurt, almost physically. She didn't understand the poem, she didn't understand anything anymore. Inside, she felt exhausted and drained. She tilted her head up to look at Coty's picture. His lopsided grin seemed to mock her now as she sat knelt down on his floor, tear stained, shivering uncontrollably, and holding on so dearly to the last and only part of him that he left for her and her family. This crumbled, tattered, year-old note, which made no sense to her, was the last tangible element of himself that Coty had left. Sometimes she thought she understood Coty's reason for suicide. She too lived behind the shadow of an overpowering, overachieving father. A man who never accepted Coty; a man who had impossible standards for his family; a man who never acknowledged any element of imperfection or error. At times she thought that he saw Coty as the embodiment of all those blemishes and defects. Coty's focal interest lived in the spheres of his singing and baseball, both of which their father regarded as passing phases. Their father had other plans for Coty: his son would attend his alma mater University of Pennsylvania, major in business, and follow in his entrepreneurial footsteps. But Coty had plans of his own. Leah remembered the many fights Coty had with their father. She was there to see the pain in Coty's eyes after the fights. She was there to hear his heart-breaking sobs, as he'd fought to hold on to the dream that he had painted for himself, while their father had vehemently tried to tear it away. She remembered too that sometimes she had cried with him and sometimes for him. She remembered that suppertime. Everyone was sitting in their places around the dinner table, beneath the new crystal chandelier that their father had just purchased, hovering over their elegantly furnished dining room like a great sparkling cadaver. "Dad, I was telling Mom and Leah this earlier. Um, my band and I were asked to perform for the annual "Battle of the Bands" concert. If we win, there'll be a contract waiting for us with Atlantic Records. I got some tickets, and I was wondering if you'd like to come?" Coty asked their father. Silence. "And on Saturday, recruiters from some of the best colleges will be coming to watch the playoff games, I figured you might want to be there too." Coty tried again. "Coach told them about me, and--" "Coty, when are you going to stop these trifling pastimes of yours and take your life seriously?" Their father spoke in the calm, restrained tone that he had begun to use more and more often with Coty. "Dad, I am very serious." "Coty, you will not squander your life away singing for nickels or playing catch. A loser is not what I raised you to be and that's final." Their father had put down his eating utensils and glared at Coty. A look of desperation shaded over Coty's eyes. He slowly got up from his seat. Their father resumed his dinner. He seemed impervious to anything Coty said. "Dad I'm your son. Please accept me as I am." Coty's voice cracked a little. His face paled, his eyes darkened, and his jaw stiffened. Leah watched the vein on his temple throb as it always did when Coty was upset. Their father chewed his food in silence, his eyes never moving towards Coty's direction. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, and asked his wife what was for desert. Coty slowly shook his head, tears filling his eyes as he turned and left, leaving them sitting beneath the hovering crystal chandelier. Few words ever had to be said between Coty and their father to spark a battle. Their war was always smoldering. That same night Leah stayed up listening to Coty in his room. She sat secretly, outside in the hall, leaning against his closed door. Behind the closed door, Coty bashed and shattered objects she couldn't see. She could envision him crying with his heart wrenching sobs that echoed behind the door. She too wept. Then there was their mother: the silent and supportive woman. The woman who never stood up to her husband. The one person who never dared to oppose him. In the eyes of her children, she was the dainty, frail silhouette next to the looming, daunting, opaque shadow of her husband. Yet she believed in Coty. Leah remembered her softly whispering words of encouragement to him. "If it's what makes you happy, if it makes you feel whole, then Coty, follow it with all your heart, son. It will never lead you astray." Coty looked at her weakly, with a dim light of conviction and hope in his eyes, and nodded in acceptance. Leah looked down at the pink stationary paper now, and gently folded it back along the original creases. A particular conversation that she had had with Coty kept peeking in and out of the back of her mind. For an entire year she wouldn't allow herself to remember. But for the first time in a long time, she let herself recall. It had been the summer of 1989, and their father had decided to rent a quaint little beach cottage in Cape Cod. It was their first night there, and she and Coty were sitting on the beach playing a game called "Truth." It was a game they used to play in their preadolescent years, questioning each other about personal things, while vowing under an oath to never reveal what had been confessed by the other to anyone else. Leah could still hear their tinkling laughter mingling with the crackling of the campfire they had built. "So, this thing between you and Logan, how serious is it?" she asked him. She watched the shadows of the fire dance over his face. He grinned and an amused glint appeared in his eyes. "The truth, Coty. No vague macho response." "We're getting too old for this game," he said. He glanced down at his baseball cap. "Know what we are? We're too young to be what we want to be, and too old to be what we were. We're in limbo, Leah. We've been shot out on this tangent..." "Coty, let's not get all deep and profound on such a beautiful night." They had both been gazing up at the Cape Cod night. The half moon dangled like a silver charm over a star studded velour gown of the indigo sky. From the distance they could hear the melodious rhythm of the cadencing waves of the ocean. But Leah thought she saw tears glistening in the corners of Coty's eyes, as he gazed up at the infinite starlit dome. "Want to hear something I wrote a few nights ago?" he asked her. "Sure," she answered softly. She was a bit concerned over this sudden change of mood in him, this swing from flippant-buoyancy to an almost brooding-muse. