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TUFTSÂ·HARVARD

VOICES Asian/Asian -An1erican Literary Magazine

Spring 1980

Introduction 111hy this journal? Al though we hope the contents can justify itself, we believe that the Asian and Asian American experiences are important enough to share with others. Our works are in both native languages and in English because we wanted to reaffirm our "Old World" heritage as well as our history in America. Many of the pieces deal with the problems we face as a minority in this country along with the emotions coming from the contact between two contrasting cultures, Asian and 1r1estern. Yet not only do we assert our uniqueness and ethnicity in this magazine, but also our essential humanity and the need for expression and creativity, This is a joint effort of students from Tufts University and Harvard-Radcliffe College, The editors are especially grateful to the support of our larger organizations, the Tufts Asian Students Club and the Harvard-Radcliffe Asian American Association, and our contributors.

Sandra Leung Tufts '81 Cynthia Chin-Lee Harvard-Radcliffe '80

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·Table of Contents Untitled On Art and Asia America l11here My Grandmother Lies The Self and Others Wry Scene from the Collegiate Life The V'oman 11'arrior ... A Review Nice Chinese Girl Assimilation First Snow Chinatown, New York Kay Ariel Lowest Grade Untitled The Shoes Weather Report Cambridge After Exams To my Friend Ling-Tse Pausing Thought Neighborhood I am Korean-American The Top

-Josephine Lok Peter Kiang Sandra Leung Anonymous Betty Kwong Kheng-Chuan Chew Sandra Leung Kenneth Yee Cynthia Chin-Lee Mon Mui Horacio Severino Mon Mui Mon Mui Horacio Severino Kheng-Chuan Chew Kheng-Chuan Chew Kheng-Chuan Chew Kheng-Chuan Chew Sandra Leung Anonymous Susan Lee

9 10 12

16 18 21 22

25 27 28

29 29 30 32 33 34

35 37 40

Art and Photography Credits: Steven Pon pp, /.1 13 ' Wai Fung pp. 11,26,36,43 Belinda Tam pp. 17,24 . Sonia Yamada p . 21

.F:ron t Cover Design 1

Kenneth Y,ee

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Jenny . Ann Khaw

1r'insor Cho

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lt was a restful night As the moon cast soft shadows Beneath the trees Memories of far away places Crept into my dreams Standing amid rice paddies With my brothers and sisters 1 bent over each new shoot With visions of a full harvest Another day As the stars peeked through treetops I sat in the courtyard, and smiled Watching my children dash after fireflies And the sound of war Came to my ears Deafening, terrifying Heart-breaking I saw days of pain and endurance Of hope lost and regained Of a people working To make their lives whole The morning sun struggled To throw me its embrace through drawn curtains I woke up with renewed strength With centuries of history To impart to the future Josephine Lok

Art in this society, whether visua l , musical, or literary, is a commodity. It is bought and sold according to certain standards that have historically been devised by the ruling white majority. There are two basic assumpti Jn~ about art that we must question: first, that art for its own sake is legitimate; and seco nd , that art is the expres·sion of talented individuals. ,1e, as . Asian-American writers an ~ artists must analyze these two assumptions according td our own needs and our own histories. To me, t i1e point of Asian American literary work is to articulate ou1' experiences, images, ideas, and to define the social context that shapes them. The goal is to create our own culture and our own resources; it is not to be published in the Reader's Digest at some later date. Our expression must be clear and communicative; we must reach people. we must not only challenge our stereotyped and relatively voiceless presence in this country, but we must also consciously develop our own form and content in order to better understand and define our culture, history, and forward movement. As Lu hsun wrote: Fierce-browed, ·as bold strokes and clear thought draw our · ·work_ together! · Voices loud, as the mount~ins sing, knowi~g _we ~hall rise. So we plow and pl~nt -- not for the ~ake of plowing o r planting, but because we need to feed ourselves. And it' s not as if any of us has a special talent for plowing and planting, rather we do it because we need to eat and want to grow. . . Like food, art should be viewed as a resource. Asians, like other Third World people, have systematically been denied access to resources in this society; art is no exception. This is why Asian-American literary expression must directly challenge the two underlying assumptions of American art. In the first place, Asian-American art cannot exist for its own sake because it is rooted in and consciously reflects the social conditions of oppression and struggle that characterize our collective 130-year history. Secondly, and more importantly, we do share a collective history that is independent of questions of talent and individual expression. 1f Asian- American art is a resource, tnen the Asian-American people, as a group, are an even more powerful one. And in the end, only writing with a group consciousness will promote the unity we need in order to grow stronger. Peter kianb 10

