“Metaphors” by Sylvia Plath and “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop

Today, we're turning back time two years ago this winter break to fully document my favorite responses so far in classes at Stony Brook, beginning with EGL 204 (Spring 2020) with Marisa Stano and Prof. E.K. Tan! Poring over my class notes, I dug the following up, where I analyze the concrete and metaphorical worlds of two poems for my first response of the class which was cleverly titled "Strolling on Two Tendrils and Two Rivers." Also, I'll include a couple of gems from my written notes almost exactly two years ago to this day:

-Writing is a way to contain and master emotion

Structure & Style: -A recollection  -mediation  -inquisition  -realization

-Life always comes back, time is transcendent

Despite my extensive past experience studying and creating poetry, the poems “Metaphors” by Sylvia Plath and “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop never fail to stand out as examples of how metaphors and imagery can induce powerful experiences of seeing and unseeing in unsuspecting readers. In both of these poems, there is a singular moment where a captivating shift between concrete and abstract observations occurs, that cleverly persuades the reader into the poet’s universe. For example, in “Metaphors,” the split between the real and the unreal occurs at the very beginning of the poem, where the narrator states that “I’m a riddle in nine syllables.” The authority and mystery of this first line captivates us and guides us into believing what seem like outlandish metaphors in the rest of the poem, such as “A melon strolling on two tendrils,” and “money’s new-minted in this fat purse.” In comparison, the first line appears to be the most mysterious line of the poem due to the nine-syllable riddle left unsaid, until the reader realizes that Plath is referring to pregnancy. By starting off confident in its embrace of the ridiculous and focusing on the mysterious sensations of pregnancy using metaphors felt throughout the whole body, “Metaphors” grants us empathy into the poet’s personal universe of sensation, which would have been unique and unseen by outside individuals if not for being laid bare in this poem. 

Another touching example of how the unseen becomes visible in poetry is in “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop. This time, the shift between the concrete and the imaginary or personal world occurs more subtly and not as audaciously as in Plath’s “Metaphors.” Bishop’s usage of a strict villanelle structure cleverly tries to persuade us that everything that occurs in the poem will be logical and simple to understand, as the reader follows the soothingly hypnotic rhymes and alliteration down each stanza. Instead of an audacious abstract statement in the first line like in “Metaphors,” Bishop leads us along the path of her experience with largely concrete, relatable claims about the nature of losing objects such as keys and houses, as well as commonly lost information such as names and places. As such, the shift between the concrete and imaginary becomes incredibly convincing -- by the fifth stanza where Bishop claims she “lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent,” we are fully persuaded by her argument after her previous consecutive realistic claims. Maybe it is possible to lose cities and continents just as easily as watches and keys. And maybe it is possible to lose people close to you without it being a disaster. Luckily, Bishop seems to realize her mistake, when she finishes by stating that the art of losing “may look like (Write it!) like disaster.” She appears to realize that the universe where losing doesn’t matter, that she has tried so hard to convince us of, has ceased to be convincing the moment she implies that losing people can be just as inconsequential as losing little concrete items. The poet gives up persuading us of the legitimacy of her imaginary universe and demonstrates her respect for readers’ emotional intelligence when the narrator apologizes and says  “I shan’t have lied,” knowing that suspension of disbelief has likely been broken for many readers who have experienced the concrete devastation of losing people. However, the beauty of the personal universe of “One Art” does not overstay its welcome, tempting us with its idealistic conviction that we are all mostly strong enough to possess and lose unseen cities, continents, and extraordinary people, with an emotional resilience hidden just behind the concrete knickknacks and disappearances of ordinary life. 

"There's no money in poetry because most of my neighbors, and most of yours, don't have any use for it. If, at a neighborhood yard sale, you happened to find the original handwritten manuscript of T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," you could take it to every quick shop in your city and you wouldn't find a single person who would trade you ten gallons of gas for it." - Ted Kooser

An additional word on poetry: hearing frequently from fellow students and even serendipitous encounters with members of the community that they don't understand the genre or the purpose of poetry at all, means an opportunity to educate many people! The header image for this post was taken from a Google search of "poetry photo iowa city," which is the location of the famed Iowa Writers Studio and whose high school program I experienced on scholarship. It is a portion of the Literary Walk, a series of bronze panels featuring the works of 49 writers with ties to Iowa, highlighting moving quotes and art about books and writing. Apparently, it was conceptualized by the Iowa City Public Art Advisory Committee in 1999, which means the landmark is exactly the same age as me. 

Walking alone down the streets of Iowa City during early summer evenings at age sixteen, I felt deeply the significance of the location while exploring shops and storefronts, the sky dimming in my wake yet conversely reinvigorating the air around me, as if I were moving in the shadows of a water-stained bell jar. Bookstores like Prairie Lights Books and Cafe, a wide, well-lit space reminiscent of commercial bookstores such as Barnes and Noble or the Strand, where our cohort read our final pieces for Iowa City locals, and The Haunted Bookshop, a charming and quainter atmosphere where I navigated thin alleys and closely-placed tall bookshelves while petting a particularly indolent cat by the windowsill, made an impression on me as locations of literary appreciation and community. While workshopping fiction in an intimate group setting of approximately ten students with Maria Kuznetsova, we learned about tornado warnings, pizza farms, murder mysteries, and were catered to by particularly kind and encouraging campus staff for two weeks. The appreciation for literature was insurmountable at the University of Iowa and surrounding Iowa City, as one of 42 UNESCO Cities of Literature on 32 countries and 6 continents. 

Prairie Lights in this picture looks as it did when we read there!

