The rainbow connection.

Have you been half asleep?  And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm s'posed to be...
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

the color of nostalgia

 Over the summer, I attended my 10-year high school reunion.  And yes, I've just aged myself.  Anyway, I did not attend a typical high school in many respects.  For one, despite being a public school, my graduating class had just a little over 30 people in it.  Our high school has been described as "nerdy" more than enough times.  Case in point: we decided it might be fun to read some creative writing pieces at our reunion.  No joke.  The idea came from an activity we used to do in our Humanities class called RFTS (reading from the silence.)  The idea is that each person brings a piece that they've written.  It could be anything.  Then we sit in a circle and whenever someone has the impulse to read their piece, they begin.  When the person finishes, there is no verbal response.  We simply remain silent until the next person begins to read.  Here is the RFTS I wrote for my reunion on the plane ride to Seattle:   
     
          When I was seventeen, my mom got a new car and I was handed down her dark blue/green 1997 Honda Accord.  Over ten years later, I'm still driving the same car.  It's pretty incredible when you think about it.  In this day and age, there aren't many material goods that one would use for over ten years.  Maybe furniture or a pair of senior class Titan sweatpants.  A few days ago, as I drove along a congested, soul-sucking Los Angeles freeway, I found myself thinking about the history of my car and everything we had been through.  I'm sure my pending high school reunion had something to do with my nostalgia.  I glanced around that box of metal, rubber and plastic I've grown so accustomed to and felt like I had lived several lifetimes in that car.  If you look closely at the ceiling above the passenger seat, you can see brown syrupy specks from the time Andrea Carter's strawberry Jones soda exploded and pink, fizzy liquid dripped from her hair, face and ceiling of the car.  In the ashtray, you'll find remnants of Marlboro Lights from the year I decided to break up with my college boyfriend and replace him with cigarettes and reckless behavior.  In the glove compartment are my wisdom teeth.  Every other year or so, I'll find them and laugh hysterically, then put them back to find again later.  I've used that car as a refuge when I couldn't face the school day, work day, whatever day.  I've read in that car, slept in that car.  Almost daily, I eat and do my makeup in that car.  I change clothes between auditions in that car.  It has survived my senior year of high school, college, five years in LA, several road trip to Seattle and back, countless flat tires, a couple break-ins, heartfelt talks, torturous fights, and the beginnings, ends, and beginnings of relationships. 
          So much has happened and changed since I started driving this car.  And so much has not changed.  Recently my brother spent the weekend with me, after a year long deployment in Afghanistan.  While I was at work, he took my car to get washed.  He cleaned off the latte that had spilled on the drivers side door when I hurriedly tried to set it on the roof while digging in my purse.  He cleaned the inside of the car and even got all the candle wax that had melted in the cup holder.  (Don't as me how that got there.)  It reminded me of the fact that even though he's my little brother, he's always taken care of me, even when we were kids.  These days, I don't spend as much time alone in my car since my lovely boyfriend and I tend to carpool everywhere.  However, I still do many of the same things I did at seventeen: I still have a habit of reading every billboard out loud, I still try to harmonize with all of Motown's greatest hits, I still practice my lines for rehearsal or auditions, and I still stare out the window and daydream.

Blue.

"Let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers
A round for these friends of mine
Let's have another round for the bright red devil
Who keeps me in this tourist town..."


   www.jonimitchell.com

on shades of doubt...and belief

"You can be anything you want to be." 

"Believe in yourself and you can accomplish anything."

Sometimes I roll my eyes at these statements with such ire, I feel sorry that I've become such a sourpuss.  Yet, in my current state of affairs, I can't help but wonder if my generation has been somewhat misled.  Maybe we've been taught to have too much confidence in ourselves, so we desire nothing less than a life extraordinary.  Or maybe because we're told we can "be anything" we can't follow one solid trajectory.  As it stands, folks in their 20's are taking longer to achieve the markers of adulthood (career, marriage, kids).  If you read this article in the NY times, then you've heard this before.  The article features a psychologist who proposes that our 20's is a distinct stage of life called "emerging adulthood."  Emerging adulthood is largely marked as a period of ambivalence.  You feel like an adult, but at the same time, not really.  You feel certain that all your goals will be achieved, yet you have no certainty on how you'll accomplish this.  (Hmm...sounds familiar.)  So what propels us into adulthood?  Is it the realizing of our dreams, or the realizing that our dreams are impractical and we need to get a "real" job in order to make money, have stability, and acquire half the things we want?