Âˇr kneel here on top of the land where grandmother lies, just as she knelt fifty years ago at her betrothal in Kwangtung. Carefully, we rest our weights on the backs of our calves. With dignity we hold ourselves still. She is so young, so native with fresh pink skin-the color of innocence and life. Her husband, the grandfather I never met, was a stranger she had only known as her intended since age ten. But this made no difference now. He was handsome. His rugged jaw and tanned skin told of his labors in America and his ambition that was bound to bring wealth. She would learn to love him. In the muffled cries of a new widow at a nearby grave, I hear grandmother"s cries in childbirth. With only a midwife to comfort her, she screams out across half the world for grandfather Her cries pierce the cool night air, searching for grandfather who is huddled by a dying fire in California. His aching muscles after a day of building the railroad forces him to ignore the cries. Grandmother's pains subsides as the child is placed in her arms. She smiles as her own cries are replaced by those of the baby, her first born. But the silence-- the midwife stands over her cautiously as if to bear bad news. Unwillingly, grandmother turns to her. Suspecting the message in her eyes, her eager fingers restrained by fear, grandmother slowly unwraps the crying bundle in her arms. She stops breathing as the horror sets in. A female. In these troubled times, one cannot afford the luxury of daughters. They are useless. Decisions must be made. "I can pinch her nose until she stop breathing," the midwife offers. "I have done it many times, she will not feel a thing." Muffled cries-grandmother turns away as the midwife takes the baby. Later that night, restless, grandmother crawls- out to Âˇ the night. The pain overwhelms her as she falls on the open field. She rests there looking up to the endless sky. She shakes an angry fist and curses the heavens for her misfortune. Then she prays again for a son. The wind grows stronger around me. I raise my hand to push my hair back just as grandmother pulled hers back into a neat bun to meet grandfather at the seaport. She diligently catches each strand. Married women must not let their hair hang loose. She looks into a mirror for the last time and touches the tiny wrinkles that have formed around her eyes. She is only twenty -four. - 12

In her excitement she quickly turns away from the mirror and picks up a little boy who is playing on the dirt floor. The boy, my father, begins to cry for he does not want to go. Grandmother hushes him, telling him great tales of his father whom he has never seen. Eventually the boy quiets down and walks with grandmother to the port. A hand touches the back of my neck. I turn quickly to the source of the warmth and see my father, now a grown, aging man. He tells me to rise and bow three times in respect. As I rise, I feel the strain of weight on my back. I think of the number of times grandmother felt the same strain as she rose from the rice paddy. She was forced to work for she had neither seen nor heard forom grandfather in three years. She had had to feed her three young sons with her meager wages. She does not mind working though. It passes the time. Every night she sets a bowl for her husband, hoping for his safe return. She promises the gods never to eat beef for the rest of her life if they would return her husband to her. I feel myself bowing now; once,t~ice,three times just as grandmother bowed at her husband's empty grave. He was one of the many Chinese men who were killed in a railroad accident. She heard it from the other villagers. Bitter tears run down her wrinkled race. I touch my own to find tears also. For the first time, I am crying for my grandmother. I instinctively reach for the tombstone. It is cold to the touch. I feel silly kneeling here, crying, yet I am unable to stop. We are crying together, grandmother and I, for each other, about each other. Sandra Leung

It seems that things remain the same, People revolt. And people are crushed. We know how many starve Till the conditions for life cease. It's in the news magazines---the photos make us depressed, And we know, it is pain and despair that turn the lives of masses through the dust of existence. It is a sad affair under the stars. So we voice concern. Donate often enough, Or at least sympathize, in a poem. We don't mean to make things worse. The sufferings of a world take on a distance beyond the lives we afford ourselves, the everyday concerns, exigent pleasures, And inequality begins to seem less depressing, almost natural after all, So we lives as we have, graciously. Too often it seems we excuse ourselves; scramble up, grab the degree, elbow hurriedly through some suitable rewarding career, brandishing our identities in name cards; retreat into private worlds, performing affection for the family and friends of our extended egos, the souls that matter.

And luxury, then, cushions our ignorance of people with the triviality of possessions, consumes our senses. Too easily we dismiss our ideals as some radical romance of youth; yet indulge in some measure of social concern to keep the intellect presentable; forge a pathless compromise, barter the conscience for the narrow security of status, for we are sick with the fear of uprooting ourselves and learning to live again, But now our time has come. Now it is for us to strip the system of its pretensions, its words and its charities--to find out where we stand, and whose sad freedom it is.

Anonymous

Here we toy With the idea Of baking pie With mashed cortex for filling. Season well, And bake till golden bro~ri. II

Men here think; They think that they think, T''ney also th:Lnk They have clay feet, Which they struggle to hide Under weak knees. So they do not walk, But shuffle, And trip, Who's remiss?

Betty Kv. . ong

little island tiny city jot of land, You rear such misery and yet suffer fond memories to spring from your crevices i1ay I ask when dull aches will cease and festering sores heal after years of trampling, That you may Âˇ forge a.head and not drown ... slowly sinking under the ~e ary weight of a motley ma s s t hat cries to know ~ation and Co untry? Betty Kwong .

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Born and raised in the Chinatown of Stockton, California, th e re can be few places more unpoetic and drab. Such must have been her exterior life, as a child. Yet this story of a first generation American-Chinese girl growing up is powerful and lyrical, drawing rich myths from memory, evoking from me questions of my cultural roots, a need to reconstitute my focus, dulled by every day living, on a deep aspect of my social identity. She begins her "Memoirs of a Gtrlhood Among Ghosts" with her mother telling her a story of her aunt, her father's sister, who was driven to suicide by the ignominy of having a fatherless child. She drowned both herself and her baby in the family well in their village in China. She became a non-subject; a shame the family tried to deny by disassociation. In opening her autobiography with this story, Maxine Hong Kingston· symbolised the predicament of her sex. A female in Old China was a bane to the family. She would not be able to carry on the family name but would become "a wife and a slave; a daughter-in-law." Others have said, "There's no profit in raising girls. Better to raise geese than girls." The story terrified the little girl, and made her conscious very early of her traditionally-perceived valueless status. She was determined not to succumb to her fate as a woman and when asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up, little girl?" answered, "A lumberjack in Oregon." (p.47) Throughout the book, such snippets of humor hit the funny bones of the reader, juxtaposed as they are after pages of a story steeped in ancient China. Here, again, in the middle of a beautiful description of the legendary heroine Fa Mu Lan, the girl who took her father's place in battlei the author's sense of hum o r appears: ....