However, I found the second image for this post interesting as well, as it perpetuates an unnecessary stereotype about poetry being inherently opposed to financial value. On the contrary: there is money to be made, fun to be had, and communities to enrich with poetry, the genre of which frequently represents the greatest freedom of linguistic and emotional expression possible. Recently, I enjoyed browsing the Stony Brook Creative Writing BFA testimonials as a representation of the value of creative writing through many student voices. 

I'll be honest - poetry means a lot to me. From chasing after writers to get them to sign the free books I received at writing workshops, such as my pursuit of an elderly, wheelchaired James Tate to sign my copy of The Ghost Soldiers when I was fourteen years old at the Juniper Institute for Young Writers at UMass Amherst, to receiving signed copies of Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith at City College and other various chapbooks at the Brooklyn Public Library, poetry and other forms of creative writing defined my entire high school and early college years (as well as my bookshelf at home). Small presses would send me publications monthly by mail whenever I'd landed a piece in their magazine, and memories of ascending stages and moving to the front of a well-attended event to read across the country persist. Through writing poetry and other assorted short pieces even as a young high-schooler, I spent all of my afterschool time exploring writing cultures as wide ranging as the Asian American Writers' Workshop and Girls Write Now to the Nuyorican Cafe and Gold Comedy, prowling the heart of the city and country as a frequent poetry presenter and student. Participating in poetry truly made New York City feel like home to me, a young Chinese American woman, and gave me an insider's look at a wonderfully inclusive literary culture. 

These experiences completely changed my life and career aspirations and I hope to share the value of studying the humanities with all of you. It was my heavy involvement in competitive teen poetry in NYC and submitting to online spaces as localized on the Submittable platform that led to the Iowa Young Writers Studio and further discoveries in creative writing as well as extensive travel opportunities including the art and science education program Girls on Icy Fjords. Poetry is a unique form, both academically and professionally, and learning it on any level, whether you're a beginner or experienced performer may help you stand out in whatever you do. On Silkworm Reading, the literary culture of these educational spaces is reflected in the readings chosen for QUICK CREATIVE INSPIRATION and the Resources We Love sidebar. For excellent exercises to create modern poetry cohesive with the evolving, cutting-edge youth writing scene, may I refer you to Christina Im's syllabi for results of an exciting and provocative nature.

To end the semester of Fall 2021, after a difficult academic hiatus during the pandemic, I read a poem and short piece about the English major, cultural heritage, the metaphorical usages of violence, and random hijinks such as a one-credit internship with the University Police Department with fellow Chinese Americans. My instructor for CWL 305, Rajdeep Paulus, had nominated me for the event, and the reading was attended by many classmates and community members (over fifty, by memory), bringing us closer together. The following is the roster of those who read along with me:

It's exciting to see former teachers publish a novel, or classmates found a lit mag or win a fellowship, being fully immersed in literary culture by following each of your connections' lives, and engaging in exchanges that can be more intense than those in real life through the often personal nature of creative writing. A sense of community is absolutely imperative if the humanities are to survive their frequent denigration by those less educated about its benefits, and this post's origin as a review for the very first response for EGL 204, a common requirement for the English major and a frequently-taken general education elective, should indicate the many possibilities that follow intensive study of poetry. 

Readings for this week:

"Metaphors" by Sylvia Plath

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop

"Ode to a Grecian Urn" by John Keats

"Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop

"In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound

Final Reflection

In the course AAS 232: Introduction to Asian American Fiction and Film, I experienced a comprehensive survey to the wide variety of Asian American media available today, gaining great amounts of knowledge as to the writers, narrative forms, and big ideas behind some of our most necessary stories. During the first quarter of the semester, I enjoyed learning about the vicissitudes of which topics each creator found important to share with the world, rooted in Asian American history and resplendent diversity in ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, and life experiences. Exploring the connections between capitalism and the Asian American experience helped me understand potential present-day links as well, in addition to highlighting the importance of examining my own and others' lives for significance. I drew many parallels with the people and cultural trends I know exist in real life, making each reading feel personal. For example, career stagnation and discrimination in Sui Sin Far's work, "Japanese Hamlet," The Hanging on Union Square, and No-No Boy echo similar conflicts in reality. For the next quarter of the semester, revisiting short stories from Maxine Hong Kingston and discovering new ones by Jhumpa Lahiri was impactful, with my first academic introduction to Asian American film in the movie Eat a Bowl of Tea. Though I had read The Woman Warrior in high school, the background knowledge provided in the online modules really clarified much of the information and elevated it in importance as the course focuses deeply on Asian American literature instead of only placing the novel as a one-time literary offering. Themes of immigration and cultural preservation really moved me at this point in the course, as the immersive amounts of detail in each short story resonated as authentic markers of cultural thinking and behavior, and I felt grateful that Kingston and Lahiri chose to humanize the Asian American experience to such a deep extent. Eat a Bowl of Tea presented to me a version of my heritage that has been lost to my knowledge upon immigrating to America, and through the passing of time, evoking deep emotions as I watched realistic characters interact in the setting of a post-WWII America and China, places and times I would never be able to access and feel if not for the existence of this media. In the third quarter of the course, Shortcomings and Tropic of Orange taught me that I wasn't alone in thinking about the importance of travel to the Asian American experience, as well as the importance of mining the present day and modern relationships for significance when we're tempted to think that all the important things have already been written about in past literary classics  The unique mediums that these two works are created in, the graphic and magical realist novels, gave me new ideas as to what I might write about in my personal work, from being bold and realistic in dialogue to the benefits of centering writing around a specific city and adding magical elements to the setting to enhance awe and emotion. Finally, I headed into the final quarter of the course with a sense of closure as we watched modern films such as Crazy Rich Asians and read twenty-first century fiction such as The Reluctant Fundamentalist, providing insights into a perspective apart from American patriotism and critiquing the values of the country as they result in racial discrimination. Ultimately, AAS 232 has been a wonderful introduction to the components of Asian American film and literature, and inspires me to continue consuming and thinking about new media today. 