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wrinkled piece of looseleaf paper. Leah watched him looking at her before he spoke, as if searching for something in her expression. "This isn't one of my songs, it's just some thoughts I've concocted." He spoke in a sad, soft, melancholy tone: "We were given birth into this world without our consent. We think we are bestowed with promises that were never really made to us. Promises of happiness, success, and fulfillment. But life is empty, and it's up to us to make it what it is. We are given no concrete path, no blanket in life. Life is a death trap. Life is a morning flower in bloom. She is the impartial judge; she is a mystery; she is a song; she is a wound; she alone is eternity. She will endure, even after we are gone." He paused after this last sentence before proceeding. "There is no meaning in life. When we realize this, we create little dramas, little excuses to go on living. We make a meaning, we knit a string and tie it to the illusion we drew, and we hang on to it, holding on for dear life. We light a candle from the dancing flames of St. Elmo's Fire....To follow, to aspire for, to aim for, and to live for....But how can I protect, and nourish my delicate, growing dream, before the fire of St. Elmo dwindles, dims, and fades?" Coty took a deep sigh, and smiled weakly. "That's beautiful Coty." "I read somewhere that during times of peace, sons carry their fathers' coffins to the grave. And during times of war, fathers carry their sons' coffins to the grave." He had swung back to his flippant mood. He smiled his lopsided smile. "Know what sis? You're right, it is a real cool and pretty night." As that vision receded, Leah found herself again looking up at Coty's picture, still watching and mocking her. Coty. There were so many things still left unsaid. She gently folded the wrinkled page of Coty's poem and placed it, and her letter, back in the envelope, then back under the picture frame. June 14, 1991 Dear Coty, I miss our talks. I miss your smile. Above all, I miss you. There was a time when all I was able to do was wonder about you. There was a time when I left my life on pause, because I missed you so much. Sometimes, at the weirdest times, I feel like you're still here, watching us. Are you? It hasn't really been the same here without you. For a while, I thought you might come back. But I guess you're not. Mom is fine. Dad's fine also. I'm doing okay. I was visiting your room last week. But don't worry, I didn't lay a hand on anything. Your sneakers don't smell anymore, your comics are still there, and so is your baseball stuff. All those songs you wrote are still there. I put them all into a folder, so don't worry, I'm preserving them. Maybe one day, I'll find someone to revive them, sing them, and make them real for you. I think I'll dust your things up for you every week. You know, Dad has changed a lot since you've been gone. He's stopped bossing me around, figuring out my life for me. I told him about my plans to not attend college, but to pursue a career in dance, and he didn't even raise an eyebrow. He even mumbled something along the lines of "good luck." He and Mom have been attending this support group for parents of teens who committed suicide. For a while, it had been real quiet around here. But yesterday, Mom and I went shopping, and it was the first time, in a long time that we did that. We laughed -- together. That was weird, I mean, to hear myself laugh with Mom again. You should also be pleased to know that Logan and I have become quite close. She's not the you-know-what I thought she was. Anyway, I left you a fresh vase of beautiful red roses on your shelf, next to your gleaming trophy (which I polished for you). I have to get ready for a date now. I'm still seeing James. He's really been great, Coty. He helped me out through a very rough time. I guess it's time to begin a new chapter, a new story. Life goes on. My life can't stop for the life of another, not even yours. I guess I felt guilty about that at one time. But I think I know you understand now, Coty. Wherever you are Coty, I hope you're singing a happy tune, and playing baseball. And Coty, I wish you eternal peace. Love, Leah The closed room didn't seem to be vaulted anymore. Today, the door knob wasn't glaring at her, and didn't even seem to acknowledge that she was there. Yet she stood, a little apprehensive, and a little hesitant about entering the room again. As she turned the knob, and pushed open the door, her reservations slowly subsided. Again, the room seemed to be just like it was when she last left it. The sweet perfume scent of roses painted the air. She slowly walked over to Coty's shelf. The vase of red roses she had left stood next to his trophy. She looked at the pink envelope she held in her hand, then she looked over at Coty's picture. He didn't seem to be mocking her anymore. He was smiling his charming lopsided smile, and for a second, she thought she caught herself smiling back at him. But then she realized it was just a picture. Ever-so-gently she reached up on the shelf and placed the pink envelope, which contained her new letter to Coty, under the vase of roses. She breathed a sigh of content. She walked back to his doorway, letting her eyes wander over the room one more time. Everything seemed to be as it had been, with the exception of the new vase of red roses and the pink envelope that now lay under it. Leah met Coty's eyes one more time, and silently she smiled, and nodded to him. Then she exited, hesitating for just a slight second, before closing the door quietly behind her.