· The door opened, and an old man and an old woman came out carrying bowls of rice and soup and a leafy branch of. peaches. "Haye you eaten rice today, little girl?" they greeted me. , , "Yes, I have," I said out of politeness. "Thank you. " ("No, I haven°t," I would have said in real life, and at the Chinese for lying so much. "I'm starved. Do you have any cookies? I like chocolate chip cookies.") 18

This is a style of hers that utterly disarms. Sometimes, so ',"ell are the juxtapositions placed, an inevitable guff a v, explodes. But it is not just funny business. By weaving back and forth throughout her book tales that come from her family's past in their village, or from legends whose sources are three thousand years of literature and folklore, cultural hisotry revered by peasant and mandarin alike, to the present (her childhood in America), we follow her as she grows up, and "try to understand" as an adult in retrospect, powerfully aware of her ethnic heritage, "what things in you are Chinese, how do you separate what is peculiar to childhood, to poverty, to insanities, one family ... from what is Chinese? \Âˇ:hat is Chinese tradition and what is the movies.~ So as we read, we move from story to story. From her aunt (father's sister); her mother's life as a young woman doctor in China; how her father had left their village in the 1920's, whith his father, grandfather, and brothe~s. leaving to sail for "America, the Gold Mountain," leaving behind behind their women folk so that they would return after having made their fortune overseas; those who stayed abroad -emigrarit people, and the changethey wrought for their descendants, generations unborn. In the chapter "Shaman," she talks of her mother, Brave Orchid, her life as a student at the To Keung School of Midwiferey and ho w she confronted and vanquished the ghost there ,~ith her iron will; how she doctored her village during the Sino-Japanese War, and after 16 years of separtion from her husband, rejoined him in 1940 in America, and of course, how ehe raised the writer, born in that same year. "At the Pestern Palace," the fourth chapter, she tells of how her aunt (her mother's sister), a lady in her late 60's when she first came to America from their village in China and later Hong Kong, finally died in the State Mental Hos pital, rejected by her emigrant husband-turned-successfuldo ctor, who although had supported his wife financially for uecades, h~d taken a new life, a new wife in the Beautiful Land ( )_ 1J1J ) â€˘ Of herself, she grew up the quiet Chinese girl, with her siblings, in their family laundry business. Attending both American school and Chinese school in the evenings, she was also schooled . by their inimitable and strong-willed mothe r who told her stories "in this terrible ghost country." The Launp.ry, her school, th8 ~-, r ay of her concrete and apple-crates environment must have been woefully drab. Yet I am struck by how she had used, even as a child, the 19

immense colors of her dreams, her passions, the mythical stories that her mother channeled from their past, to vivify the internal world of her imagination, far more complexÂˇ and far richer, than any brocade. 'Her story rings in its authenticity. The older Chinese generation's preoccupations with ghosts; the ways of her mother; stories of the traditional customs of their village, the observations of these customs by the older folk, and their non-verbal transmission to their children; their traditional bigotry toward all other races (thus conferring on stranger the suffix "ghost"); their superstitions: I remember telling the Hawaiian teacher, "We Chinese can't sing 'land where our fathers died,' She argued with me about politics, while I meant because of curses. I am flooded with memories of my own childhood fears, so long forgotten, when she narrated her mother's telling her the story of how she confronted the Sitting Ghosts as a student: It could be hiding right now in a piece of wood or inside qne of your dolls. Perhaps in daylight we accept that bag to be just a bag ... "when in reality it is a Bag Ghost. " John Leonard, critic from the New York Times, called the book, amongst other commendations, "anti-nostalgic." I think he meant that it was not fond and sentimental. There is no trace of pretension in all its poetic mastery, neither in her dreams as the Woman 1.r1arrior, Fa Mu Lan, or at the end as Ts'ai Yen, the poetess born in AD 175, who sang a "song for the barbarian reed pipe." Exceedingly witty and funny, her story is not cute. It doesn't try to be; nor does it try to be explanatory--to a 1~Âˇestern readership, explaining with footnotes and glossaries, the weird ways of "chinks" among them. This is its strength and its cultural integrity. Maxine Hong Kingston, who as a little girl, dreaded the fate of girls, grew up: "I went away to college--Berkeley in the 60's--and I studied , and I marched to change the world, but I did not turn into a - boy," Her story has vindicated her being a woman; it is a story of heroines, swordswomen. In the end, Ts'ai Yen "sang about China and her family there. Her words seemed to be Chinese, but the barbarians understood their sadness and anger." The 1r'oman Varrior, having pierced us with her sword, the pen, "continue(s) to sort out what's just my childhood, just my imagination, just my family, just my village, just movies, just living."

Kheng-Chuan Chew 20

Eyes downcast, a shy smile; A voice that is barely audible. Clothes neatly pressed, walk feminine; An expression blank and simple. Emotions vacant, tears dry; Slowly becoming invisible. Wanting love, needing security; Screaming desperately inside, Hating them, hating me; For making my soul subside. Imagining you, coming to me; I need you to confide.