Shortcomings by Adrian Tomine

Shortcomings by Adrian Tomine was a welcome revelation for me, as the only graphic novel I chose to encounter in this course, and as a depiction of modern Asian American life during the twenty-first century. The graphic novel opens with a moment that defines the main character Ben Tanaka as a cynical, disillusioned narrator, critiquing the originality of an Asian American film festival, and uniquely showing the emotions of shame and bitterness involved in the conception of one's identity as distorted by the social conditions of America. One aspect that really caught my attention was the care taken to highlight the flaws of each character, not just Ben -- his bitter and deeply cynical perspective on the world also defines the characters populating the world around him. In his conversations it is more frequent that the negativity, tempers, and isolation hidden beneath the veneer of politically-correct race relations is more viscerally drawn than its opposite, as with the following snippet of dialogue:

Miko: "How would you like it if I were obsessed with pictures of big, muscular African-American men?" 

Ben: "Yeah, right...you reach for your pepper spray the minute you see a black guy walking towards you on the street!"

Beginning with a heady scene with Ben refusing to clap for the winning film at a local Asian American film festival, it becomes especially clear that the characters Tomine has chosen to portray are deeply assimilated into American society, or what their idea of America is, that may or may not be inaccurate and absorbent of all its worst traits. Some of the moments where Ben perpetuates the ideology of the surrounding society, essentially projecting the worst biases of the dominant viewpoint of white men onto his experiences and personal relationships, include his criticism of the film despite his low position in the industry as a theater manager and his conflicts over racial attraction with his girlfriend Miko, with whom he perpetually disengages, separates, and reconciles throughout the graphic novel and thousands of miles of geographical distance between the Bay Area and NYC. As their relationship simmers out Miko travels to the Asian American Independent Film Institute in New York for a four-month internship, and both explore alternate white romantic options, the interlinked relationships implode in simple yet intensely realistic and moving ways. 

The six characters of the graphic novel are drawn in profile on the title page, ordered by importance to the narrative, with brief descriptions for each that helps reader understanding and reduces the amount of exposition in the comic itself, causing it to appear as if realistic dialogue is this graphic's novel's priority as well as what it does best. As Ben commiserates with his lesbian friend Alice Kim and develops limerence for Autumn Phelps and Sasha Lenz, Miko embarks on a life of her own away from the growing conflicts between her and Ben and with a half-Jewish, half-Native American photographer. When Miko finally shuts Ben out physically and emotionally from her NYC apartment, calling him out on the depression, anger issues, and negativity she has observed, he appears to have matured in the story's final instant, when he rebukes Alice gently with potentially the first hint of empathy and understanding he has demonstrated, with a calm "we all have our reasons" phrase and departs back to the Bay Area in a solitary state. 

Significant moments as well as moments of departure are emphasized by a certain visual repetition in what is known as sequential art, particularly in the first departure and geographical separation while seeing Miko off to New York at Oakland Airport the ending scene portraying Ben's tumultuous emotional state where nothing changes between gutters except for the airplane window showing the shifting landscape outside as he takes flight. The comic vocabulary list provided with the course this week helped me learn many new terms about the art of graphic novels, which stoked my appreciation for the form -- the last time I encountered it was at leisure in bookstores during high school, not caring where I sat down on the beige carpet or how numb my calves became if I could visually suck in entire ATLA comics. 

Throughout, the book rings with a sharp sense of humor, but with the sensation like I was trying to hack up a piece of desiccated food stuck in my throat, ranging from the sardonic relatability of, yet typically unable to be voiced out loud in real life outside of private discussions, Ben's harsh film judgment, to the quote:

Alice: "If you hang out with her one more time and don't make a move, be prepared to be banished to neutered Asian friend territory forever! You might already be on your way..."

Ben: "Never! I shall never return to that horrible land again!" 

It becomes clear solely through dialogue that the novel is shirking a certain harmonious collectivism present in many Asians who adhere to the original culture and trading it for profanity-laced verbal sparring and acerbic observations true to the heart of liberal, coastal urban cities and potentially all following generations after immigration. The course of Ben's life is marked by casual reminders of the overarching attitudes of society, mired in revolving concepts of race and racism, and how they deeply impact him in ways beyond his imagination. His emotional turmoil manifests in quick criticisms that divide and repel his companions, and is achingly familiar to me even in real life individuals. 

The form of the graphic novel unexpectedly supports and buffets this unlikable, pessimistic narrator as the story covers near everyone's shortcomings (title drop) and artistically illuminates the modern condition of race relations in a way everyone can understand, the dynamics of Ben's closest relationships. Gender identity, cultural expectations, and racial prejudice are deftly handled, for example, through Alice Kim's tough-talking personality as a guide into untranslated Korean spaces as well as dubious lesbian parties, and the interaction of Miko and her white boyfriend marked by untranslated Japanese, all of which are remarked upon by Ben, near-primal in their immediacy, negative interpretations regular people understand in a visceral and choking sensation, but are afraid to say out loud.

The upcoming film adaptation by Randall Park seems perfectly poised to emphasize the cinematic quality of Shortcomings as a graphic novel with complex characters -- as Tomine says in this interview, stories promote empathy and that while exemplary characters may help fend off anti-Asian prejudice, complicated characters such as Ben help audiences understand the multifaced humanity of Asian Americans. The price of perfection is hollowness, apparently -- empathy seems to necessitate a careful, almost voyeuristic self-destruction, and I was glad that Tomine decided to share such an intimate portrayal of Asian American relationships with the public, and in such lifelike dialogue across the black and white.