I grew up with the notion that I was destined to be special.  Until I was about 8 years-old, I assumed there was some unseen audience watching my every move with vested interest (much like "The Truman Show").  Even when I realized this wasn't the case, I still felt that someday people would be glad they knew me.  All I needed was for someone to recognize my special light and I would be catapulted into fame and success.  Of course, as I got older, I realized this wasn't true.  I had to create my own success.  So after overcoming much fear of judgement and the unknown, I decided to move to LA to become an actress.  All I needed was determination, enthusiasm...talent (or something)....and I would succeed, right?  I can achieve anything I set my mind to!  

Yeah...it hasn't been as easy as that.  My first couple years in LA, I was so thrilled by every audition, opportunity and experience, I couldn't imagine ever tiring of it.  I was pursuing my DREAM and it felt amazing.   But as time went on, the parking tickets, disappointments, and bills, bills, bills piled up.  And what more strange, now there were yearnings for marriage, babies and a nice home.  Creepy!  Suddenly, the pursuit of happiness was no longer enough.  Sure, I had an agent, a few commercials and some short films under my belt, but outwardly my life wasn't any different from when I started (still broke as hell).  I was not the successful actress I thought I would be and to top it off, I had added new dreams and desires that didn't seem to coincide with the path I was already on.  So, what's a girl to do?  Do I keep pursuing my acting dreams and have faith that because it's what I want, I will eventually achieve it?  Or maybe the mantras aren't true and I could be missing out on some perfectly lovely experiences for fear of being ordinary.   

I used to nanny for two little girls with big personalities.  I'll call them Al and Ro for privacy's sake.  These girls were sisters.  Al was the younger.  She was care-free, imaginative and well-liked.  Ro was outspoken and determined (difficult).  They were enrolled in a summer camp that culminated in a play performance for family and friends.  Al's age group was performing 'Finding Nemo' and Ro's was doing 'Aladdin' (somehow I doubt they got the rights from Disney, but moving on...).  I went to pick up the girls at camp after the day of auditions.  When I arrived, Al was happily chirping with some friends, while Ro was nowhere to be found.  After a bit of searching, we found her sobbing in the grass.  I went over and gave her a hug.

"What's wrong?  Did something happen?"

"I..*sob*...didn't....*sob*...get the part...*sob*...of Jasmine!" she blubbered.

"Oh RoRo!  I'm so sorry.  But no matter what part you got, you're still going to shine onstage."

"BUT I WANTED TO BE THE STAAAAARRR!" she screamed.

"Ok, just calm down.  There are no big or little parts in a play.  Every person is equally important."

"THAT'S NOT TRUE!" she bellowed.

"Yeah," Al chimed in, "because I'm the star of my show."

"Al, I just said, there are no 'stars'."

"But the show's called 'Finding Nemo' and I'm Nemo," she said quite simply.  I could only blink at her.  Ro started to scream again...

"I DESERVE the part of Jasmine because I wanted it the MOST!!  I wanted it more than anybody, and they gave it to someone else!!"

"Ro, don't you think she wanted the part as well?"

"NO!!  I WANTED IT MORE THAN ANYBODY!  SO I DESERVE IT!  DON'T I?!  DON'T I?!!!"

At this point, she was beyond hysterical and I was without words.  How could I explain to an 8 year-old that just because you want something, it doesn't mean you deserve it.  And sometimes, even when you deserve it, it doesn't mean you'll get it.  Of course, in the midst of her hissy-fit, no explanation would have mattered, but years later I still don't have an answer.  Why did everything come so easily to Al, while Ro tried and tried, but to no avail?  Why do I see friends and classmates on TV and billboards, while I hack away at the same non-union commercials and barely make rent?  Maybe the reality is, some of us are meant to be stars and some of us are not, and the quicker we realize this, the better off we'll be.

So how do we know?  I have a burning desire, I submit for roles daily, I've studied in class, put in money for headshots, casting workshops on and on ....and yet, it doesn't seem to be working.  I'm angry...and heartbroken.  I'm not sobbing in the grass, but some days, I might as well be.  I want so badly to say, "That's it.  I'm over it.  I'm ready for something new," but I can't.  The only thing that's keeping me here is the belief  I can do it.  I BELIEVE I CAN DO IT!  Is that part of my training, ingrained in my head after seeing one too many posters in gyms and the school nurse's office?  Or is it something more than that?  The only thing I know for sure is that if you don't believe in yourself, you'll have a hard time finding anyone else who will.  Maybe it's a symptom of being in my 20's, but I still believe I can achieve all my dreams...I just don't know how the hell I'm going to do it.  

   

in my head...

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


William Carlos Williams

Color Me Twice: Hapa-style

"Hey...what are you?"