Sandra Leung

AÂˇ-house in the suburbs, with front and back yards, a garage, an attic, and a roomy living room. It had a huge kitchen and a real dining room! To me at that time, it was an incredible amount of luxury. I recently got a new high-riser bike with a bright brown leopardspot banana seat. It was the "neatest" bike on the block ... I can remember playing "king of the mountain" on a huge pile of newly mowed grass; my friend Glen Murphy who taught me how to ride my bike; and his doghis very own dog! All these things and people that were so dear to me were gone; gone as blown away by a puff of spring breeze. We were by no means rich. We did not have a car in the garage. The front lawn was overgrown with weeds. I had to share a bedroom with mp sister, who was eight. one year older than I. Both my parents worked in the kitchen of the restaurant owned by my uncles. \rllat we had in Tacoma was really not much, but to me at the time, it seemed so much mere and better than the dirty, ~rowded apartments of Boston's South End. This second migration to Boston did not hold the same kind of excitement and promise as the first. The journey from Hong Kong to the U.S. was believed by all to be a ticket to wealth and happiness, to the promised land, the "goldenÂˇ,; mountains." So I too believed, I was indeed awed by my first glimpse of the U.S:a the multi-laned divided superhighways, banked on both sides by stretches of unused grassland dotted with trees, and the one-story suburban houses with their spacious lush green lawns. How different from the crowded, concrete Hong Kong. It seemed almost wasteful to me here to have all these unutilized lands. My second journey was clouded by family squabbles between my uncles and my father. I also had to leave behind my newly acquired cousins, friends, and toys--my bike and my "Johny 7-0-M-One" seven in one artillery set. I didn't want to go to Boston. A fri~nd of my father, Mr. Chu, picked us up at Log~n Airport, and drove us to Union Park Street in Bostons South End. Old four-story brick apartments _seemed to define ttie neighborhood. Walk~r>:~ up the steps 22

of one such apartment; I saw a couple of Chine~e kids around my age, dressed . in dirty T-shirts, looking up at me. For some reason, I was struck by their stare. or was it their look, their faces., .their Chinese faces.,, I hated them. I hated Boston. I wanted to go back to Tacoma. That ni ght I cried and begged my mother to take us back to Tacoma. I told her how I hated Boston; I hated the old, gloomy apartment, the bathroom in the hallway ... and those dirty Chinese kids. How can we give up e verythin~ we had in Tacoma for this! My mother consoled me by saying that we have to give this new home a chance; if I still did not like it here, then we would leave. I begrudgingly accepted that promise with the hope that we would soon be going home.

It is difficult for me to imagine myself living in Tacoma, Washington now, in a little house in the suburbs, miles away from the next Asian, in the middle of ... Would I still be involved with the Asian movement? Would I be a "banana?" The image of those two Chinese children looking up at me comes back to my mind ...

Kenneth Y e F,

AIR CONOITIONEO

29 CHUIICH STIIEET HAIIVAIID SO., CAIIIIIIDGE TEL. UN4-3011

PUIIY V. WONG, MGII.

The humid summer air stifled me as I stepped out of the Grand Street subway station. On my way to Chinatown, I passed by Bowery Street. Bums make the pavement their home here. I could smell their stench as I got close enough for them to ask me for a dime. I nonchalantly threw a quarter at the feet of of one of them and headed toward my destination. A red light at the intersection of Canal and Bowery broke my momentum. I stopped and waited anxiously, surveying the area I was about to enter. As soon . as the traffic light for the cars turned red, I ran across to the other side, dodging those cars that hadn't fully stopped. Weaving in and out of the usually crowded Canal Street I heard bits of conversations spoken in a language that most Americans may consider strange, quaint. Turning around the corner onto the less crowded Mott Street, I saw dozens of Chinese restaurants that catered especially to the non-Chinese; restaura nts that serve such "exotic" dishes as egg rolls, wont on s o up, and moo goo gai pan. Business was slack because the t o urists had all gone home ... no more Nikons, no more wideey e d looks, no more flashes. Going down the block I slammed my palm against the heads of the parking meters, childishly hoping that coins wo ul rl sus.h out like the slot machines in Las Vegas. I approached Jung Wah Bookstore, and stepped in and browsed thruu~h the latest magazines from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and China. I tossed 35 cents on the glass counter and walked out with an issue of "Lao Fu Dz," my favorite comic book. I crossed Bayard Street, passed Carvel ice cream and approached the front entrance of Lai Gung Restaurant. My friends were already there waiting for me. They greeted me casually, patting me on the back. The four of us leaned against the glass window and scrutinized the pretty Chinese girls that walked by, making lewd comments . Before long we became bored, with looking and decided to seek othe r d iversions. We roamed Chinatown exploring ev e ry n e~ detail. It was now getting dark, but we didn't ca r e bec aus e we knewÂˇ that we had all the time we wanted. Mon Niui

• Ariel. Matagal na rin tayong hindi nagkita. Kumus ta na ba? Si Ding nga pala. Kumusta ang pamilya niya? Kahit ngayon na may anak na siya mahirap pa rin maniwala na may asawa na si Ding. Sa kanya siguro ang pinakamalayang inspiritu sa ating lahat. Ewan ko, pare. Tumatanda na siguro tayo. Naaalala mo ba si Diane Riley, ang magandang kanang · exchange student na kinartihan ko nang napakatagal? Hindi oa't napakabait niya? at laging nakangiti? Pwera lang pala noong nasa erport siya · bago bumalik dito (tumalo ang luha niya sa balikat ko ng araw na ·'yon). 1fasa walet ko pa ang st. sko ID niya. Pare, nasa Massachusetts na pala siya. Nag-aaral sa isang kolehiyo dito siguro. Ewan ko. Nakita ko lang siya. Sa estasiyon ng subway na malapi t di to sa eskwela. Naki ta rin niya ako. Tuma ba s iya, pare. Pero maganda pa rin, marami pa ring hawak na libro, at ang berdeng rib on ay naka tali pa rin sa buhok niya. Pero nagiba rin siyapare eh.Hindi man ·1ang ngumitisi Diane. Siguradong nakilala niya ako. Basta tumalikod na lang at napasama sa masa ng tao. Hinabol ko pero nawala na siya sa loob ng estasiyon. 1