These few weeks' readings:

Shortcomings by Adrian Tomine

Tropic of Orange by Karen Tei Yamashita

Skim by Mariko Tamaki

One! Hundred! Demons! by Lynda Barry 

Better Luck Tomorrow dir. Justin Lin

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

Vietnamerica: A Family’s Journey by GB Tran 

The Farewell dir. Lulu Wang

Crazy Rich Asians dir. Jon M. Chu

Citations

Tomine, Adrian. Shortcomings. London: Faber and Faber, 2007.

The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri

"In my son's eyes I see the ambition that had first hurled me across the world. In a few years he will graduate and pave his way, alone and unprotected. But I remind myself that he has a father who is still living, a mother who is happy and strong. Whenever he is discouraged, I tell him that if I can survive on three continents, then there is no obstacle he cannot conquer. While the astronauts, heroes forever, spent mere hours on the moon, I have remained in this new world for nearly thirty years. I know that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first. Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination." 

Excerpt from "The Third and Final Continent" by Jhumpa Lahiri

One of the highlights of my time in AAS 232 was reading Jhumpa Lahiri's work for the first time, in the form of three selected short stories called “When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine," “Interpreter of Maladies” and “The Third and Final Continent,” all of which are richly textured with human experience and deceptively simple details. The influence of history, food, and location are all essential to much of the narratives as they are the conversation topics of many characters, and demonstrate an extreme realism that makes each story convincing, tying the material objects of the everyday to the movements of characters within society. The divides of immigration and war are enlarged through narrative details, such as in "When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine" where historical context about the conflict between Hindus and Muslims is seen through the child narrator Lilia's eyes:

He told me that during Partition Hindus and Muslims had set fire to each other's homes. For many, the idea of eating in the other's company was still unthinkable. It made no sense to me. Mr. Pirzada and my parents spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, looked more or less the same. They ate pickled mangoes with their meals, ate rice every night for supper with their hands...Nevertheless my father insisted that I understand the difference, and he led me to a map of the world taped to the wall over his desk. He seemed concerned that Mr. Pirzada might take offense if I accidentally referred to him as an Indian, though I could not really imagine Mr. Pirzada being offended by much of anything.

The commonalities between individuals are shown beyond the boundaries of national identity and historical conflict as Mr. Pirzada becomes an established element of the family and then just as quickly vanishes from their lives apart from a card expressing gratitude. When the narrator experiences transference of the feeling of longing for an individual from Mr. Pirzada, the emotional impact of immigrants separated over oceans becomes distilled more forcefully for the child narrator, who experiences Mr. Pirzada's presence and absence with a sense of bonding beyond borders. Initially, she cannot sense the significance of the Partition of India and Pakistan in the protective and familial presence of Mr. Pirzada, yet world events poignantly impact their relationship, only to be fully realized with his forever departure back to his native land. 

Cultural traits such as collectivism are reflected in moments such as the seamless unity of Mr. Pirzada and the narrator's parents as they endure the crisis of the twelve-day war between India and Pakistan: "Most of all I remember the three of them operating during that time as if they were a single person, sharing a single meal, a single body, a single silence, and a single fear. Jhumpa Lahiri's stories perfectly capture the cultural traits of life as it is lived through immigrants, including the ways family attempt to remedy their isolation through unique actions such as flipping through the university directory to invite people with one's country's surnames to their home. 

The conception of national identity and its relationship to cultural identity continues to be mulled over in the other two stories, as the narrator examines the life of an immigrant through three continents in "The Third and Final Continent." Throughout, journeys through time and space are emotionally impactful, articulated through the lyricism of the language and covering topics ranging from interracial interactions to the physical and cultural distance between countries. In "The Third and Final Continent," the lives of recent immigrants are depicted realistically and movingly, as well as the cross-racial friendship with the unnamed narrator's landlord Mrs. Croft. The significance of Mrs. Das's affair in "Interpreter of Maladies" is enhanced when she connects with the titular interpreter Mr. Kapasi while touring India with her family, due to immigrant ideals of life and love being transformed by movements across oceans. Each detail captures character with an intense meticulousness, and lends naturally to film as well as the imagination as readers compare and contrast what they witness to their existing knowledge of reality and understanding of culture. 

The stories in my opinion almost become especially polished and relatable for individuals with knowledge of immigrant backgrounds that never breaks its veneer of calmness. This style seems appealing for people of all ages instead of taking any risks in potentially negative representation, such as more innovative language or the depiction of immigrant children who do not attend elite colleges or are not involved with relatively peaceful narrators who let the setting and situation speak for them. When you compare the tone of Jhumpa Lahiri's stories with knowledge of the messages conveyed in Orientalism by Edward Said, they seem to operate as microresistances in a way, to trends of Western superiority most frequently on the personal level demonstrated in microaggressions:

He told me that during Partition Hindus and Muslims In a quite constant way, Orientalism depends for its strategy on this flexible positional superiority, which puts the Westerner in a whole series of possible relationships with the Orient without ever losing him the relative upper hand. And why should it have been otherwise, especially during the period of extraordinary European ascendancy from the late Renaissance to the present? The scientist, the scholar, the missionary, the trader, or the soldier was in, or thought about, the Orient because he could be there, or could think about it, with very little resistance on the Orient's part. Under the general heading of knowledge of the Orient, and within the umbrella of Western hegemony over the Orient during the period from the end of the eighteenth century, there emerged a complex Orient suitable for study in the academy, for display in the museum, for reconstruction in the colonial office, for theoretical illustration in anthropological, biological, linguistic, racial, and historical theses about mankind and the universe, for instances of economic and sociological theories of development, revolution, cultural personality, national or religious character.