I've been asked this question countless times, and even though I'm quite used to it, there's still something awkward about the exchange.  What am I?  I understand that as humans we need to categorize our surroundings.  We see a person and begin to process what their age, gender, race, and class might be. It's how we make sense of the world.  I realize that when a person sees me, they're not sure where to check the race box.  I usually check "other."

Certainly, being an "other" has it perks.  I like that people wonder.  I'll get auditions for a "eurasian," or "mixed-race" role.  I've been told that I "blended really well," which makes me sound like a smoothie, but I'll take a compliment as readily as the next girl.  Despite all this,  my "other-ness" can still be a point of contention.

"Well, you've got a very exotic, ambiguous look...that's very two years ago.  It's not a bad thing, but the novelty has worn off." - Hollywood Agent

I didn't realize my face was out of style.

Recently, a casting director commented that my head shot looked "too white."  "You look more Asian in person, and you don't want to make the casting director look like an idiot when you walk in the room."  I don't know how to look more Asian or less white, or vice versa...Either way, it comes down to that question again: "What are you?"  

At various stages in my life, this question has affected me in different ways.  When I was in second and third grade, I lived on an army base in South Korea.  There were other kids with Korean moms and black or white American military dads, so I never felt like an "other."  It was only when we ventured off the base and into the city of Seoul that my appearance garnered attention.  What I didn't understand was that most everyone in Korea is...well, Korean... and because I looked different, I was kind of an interesting novelty. People would point at me and my brother and giggle, or they'd pinch my cheeks and say something I didn't understand.  "Why are they staring at me?" I'd ask my mom.  "Because they like you," she'd say.  But it didn't make sense to me.  I didn't feel liked; I felt embarrassed.  

It wasn't until a couple years later that I felt I had to define "what" I was.  My family was stationed in El Paso, TX where over 80% of the population is Mexican-American or Mexican.  I wanted what every adolescent wants: to belong.  However, there was dominate culture and language that I was not a part of..  Instead, I was "the Chinese girl."  I wanted to scream, "I'M NOT CHINESE, I'M NOT EVEN ASIAN!"  I didn't feel Asian.  In my mind, I didn't even look Asian.  My mom was Asian, not me.  So what was I?  White?  No.  I'm half...yeah, I'm half-asian.

It's funny to go through life thinking you're half of something.  It doesn't sound complete.    As I've gotten older, I'll often identify myself as Asian.  I make jokes about my Asian-ess and it seems to put people at ease.  Yet, when I visit my mom's side of the family in Korea, I'm the American cousin...I'm white.  And really, I AM that too.  There's a book by Kip Fulbeck that deals with this topic specifically.  It's called Part Asian, 100% Hapa.  "Hapa" is taken from the Hawaiian word for "half" and was once a derogatory term.  It's now a term of pride for many people whose mixed-race heritage includes Asian or Pacific Island descent.

ha•pa (hä’pä) adj. 1. Slang. of mixed ethnic heritage with partial roots in Asian and/or Pacific Islander ancestry. n. 2. Slang. a person of such ancestry. [der./Hawaiian: hapa haole. (half white)]


In Part Asian, 100% Hapa, Kip Fulbeck photographed numerous Hapas and asked the question: "What are you?"  Here's how some of them answered:

My mom was raised in a different culture than me, but because of her, I grew up differently than my dad.  When I look in the mirror, I can see both my parents. I no longer feel angry or embarrassed when someone asks, "What are you?"  I am not one thing or another; I am both; I'm different.  And I'm happy.

A Color of the Sky

My dear friend Michelle-Marie introduced me to this poem a few years ago, but it crosses my mind every so often... especially on a rare wet spring day in LA, such as today.  Enjoy.

A Color of the Sky

BY TONY HOAGLAND

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,

driving over the hills from work.

There are the dark parts on the road

                     when you pass through clumps of wood   

and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,   

but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize

for being so boring at dinner last night,

but can I really promise not to be that way again?   

And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing   

in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;

the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves

are full of infant chlorophyll,   

the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,   

and on the highway overpass,

the only metaphysical vandal in America has written   

MEMORY LOVES TIME

in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.

She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.   

Years ago she penetrated me

but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,   

I never got her out,

but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.   

What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.   

What I thought was an injustice

turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store   

and the police station,

a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,   

like a sudsy mug of beer;

like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.   

It’s been doing that all week:

making beauty,

and throwing it away,

and making more.

Tony Hoagland, “A Color of the Sky” from What Narcissism Means to Me. Copyright © 2003 by Tony Hoagland. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.