Sana'y hindi ito nakalulungkot sa iyo pare. uapat nga makapagbigay-ligaya; nasa Pilipinas ka kasi: dehin nawawala ang damdamin diyan. Nagugunita lo ang pagtatapos natin sa Ateneo pare. Yinakap mo ako sa prosesiyon at sinabi mo: Pare, tapos na. Tapos na. Umiyak tayong dalawa sa harap ng tatlong libong tao. Huwag ka nang umalis ng Pilipinas pare. Manghihinayang ka lang. Mayrobn akong ibig sabihin sa iyo dati pa. Naalala ko noong sinabi mo sa 'kin na umiyak sa tabi mo se Mel sa funeral ng erpat mo. Nasa likod ako noon. Hindi mo lang ako napansin, pero umiiyak din ako. Huwag ka nang umalis ng Pilipinas pare. Manghihinayang ka lang. Baka makalimutan mo pa kung papano umiyak. Sige pare. Hanggang dito nalang utol mo. Howie. Horacio Severino

I was o~ly six then. They smirked at my eyes And laughed at my skin. I disgusted them, Frightened them, Amused them. I learned to read "Dick and Jane" Too fast for them; they hated me. Recess came and I watched them play Âˇtag. Never asked and never asking to join. Just sat and watched. Alone. Were my baseball cards different from theirs? DidnÂ°t mine come with a stick of bubble gum? I could catch as well as they. I could run as well as they. What was it then? It must have been my baseball cards. Mon Mui

I'm sure that she would be affectionate and thoughtful toward me. Even when I insist that I'm not hungry, she would love to cook for me. Her firm, but gentle glance would fill me with guilt until I ate all of my vegetables. 1r'hen I'm crying over my broken toys, she would kiss me on the forehead and tell me that "everything's okay." Before letting me go out on a cold day, she would make me hot chocolate and demand that I dress warmly. I would pretend to protest, knowing that she would bribe me with a big hug. All these things, she would be and do: the grandmother I never had. Mon Mui

Ever since that day in the chapel I haven't seen him. I wrote him a couple of times but he never replied. I once picked up the phone and then remembered his family never had one. They didn't even have running water in the house. He's not in school like I prayed he would. The last I heard he was a pulot boy at the tennis courts. Ramil Manalaban was a sixth graderfrom Marikina I helped prepare for high school a couple of years ago. The public elementary school he went to recommeded him for special tutoring because his exceptionally high IQ gave him a chance to get admitted to the sxcellent science high school a mile or so from his neighborhood. But he was poor. So poor he never wore shoes because he didn't have any. None of his friends did either. I was appalled at what Ramil had to live in. My socks disappeared into tne. mud when I sloshed through the squatters' village to get to Ramil's home. I was told later I waded into the community's sewage system. Ramil, his three younger brothers, and his mother lived in a one-room dwelling (it couldn't realistically be called a house) that reeked of unventilated air and the stench that rose from the wastesat~rated mud outside. His father was dead. His mother wasn't fond of me. "Do you realize that Ramil is a gifted child?" "No. I only know if you encourage him to stay in school you'll rob our family of much needed income." "But if he doesn't continue into high school you'll all remain in poverty forever." "And what if he does continue? Does it mean we won't be in poeverty anymore?" "No ... Ramil and I can't promise you anything. But Ramil is the only hope you have." Everyday the summer after my high school graduation, I tutored Ramil in virtually everything I knew. But we worked extra hard to imprcve his English. He wrote me long letters in vastly impÂˇ??oved English when I vacationed in Baguio. He enjoyed discussing the simple nature poems of Coleridge and Wordsworth. He was a good student. I had high hopes for him. Ramil was always accompanied by a pale five-year old boy named Nonoy who never spoke. Ramil claimed they ÂˇÂˇ:ere

brothers but they didn't at all look alike. Once I a sked Honey himself, "Kapatid mo ba si Ramil?"; Nonoy me r ely -- oak his head. To this day I don't kno w who he r eally v·as . · is t Ramil' s constant companion the summer aft er my rrracJ ua tion. One day I noticed flies gathering around a fresh sc ab on Ramil's left foot. I was cringing, while he seemed oblivious to the_ obvious pain he was feelin g . He ha d s t. epped on a piece of broken glass, he casually info rr1f:,· me . The very next day I bought him a pair of black drr-· ··· ,:;hoes an d told him it \ 'as an early Christmas gift. I ':, '.:.1 t imag ined hO\-' delighted he would be. He put tr. : -::oes on and for a moment I thought he forgot everything el ,~·-. i th a barefoot Nonoy at his nev, heels he ran to the dried rice paddies, where his friends were playing, to sho ~ the entire 'r orld what I e ave him. Ramil wore those black shoes everyday. Everytime v, e met he made sure they were immaculately clean and spit polished to reflect the sunshine and hi s hi gh spirits. He boasted that he had the most beautiful pair of shoes in the neighborhood, He may also had had the only pair. 1