The history of depictions of the East as inferior to the West becomes important to consider in the development of Jhumpa Lahiri's writing style, as a relatively successful Indian American immigrant to the United States herself. Her soothing tone narrates the impact of historical conflicts and cross-cultural encounters on individual families, and realism lends to these stories' power, yet their likability and popularity reflects a motive of humanizing immigrants for an American audience. 

Lahiri seems to write with the "upper hand" this time as per Said's terms in being the financial benefactor of book sales with the 2000 Pulitzer, resisting demeaning objectification of the East instead of being in an inferior position to Western culture. As a result, her stories are so precise that they are reminiscent of the "complex Orient suitable for study in the academy, for display in the museum" as she records details for posterity, with a lesser investigation into conflict and emotion, that, to be fair, does characterize Western styles of storytelling more than Eastern literature. I truly enjoyed the glimpse into the lives of Indian immigrants that Lahiri has granted us, as she expands the often understated influence that historical events and everyday observations have on our lives. It made me wonder whether the COVID-19 pandemic will be immortalized in immigrant literature, as significant as the moon landing and the Indian-Pakistani conflict, and is a reminder that we live in interesting times and that our temporal and spatial location may influence us beyond our conscious awareness.

Citations:

Lahiri, Jhumpa. Interpreter of Maladies. “Interpreter of Maladies.” Mariner Books, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1999.

Said, Edward. Orientalism. Penguin Books, 1979.

Eat a Bowl of Tea dir. Wayne Wang

Uncle Wang: Ben Loy, your uncle is going to do you a favor. I have an opening at my factory out in Jersey. It is a good job, with a great future. You know, you’ll be doing a smart thing if you accept this offer.

Mei Oi: Let’s go home.

Ben Loy Wang: We can't. (Eat a Bowl of Tea, 1:17:15)

The rise of Asian American cinema in the 1980s and 1990s has been a previously unexplored topic, and I had very little knowledge about Asian American cinema before coming across the film Eat a Bowl of Tea, which deeply impacted me as it was the first time writing about an Asian American film for an academic assignment. The nuances of gender and sexuality are especially touched upon in this movie as they coalesce with historically significant times in Manhattan's Chinatown, in the same city of my residence and the same borough of my high school. Beautiful visuals of locations ranging from a bustling wedding reception in downtown Manhattan to a fortune cookie factory in Jersey and the populated rooms and fresh fields of China enhanced my viewing experience, and helped me understand several messages I believe the film tries to convey. 

For example, Ben Loy's homecoming to China moves me because of the sharp contrast between his life in America, objectified as a war hero by an oppressed population even as he is welcomed home, and the airy, nature-infused traditional scenes filled with crowds of children in China where he meets his future wife Mei Oi. Scenes involving the dwindling fortunes and marriage prospects of the Chinese American immigrants the longer they remain in America, even as they work to the bone to make a living and become spiritually distant from China, refreshingly transitions into a fresh vision of the people they left behind, one that is heartrending to me in its accuracy to what I have always thought the atmosphere would be during my grandparents' youth. The divides between family members such as Ben Loy's mother and father marked by long absences across oceans and continents are endured with resilience, yet the fact that their distance is never resolved is a sobering conclusion as Ben Loy and his family move further and further away from their homeland.

In the film Eat a Bowl of Tea directed by Wayne Wang, finding work is deeply associated with Asian American identity, as many immigrants arrived in America to become financially well-off before moving back to their homeland. The inclusion of the history of Chinese American participation in the second World War and the discriminatory legislation of the Chinese Exclusion Act was fascinating to me. Even more fascinating was the main characters' stagnation in both capitalistic worth and personal relationships are initially unclear. Even after the strict immigration laws have been changed, Ben Loy’s father still does not visit his wife living in China who longs for him to visit, and is later shown having taken a vacation to Cuba and moving to San Francisco with his daughter-in-law and son, who has found a job there in radio broadcasting. Ultimately, it seems that American racism has shaped mentalities where even after immigration laws are relaxed Chinese men feel as if they cannot visit China and must stay in the United States, abandoning the people they left behind in China and eventually assimilating to their local surroundings beyond the ethnic enclave of New York City’s Chinatown. 

During an exchange at a post office, Ben Loy’s father comments that “Business is...No, no. So-so. Otherwise, I gotta send her more money” (Eat a Bowl of Tea, 6:16). His refusal to support his wife with more wealth, and lack of interactions with her throughout the film marks a complete severance of his relationship with his wife, a reminder of his past in China, and his full focus on his son and daughter-in-law’s new child by the end of the film on the other side of the nation. As a result, the pressures of racism have transformed Ben Loy’s father’s relationship with his past in the Chinese motherland, represented by him refusing to spend more money on his kin. Ben Loy’s father has become disconnected with his pre-immigration past due to internalized racism, and demonstrates this by stagnating on sharing his wealth with extended family as a form of connection.

More nuanced cultural traditions are preserved in scenes that depict the power of family connections in New York City’s Chinatown, such as an uncle doing Ben Loy a favor due to the shame and loss of face Mei Oi’s affair with Ah Song has caused their family. However, the reality is that Ben Loy gives up his job as restaurant manager for a much simpler yet stressful and lower status job as a fortune cookie maker, exchanging money and status for the sake of his human relationships. By giving up a proportion of capitalistic value, Ben Loy helps his family’s reputation by removing himself from the Chinese American community and receives more time spent with Mei Oi, but he does not think he has a choice in the decision. Cultural stigma against infidelity forces Ben Loy out of the ethnic community, and despite exchanging wealth for greater time spent with his wife Mei Oi, his relationships remain broken as he and Mei Oi fight during their extra time together and his father later commits violence in the Asian American community against Mei Oi’s suitor Ah Song. 

The constraints of capitalism and culture intersect to make Ben Loy think he has no choice in changing his work location to be outside of the Chinese community, and leave Ben Loy and Mei Oi feeling without a home just as the previous generation feel they cannot return to China even after immigration laws are relaxed. A focus on accumulating capitalistic wealth within a racially discriminatory society that frequently limits Chinese individuals to the lowest status jobs has first weakened Ben Loy’s personal relationship with his wife, then his earning potential and relationships with his ethnic community. As a result, Ben Loy experiences paralysis in both his career and human relationships. Family traumas, cultural tradition, and historical prejudice seem to all combine to deeply constrain each individual immigrant's personal path, in ways beyond understanding, even as new opportunities open wide. 

Many themes depicted in the film exist today in different manifestations as well, and can be observed in other Asian American cinema, by using resources such as the especially extensive history on this private blog. Some decisions in the film make more sense with context, such as seeing the choice of the half-white Russell Wong for the Chinese lead as an exaggerated reaction to historical emasculation, or Ben Loy's father traveling as a metaphor for detachment from preimmigration family, but also slightly flawed in their exaggeration and humor that makes the main concept seem less important. Some parts enforce existing biases and questionable takeaways such as the lack of consequences for behavior that hurts others and a vast geographical and mental divide between the homeland and America, which may no longer be true insofar as the world is "smaller" today through our forms of digital connection and the recession of unquestioned white dominance through awareness of racial discrimination in younger generations. From what I have observed there has been improvement, yet not extending everywhere, or very far beyond the boundaries of colleges and big cities. 

Scrolling through the seemingly endless list of Asian American films, promotional material, actors, and actresses, I felt a sense of awe and acceptance at the existence of many more figures of Asian American cinema that I could have ever imagined or known about, and at a solid and extensive history that seems conceptually to take the pressure off creative workers such as writers to produce the next best thing that pleases enough people to be made, and to fend off criticism from all sides as per Maxine Hong Kingston last week. As a newcomer to Asian American cinema who has been pleased by the works I have encountered, and influenced by the company of films to a point where I felt my identity shift to something new, modern, and less anxiety-ridden about the isolation of creative work, I am inspired to fill in the potential missteps and triumphs of forebears with my own thoughts. 

This week's materials:

Eat a Bowl of Tea

The Joy Luck Club

The Wedding Banquet (Amazon Prime)

Citations:

Eat a Bowl of Tea. Dir. Wayne Wang. Columbia Pictures, 1989. 

The Woman Warrior and "Cultural Mis-readings by American Reviewers" by Maxine Hong Kingston

When I write most deeply, fly the highest, reach the furthest, I write like a diarist- that is, my audience is myself. I dare to write anything because I can burn my papers at any moment. 

One of the readings that was most impactful for me this week was the essay "Cultural Mis-readings by American Reviewers" by Maxine Hong Kingston in Asian and Western Writers in Dialogue: New Cultural Identities edited by Guy Amirthanayagam, which spawned the question, how do others' perceptions of creative work affect the intentions of the author? Kingston lists an extensive list of misinterpretations of her writing with undertones of exoticism and alienation, which becomes fascinating when used to understand perceptions of Chinese Americans from other people's points of views, and as such affects the extent of what people do to counter these stereotypes:

Joan Henriksen in a clipping without the newspaper's name: 'Chinese-Americans always "looked"- at least to this WASP observer- as if they exactly fit the stereotypes I heard as I was growing up. They were "inscrutable.'' They were serene, withdrawn, neat, clean and hard-workers. The Woman Warrior, because of this stereotyping, is a double delight to read.' She goes on to say how nicely the book diverges from the stereotype. How dare they call their ignorance our inscrutability!

Going through these reviews creates a strong impression of how the reactions to an author's work can be even more influential, as these reviews likely reached more people than those who actually read The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston. The responsibility of a writer becomes even more urgent yet can be paralyzing, as when the stereotypical reviews continue and outnumber the more accurate ones. Kingston's reactions to each review is as revealing and edifying as the stories making up her novel, emphasizing her Americanness, which has often been historically denied to people such as Asian Americans whose appearance can evoke connotations of foreignness, even within positive reviews:

Kate Herriges in an ecstatically complimentary review in The Boston Phoenix: 'Subtle, delicate yet sturdy, it [The Woman Warrior] is ineffably Chinese.' No. No. No. Don't you hear the American slang? Don't you see the American settings? Don't you see the way the Chinese myths have been transmuted by America? No wonder the young Asian American writers are so relentlessly hip and slangy. (How I do like Jane Howard's phrase in her Mademoiselle review: 'Irrevocably Californian.' I hope the thirty per cent of reviewers who wrote sensible pieces accept my apologies for not praising them sufficiently here.)