· hen he was finally infomred of his admission to the prestigious Marikina Science High School, he was on top of the world. So was I. Towards the end of the summer, when everyone was readying himself for school, Ramil's silent friend Nonoy d ied. Ramil didn't tell me. One of his teachers had to. The public school chapel where Nonoy's body could be viewed for the last time was nearly empty when I entered to pay my last respects. Only a group of children could be seen, kneeling in one of the aisles and saying the rosary in unison. The vigilantes turned towards me when I wa lked in. The figure of Ramil immediately stood up and stepped out of the aisle as if to greet me. But he didn't. Instead he ran past me, his bare feet slapping the floor in a rapid series of footfalls that I can still hear today as he bolted through the door. Nonoy lay inside the hastily build wooden easket. His eyes \'/ere closed, his hair meticulously combed, and his arms solemnly placed .along his sides. He was wearing a neatly. pressed shirt and a pair of, shoes. They \''ere shiny and "black and they were Ram il's. Horacio Severino

Spring, Boston-Cambridge. I hesitated writing a poem to you, fearing a tendency (in such matters) for careless romanticisation. Life lays enough delusions that I needn't clutter feelings with unnecessary words. But I am more glad when with you than without you, and I would tell you so. Instead of writing, "I awake more often to sunlight these days, sunlight catching on newly Âˇ sprouting buds, and the weather is less lean, kinder," let me say instead, I like your bangs. I like the way you take my hand. I relish your kisses, because they're yours, And I should tell you so. But also: I am unsure of your smile; you seem to be looking at me from behind your eyes, and sometimes I feel as if I am caught in a cautious current that hasn't decided between the past season's dormancy and the leap into Spring, Unsure, of what is being asked, and what to offer.

Oh, let me stop writing-the . weather's fine. It will mature, you think, towards Summer? Kheng-Chuan Chew

Cam~e- after bam6 It was raining. The skies overcast. Familiar weather. The other day I heard distant rumbling. There must have been some lightning. This lightning does not seem to learn, it should not strike at the same place between my hair and toes. First, Luisa. Now , Keiko. Uncompromising names. Friends; yes, we could be friends. Listen my friend, I mean no mockery, we all need friends , good friends.路 The hell with it, I am tired of this inclement weather. For too long I have not had a friend with whom 路 I could lie beside in body as in mind Circumstances, what can you do? 路 I blame you as I blame the weather: I donat. Kheng-Chuan Chew

路-!!!al!O.!m .

.__ . iWJ:J

Belinda Tam

c:lo mg 'friend.Gng ~~ in old, romantic references, they always speak of the moon and moonlight. And I used to wonder Now what has moonlight got to do with love? 111ell,

I think they must have inadvertently left out mention of the sea, or any body of water for that matter. Because if they included the sea, I could see what they mean. Tides, you know. The moon pulls water. It disturbs the calmness of the sea. Maybe water was too obvious, so they left it out, trying to be subtle. After all, who doesn't know we're 70% liquid. 1,'ell, let me tell you that whenever you're near, my 70% body of water gets very agitated inside. hey, you know-it's exciting and it's movement; it doesn't scare me. Does it frighten you away? I really don't know, you must control the moon or something. Kheng-Chuan Chew

I have wanted you to know for a long time: Your eyes smile intensely with so much feeling even your nose quivers Then you look away, the times when looking at each other any longer would be visual coition too sweet, too frightening across the table of the smoking room.

I love your eyes caught just about to shout for the sun. Once my friend told me There are two ways to really know a person's feelings: look into her eyes; or, kiss her. He made the latter up, sly friend. Yet looking into your eyes, I want to kiss you endlessly, fe~l the wet pleasure of your tongue, breathe in the rhythm of your mouth, the smell of your brown hair, discern your delicate eyelids with my lips; You the sun of your brown hair, discern your delicate eyelids with my lips; You the sun of fire, Âˇ fire 9 s warmth. Kheng-Chuan Chew

35 .

"Can you get the door please, Jimmy?" "Do I have to," he mumbled as he threw down his and pushed his chair back.

pencil

He slowly began to walk to the other side of the house to the front door. The wooden floor in the hallway was cold against his bare feet. He thought about how convenient it was . in the old apartment to answer the doorbell. There was only one room so it didn't take long to get to the door. In this house it seemed to take forever--especially because he had a test the next day, and time seemed very precious. Jimmy paused for a second before turning the lock on the door to brace himself against the cold. He opened the door to see Mr. Lewis, a neighbor, standing there. He had never spoken to Mr. Lewis . or even seen him up close. He thought it peculiar that he should come to the house. Jimmy suspected his visit had something to do with the sheet of paper he was holding that was being wrinkled in the wind. "Hi, kid. Are your ... er ... honorable parents home?" he His breath created small clouds of smoke asked gruffly. against the cold. "My what?" Jimmy asked incredulously. "Oh, you kn ow what I mean. Where are your- mot her =:irld rather. I want to talk to them about somethi~g i~portant. Listen, cari I come in or something. It's freezin 3 out h e r e_ ."

"Sure," Jimmy said reluctantly as he opened the door. "Wait, I'll call them." As he began the seemingly endless walk back t o the kitchen, Jimmy thought about how glad he was that it was Monday. Monday was his father's only day off so he was home. He was probably in the kitchen, supervising his mother's cooking. "Who was it, Jimmy?" Mrs. Lee asked as he entered the kitchen. "It's Mr. Lewis from down the street. He wants to talk t 0 you and Dad about something." "Did he say wnat?" Mr. Lee asked, looking up from pot of soup he was stirring.

the

"No. He just said it was important and he wa s a piece of paper in his hand."

holdin g

"If it's what I'm afraid of, it's something ugly and I want no part of it," he said as he rinsed his hands in pre(laration to greet the visitor. "Jimmy, come with u3 ." Mr. Lewis had made his way into the living room and wa s walking around examining the Chinese water color that Mrs. Lee had done. "Nice, real nice," he mumbled to himself. "What can we do for you?" entered the room.

Mr.

Lee

"Oh, Mr. Lee. Nice to see you. How Lewis said as he extended his right hand.

announced are

you?"

he Mr.

"What can we do for you?" Mr. Lee repeated. "Okay, I'll get down to business. Mr. Lee, I don't know if you are aware of this, but a colored family is planning to move into the house across from yours. Yeah, old Mrs. Cantor's house. God rest her soul. Her kids didn't care about this here neighborhood. A group of us care about what happens to the area, and we wrote up this here petition." He shook the paper in his hand, continuing, "to make sure they don't come in. Because you know as well as I do, once they come in, the rest of them will. And before you know it, everywhere you turn, you'll see them coloreds either jitterbuggin' till three in the morning or shooting hoop. We're quiet people. We don't want them here. We mind our own business. We thought we'd let you sign, seein g how you're part of the neighborhood now," he said, handing him the petition. Mr. Lee took the sheet in his hand an d ex a min e~ it silently. After a few minutes he set it down on the coffee table and turned to Mr. Lewis. "No, my wife and I will not sign it. Five years ago when we moved into this neighborhood, there was a petition circulated against us. How can you possibly ask us to sign now?" he said firmly. "Gee, Mr. Lee, that was different. We didn't know any . thing about you folks then. You people turned out ok~ We like you Orientals. You keep your lawn clean and kids quiet. Christ, we wished we had more of you. Those coloreds are different. They rather live off welfare than work."

"You are poisoning your own children, Mr. Lewis, by circulating that petition. We won't. We will welcome that Black family into this neighborhood. We care too much." "Oh, you people got it all wrong." Mr. Lewis said after a while, scratching his head . "Look, " he said as he stood up. "I don't have to take this. If you don't want to sign, say so. If the neighborh oo d goes down the drain, we know who to point to." "We said we silence.

won't

sign,"

Jimmy

said

breaking

the

"Okay, I'll go. But let me tell you something. You, minorities, are all alike. You're all trouble makers ." "Goodbye, Mr. Lewis. Don't bother coming back," Mrs. Lee said as they watched him walk away. All. t~r~~ turned silent, numbed by what had happened. '.3 a::,dy Leun p

CJ 3nu ~..

MJL, •••

Recent events in Afghanist a n and the imminent reinstitution of military conscription have compelled me to evalu~te my allegiance to the United States, a question which I Do I consider 1ad considered unimportant for a while. 1yself art American? If so, since when? If not, why not? To ·1 nswer these questions, I decided to look back on my past ., ~ne years in the U.S. to see how I have c hanged and to J r edict what I may be changing into. My family immigrated to this country nine years ago fr om Korea. Even now I ~an remember the day of our departu re: I remember how my uncle ordered me never to return ur: less I was prepared to contribute to the Korean people in s ome way. I was only eleven then, full of imagination and dreams. My innocent conception of the United States was that it was a huge country inhabited by people with blond hair, blue eyes, and long noses a land that offered boundless opportunities of upward social mobility and vast material wealth. lo my parents, the immigration meant a partial cessation of life, a departure from the world they had known and loved to a world of uncertainty and unfamiliarity. Their only certainty was that they were prepared to do anything to enable my sisters ana me to pursue our education without restraint. To me, the immigration was merely an aaventure, a temporary journey to a strange land from which I would so meday return as a success. we only owneu a dozen suitcases and enough money to last us a few montns. we had no close relatives, not even a close friena in our new city, Los Angeles. we settled into . the cheapest apartment we could f ind: a one- be d room at ~o5 a ruonth. My parents worked six days a week, my father grinding iron and my mother gluing pieces o f samples all day long at minimum wage. we were one of thousands of Korean r·amilies in L.A. who · were going through similar experiences in the early 70's. all tne immigrants t'aced the common problems o f learning a new language, finding a job, coping with social and cultural differences, and adjusting to a dif f erent diet and climate. The concept of being a minority was hardest to accept; for tne first time in our lives, we were second-class citizens. L1,Q