The Woman Warrior is now a classic book that I read in my high school curriculum, and the reason why Kingston is yearning for Americanness seems very clear as with personal experience came assumptions of my own identity by other people. The struggles Kingston lists with every review resonates with me, as sometimes, it is difficult for people of other races to see past my race when approaching me for friendship or camaraderie, and I often leave encounters with a sense they wanted something specific from me, something that is rarely descriptive of who I really am. An undergraduate looking to include me in a white-majority classroom might target me to befriend and begin by asking me my Chinese name, without any mention of my personal interests, sounding friendly might mean having people freely approach to touch my hair, and canvassing at a neighborhood event during an internship at a senator's office might mean being approached by a woman from a nearby church looking to commiserate about the negatives of legalizing prostitution, which immediately put into my mind assumptions about being conservative as a light-skinned Asian American. Kingston touches upon the power of appearance to influence real-life treatment as she states:

Pridefully enough, I believed that I had written with such power that the reality and humanity of my characters would bust through any stereotypes of them. Simplemindedly, I wore a sweat-shirt for the dust-jacket photo, to deny the exotic. I had not calculated how blinding stereotyping is, how stupefying...

Why must I 'represent' anyone besides myself? Why should I be denied an individual artistic vision? And I do not think I wrote a 'negative' book, as the Chinese American reviewer said; but suppose I had? Suppose I had been so wonderfully talented that I wrote a tragedy? Are we Chinese Americans to deny ourselves tragedy? If we give up tragedy in order to make a good impression on Caucasians, we have lost a battle. Oh, well, I'm certain that some day when a great body of Chinese American writing becomes published and known, then readers will no longer have to put such a burden on each book that comes out. Readers can see the variety of ways for Chinese Americans to be...

Maxine Hong Kingston makes a compelling argument for the importance of freedom of artistic expression, and that it might be necessary to weather criticism on all sides, even from one's own ethnic community. Her thoughts inspire me to write anything I want, which is motivational and helps boost self-esteem, even as her experience, from the 1982 edition of the book this essay is included in, involves extensive criticism and confusing reviews. The sheer time and effort put into resisting stereotyping does shear off the seconds and minutes of her own life as with myself, and one might ask, why can't she just care less about what other people think? An answer might be that she hopes to advance the perception of Chinese Americans as a whole which deeply affects our real-life treatment, even as she is torn between that and writing as a source of pure freedom. She does highlight the positives of releasing her book, such as the support from "thirty-percent of reviewers" and fan letters from Chinese American women on the basis of childhood relatability or a simple eagerness to tell stories about themselves, spurred on by Kingston's lead. 

Rereading a few of the stories this week from The Woman Warrior meant that they became richer and even better than they were in my memory, as both documentation and entertainment that speaks true to personal experience of myself and others. The concept of voice and silence in the Chinese American experience is something that reoccurs in multiple forms, and they bring evocative historical and mythological concepts to life that I haven't thought about in a while as that cultural heritage becomes more distant especially for busy students in isolation. As The Woman Warrior originally came out in 1972, and the essay "Cultural Mis-readings by American Reviewers" is published in a book from 1982, the vehemence of Kingston's concerns may seem dated, as immigrant diaspora in these days are often willing to embrace their heritage in America or even prefer it to American culture (potentially the influence of growing up near enclaves within and outside school). But much of the struggles of Woman Warrior's narrator are the same today, as Kingston's autofiction, a term coined in 1977 a couple years after the novel's publication that seems to describe what critics may have relegated to a purgatory between fiction and nonfiction previously, seamlessly mirrors my life and others'. Her ability to transcend the mundane processes of daily life with incandescent moments such as when her narrator brutally bullies a silent girl in the bathroom before falling sick mysteriously for a year and a half, and frequent striking descriptions of legends, community, and family mark her writing with a bracing truth and light that affirms a common Chinese American tale throughout. For me, Maxine Hong Kingston is one of the best at balancing this relatable longing for creative freedom and crafting an accurate and beautiful narrative that has found the audience who truly needed it. Wading through a timesink of ignorant reviews such as those she lists in her essay that overlook the truth of her experience means that those reviewers don't get to stay ignorant. 

A recent article in the New Yorker documenting Maxine Hong Kingston's life and times goes into depth about the vast influence The Woman Warrior has had on American culture, inspiring everyone from Barack Obama's and Ocean Vuong's writing to her war veterans' writing group, even if her work itself has become low-profile in colleges and bookstores. I found myself happy that she is still around (nursing the very unlikely hope we might cross paths), retiring in Hawaii in the molten gateway of Honolulu and its lush ecological landscape, having taught her lessons in this novel and essay about the complexities of written race relations and how easily we misinterpret one another -- reaching, still, across a vast ocean of possibilities. 

Citations:

Kingston, Maxine Hong. "Cultural Mis-readings by American Reviewers." Asian and Western Writers in Dialogue: New Cultural Identities. London and Basinstoke: The Macmillan Press Ltd, 1982.

No-No Boy by John Okada

 

The novel No-No Boy by John Okada continues to investigate Asian-Americans' relationship with capitalism right after Japanese internment during the end of World War II, and the identity issues which continue to divide up and provoke conflict and misunderstanding between immigrant parents and American children. Ichiro Okada, a second-generation Japanese American man, returns home to Seattle after being interned in a Japanese internment camp for two years and imprisoned during the following two years after resisting the World War II draft and refusing to denounce loyalty to the emperor of Japan. Ichiro faces extensive generational conflicts with his family as well as interracial and intraracial discrimination throughout the novel, and finds himself conflicted over whether to take a job that would be beneficial to his future, with ideal wages, employer, and work:

He looked at Mr. Carrick and said: "I'd like to think about it.” Was it disbelief or surprise that clouded the face of the man who, in his heartfelt desire to atone for the error of a big country which hadn't been quite big enough, had matter-of-factly said two-sixty a month and three hundred after a year when two hundred a month was what he had in mind when he composed the ad since a lot of draftsmen were getting less but because the one who came for the job was a Japanese and it made a difference to him? "Certainly, Ichiro. Take all the time you need." And when he said that, Ichiro knew that the job did not belong to him, but to another Japanese who was equally as American as this man who was attempting in a small way to rectify the wrong he felt to be his own because he was a part of the country which, somehow, had erred in a moment of panic.