uuring my first six years in the u.S., 1 never even considered the possibility of willingly risking my life for this country. I was a Korean, a foreigner. Not once did l think of myself as an American. I spent those years tryin g t o get ahe~d of my classmates. fhe white kids were my enemi<::..:; , . my rivals, my subordinates -- never my friends. I ;: ~ : 1, ,.., , 1i.-, :.: l: i1l~r,; Qn c riei ther did l wa nt tnem to like .. . on ly wcin L~u t o 06 r~s~ected by t nem, not necessarily be2a~ ~e 1 deserved it, but because l was Korean. When they we r e riu i c uling me, they were ridiculing Korea; when they i er e underrating me, they we re underrating Korea; when th e y ive 1Âˇe Âˇi gnoring me, they were ignoring Korea. I felt that l alwa \~ had to show how strong and tough Koreans were; they j uc ~ had to be taught that they should think twice before ant a gonizing a Korean! ln my junior year in high school, my attitude toward tne whites began to change as I became involved in the student government. The white students were no longer an amorphous, nameless mass that I detested; they were unique individuals. 1 could not help sympathizing with those wno had school and family problems; .(' it was my responsibility to reach out to them in some way. By my senior year, l no longer viewed myself as a foreigner; I was still a Korean, but hyphenated with American. At that t~me, I was not fully aware that I had begun to perceive myself as a KoreanAmerican. I have only recently realized that it was a radical departure from the attitudes of my first six years. l laid the thought of returning to Korea aside to deal with the more immediate problem of becoming an American. l realized that many people did not appreciate the fact that I was an Asian in an all-white high school. In the past, this would have angered me, but I was only saddened by their attitudes. I felt pressure to conform to their values an rl mores since I could never change their narrrow-mindedness. How can the problem of racial prejudice, expljcit and implicit, be solved? How must I react to it? Should my primary concern be assimilation or differentiation? These three questions did not have easy answers. All I could hope for was that future generations would be more open-minded. Recently, I have decided to return to Korea as l had promised nine years ago. My only fear is that this decision may turn out to be one of those idealistic, youthful dreams that a man relinquishes or forgets as he grows older. Thi s decision has not changed my attitude toward the American people greatly. My affinity with them will always remain with me, and if I am called to serve in the defense of this country, I will willingly do so. Anonymous l~ 1

The line which separates my two worlds is dark and

R~~~y

Like a top I sssp

. -B

.11

lnnn From one side

to the other dizzy undecided confused,

As a top must lose m e om nt

um â€˘â€˘

my stru m;Je will become and

will fall I

To one side

to the other. Susan Lee

Contributors Kheng-Chuan Chew is studying social studies at Harvard and is petitioning for an eighty-three hour day. Cynthia Chin-Lee likes toasted bagels with cream cheese, muppets, playing v•ith Alexander, spring flowers and poetry. Wai Fung, a student of photography is currently \·1ork ing on 2

series of landscapes on Hawaii and Boston.

Jenny Ann Khaw, a freshperson at Tufts, lives in Thailand. Peter Kiang is a senior at Harvard, interested in social change and makes animated films. Detty Kwong is a pensive native of Hong Kong. 3usan Lee is interested in dance, poetry and other forms of art. Sandra Leung, raised in Stamford, Connecticut, is seeking "truth, justice and the Asian-American way.·• Josephine Lok v1as b?rn in.Hong K ~me and has been livinG in Boston and Cambridge since h i=:- fa.rnily immigrated to the U.S. in 1972. Mon Mui enjoys playin¥ basketball and attends 11 u.fts Un· _ ersity in his spare time. iv Steven Pon was born in the s2mpan a ·t L 1 .v tide in Portchester, ;.;ev York. He hopes to become a Renai ::sance man but unfortunately he's still in the Dark Ages. Horacio Severino, a Filipino from i astern Texas ~s currently an English and International Relations double-maJor at Tuft s . Belinda Tam revisited Hong Kong and China this past Decemoer. Sonia Yamada is a Japanese-American vrho grew up in Japan, Europe, and in various parts of the U.S. l.ennt; th Yee came over from Hong Kone; at an early age and g:-r.,·• up in Boston Chinatown.

Winsor Cbo is about to graduate summa cum laude in sliding down rainbows.

Chinese Economic Development Council

Established in 1974, the CHINESE ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT

COUNCIL is a non-profit community development corporation whose purpose is to improve the socio-economic conditions of the Chinese American community in the Greater Boston area as well as to preserve, share, and enhance its cultural heritage . CEDC's divisions include: HOUSING AND LAND DEVELOPMENT BUSINESS DEVELOPMENT COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT/SUPPORT SERVICES -Newcomers Service Center and Bilingual Hotline -Manpower Program -Language Laboratory -Youth Center -Center for Chinese Art and Culture POSITION OPEN:

Project Analyst, Housing and Land Development-research and cost analysis of real estate projects. Show creativity and initiative, proposal writing skills. Inquiries may be made to: CEDC 20 Hudson Street Boston, MA 02111

Community Center 31 Beach Street Boston, MA 02111

ÂˇPatrons Our sincerest thanks to those who supported us spiritually an d f inancially: Len Matsunaga Dennis Fong Steven Pon Sandra Leune; Be tty Kwong Theodore Hayes Cynthia Chin-Lee Russell Harada Jon Chock Leonora Florendo Laurie Vong Debbie Leung

~ro f. Patrick Hanan Dr. r iyo Moriomoto Elisabeth and Ro~er 3wain Charles and Elaine Dunn Hov:ard and Susan Mc:i:, l Âˇ:'C" Leonora Florendo John Trasvena Sonia Yamada Jeffrey Fong Prof. Beatrix 'u Prof. Eleanor Chang Prof. Lynda Shaffer V

Staff K . C . Ch,JY.'

Cynthia Chin-Lee Pamela Chin Peter Choi Jeffrey Fong Kenneth Lee Susan Lee Typists:

Sandra Leun~ Steven Pon Horacio Severino Maryann Tang Joseph Tsai Laurie i''ong Sonia Yamada

Anna iiang, Andrew Ting , Perry Pong, Linda f.':ar, Steven Pon, Mary Yee, Kenneth Lee, Sandra Leun f , C~:.thia Chin-Le e

Calligraphy:

Sonia Yamada, Steven Pon