Ichiro eventually decides not to accept the offer from Mr. Carrick, an American man offering him an engineering job as an act of repentance for Japanese internment. Because of Ichiro’s decision to resist the war draft, he does not feel as if he is American enough for the job, despite Mr. Carrick continuing to offer him the job after learning Ichiro has spent two years in prison for resisting the draft and not renouncing allegiance to Japan. In a way, Ichiro has internalized the oppressive atmosphere of America toward those who appear foreign, causing him to become an outsider to capitalistic systems of worth as he continues to refuse varying sources of employment throughout the novel. Even though the Japanese internment is over, it is clear that it has had a long-term impact on Ichiro's psyche, within his own doubts about work and the physical toll it has taken on his best friend Kenji, who has lost a leg in the war and is slowly dying. It seems that previously enacted racisms such as the Japanese internment and interacial and intraracial hostility combine to stagnate Ichiro’s career even without the presence of racism in an employer, due to the internalized impact of past discrimination on Ichiro’s psyche. Mr. Carrick's kindness is shown to have an element of pity for America's past wrongs, and so takes on some element of artificiality that doesn't see Ichiro as an entirely whole, or complete, man who is equal to Americans who have not been forced into internment camps or prison.

Later, Ichiro recalls hearing a young Japanese-American sociologist, a recent college graduate, speaking at a family relations meeting he had attended while interned in the relocation center: 

"How many of you are able to sit down with your own sons and own daughters and enjoy the companionship of conversation? How many, I ask? If I were to say none of you, I would not be far from the truth." He paused, for the grumbling was swollen with anger and indignation...If we are children of America and not the sons and daughters of our parents, it is because you have failed. It is because you have been stupid enough to think that growing rice in muddy fields is the same as growing a giant fir tree. Change, now, if you can, even if it may be too late, and become companions to your children. This is America, where you have lived and worked and suffered for thirty and forty years. This is not Japan. I will tell you what it is like to be an American boy or girl. I will tell you what the relationship between parents and children is in an American family...Some said they would attend no more lectures; others heaped hateful abuse upon the young fool who dared to have spoken with such disrespect; and then there was the elderly couple, the woman silently following the man, who stopped at another mess hall, where a dance was in progress, and peered into the dimly lit room and watched the young boys and girls gliding effortlessly around to the blaring music from a phonograph. Always before, they had found something to say about the decadent ways of an amoral nation, but, on this evening, they watched longer than usual and searched longingly to recognize their own daughter, whom they knew to be at the dance but who was only an unrecognizable shadow among the other shadows."

The generational divide between Ichiro and his family is shown to be repeated in greater society as well, as many Japanese Americans are struggling with identity issues. It becomes ironic that the speaker is addressing them in an internment camp, as despite how American the families may become they have still been rounded up and imprisoned. At this point, the only reason the parents might change is in order to understand their children better and have better relations with them. The speaker's words become especially pertinent as Ichiro's own family slowly grows apart after Japan's defeat in the war, as his father becomes an alcoholic, his brother Taro wants to join the army, the opposite of his own decision, and (spoiler) his mother commits suicide. However, it was disturbing to see Ichiro's lack of emotion when it comes to his family collapsing, as if he has no regrets about letting his mother's tragic end happen and has completely given up on her and the pure Japanese culture, yet spends his time grieving Kenji even before he passes, which may be a touch of sexism. Ichiro's own identity is at risk, as his inner thoughts are shown through wistful, moving imagery:

"There was a time that I no longer remember when you used to smile a mother's smile and tell me stories about gallant and fierce warriors who protected their lords with blades of shining steel and about the old woman who found a peach in the stream and took it home and, when her husband split it in half, a husky little boy tumbled out to fill their hearts with boundless joy. I was that boy in the peach and you were the old woman and we were Japanese with Japanese feelings and Japanese pride and Japanese thoughts because it was all right then to be Japanese and feel and think all the things that Japanese do even if we lived in America. Then there came a time when I was only half Japanese because one is not born in America and raised in America and taught in America and one does not speak and swear and drink and smoke and play and fight and see and hear in America among Americans in American streets and houses without becoming American and loving it."

Ichiro's thinking is extended to emphasize the importance of this theme, because there are many times when families may misunderstand the importance of maintaining good relationships with youth, which can be hard to do without the parents compromising their own ethnic identity. More commonly, parents may be disconnected from why exactly their children want to be American so badly, given their own strong ethnic roots. Being raised in America means being exposed to an entirely different culture from the other members of an immigrant family, and the strength of assimilation is not to be denied as family may find it difficult to understand how much America can completely subsume children and incorporate them into the culture. And with time, such as over the course of decades, even the parents will likely feel the urge to fit into America and pick and choose the customs they like best. As such, I appreciated Ichiro laying out his thinking in detailed anecdotes that mimic stream-of-consciousness, because his inner conflict is that of many young immigrants and children of immigrants.

Overall, several quotes moved me in this novel as they reflect some of my own thinking about being part of an immigrant family, but which I had never seen in literature before. Exploring the Japanese American experience through No-No Boy is absolutely fascinating as it is a full novel about a historical moment long past, yet with Asian-Americans filling in American history as the main characters. It provides support for one's feelings and inner conflicts by letting you watch Asian-Americans navigate America eighty years ago and seeing what their important decisions are like, before you get old enough to reach them.

This week's readings:

 No-No Boy by John Okada