Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Asian-American poetics and politics in the South: Self-articulation and solidarity, report on workshop from AWP 2017

Asian-American poetics and politics in the South: Self-articulation and solidarity

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By PACYINZ LYFOUNG
Asian American Press
AYP1
Marci Calabretta, left, Ching-In Chen, center, and Shamala Gallagher at podium, take part in an Asian American workshops at AWP 2017, the annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writers’ Program that brought over 10,000 writers to the U.S. Capitol in February. (Photo by Pacyinz Lyfoung)
Part II of the series on Asian American workshops at AWP 2017, the annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writers’ Program that brought over 10,000 writers to the U.S. Capitol in January.
WASHINGTON, D.C. (Feb. 20, 2017) — For both Shamala Gallagher who grew up in San Jose, Calif., and Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello who grew up in Upstate New York, moving to the Southeast United States has been a strange transition.
The process was especially complex as Shamala is not visibly of color. She is half South Indian and half Caucasian, and does not visibly look non-white. Marci expressed the same ambiguity as a Korean adoptee with an Italian American name and now being married to a Cuban American who looks like a Scandinavian.
Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello first came to Miami, which is more south of South for graduate school in 2011, which she completed in 2014. However, she is now working there and got married there, so will call it home a while longer. Her impression of Miami as an outsider was that it was one of the least-caring cities — historically, looking like a party town.
Ching-In Chen is another newcomer who moved to Houston to teach in academia. Over there, she feels some anxiety but not more than in other places. She does note that she is the only queer teaching at her school. She feels great discomfort at being complicit when renting in gentrified neighborhood, but she appreciates being close to the still strong black communities.
To be a gentrifier in the neighborhood is to participate in the system where the owners are white, but the subsidized housing is rented by blacks. There she sees that some community projects are taking place, economic development too, and there is still an attachment to the land by deeply-rooted African American families.
Shamala echoed the same feeling of being some kind of intruder, as she now lives in some cottage that used to be a slave quarter. On the other hand, Wo Chan and Vidhu Aggarwal grew up in the South.
Wo Chan’s family story is the typical of coming here and making a living here. His parents owned a restaurant in a little town. They were the one Chinese family in that town. The Chinese community established routes of cheap buses to transport workers to major hubs with stops in the smaller towns.
Now tourists use those bus services but the bus companies tend to get shut down because of regulations. In each town where the buses stopped, there would be one Chinese family operating a Chinese restaurant for the travelers. Growing up in his parents’ restaurant, he saw a lot of people eating there, while his family tried to run the business.
Vidhu Aggarwal lived all over the South, because of her father’s job. Growing up, she had no sense of her Asian/South Asian identity. Her family was Hindu, but since there were no temples in the surroundings, they hung out with the Hari Krishnas.
Her opinion is that the South remains more of a racialized fantasy life. For example, for all the romanticism surrounding New Orleans, the city is very swampy and smells of stink and rot.
The group discussed the question of belonging as Asian Americans in the South.
Wo recalled that all his brothers worked at the restaurant. He is the only one to have left the business early. To do so, he had to learn proper English. He had to fight to go to the library. His brother told him he would never be like them, the non-Chinese; that he would always be like an immigrant. Looking back, Wo wonders what wisdom his brother had, the truth that he experienced to have that belief about not belonging.
As a younger child, Wo perceived things differently from the rest of his family. He had to resist the constant anti-blackness spewed by parents. Many Asian American youths in the South have to worry about being judged by the friends they keep. To get closer to whiteness was an important trait of Asian identity. It was very difficult to only have the idea of binary identity, white or black. That sense of not belonging inspired his decision to include self-portraits in his poetry book of what a queer looks like.
Marci argued that Miami is like Ellis Island but that Cuba is not as far away as Europe. The Haitians came after the Cubans were already established, she said, and racism divided them into their own communities, resulting in a situation where people don’t like to leave their zip codes — creating strange divisions within subdivisions of Miami.
Marci now teaches at an international university. For the past 25 years, she is the first Asian American poet at that institution. The idea of not belonging, whether in terms of Asian representation or Asians being only tourists is a daily struggle. They can’t just up and leave. However, in Miami, there are so many people jostling for attention. One can always be the wrong minority. Everything here is from somewhere else, almost not from here, and almost halfway gone.
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Marci Calabretta and Ching-In Chen, seated left, Shamala Gallagher at the podium, with Wo Chan and Vidhu Aggarwal seated right, take part in an Asian American workshops at AWP 2017, the annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writers’ Program that brought over 10,000 writers to the U.S. Capitol in February. (Photo by Pacyinz Lyfoung)
Vidhu concluded that the South is particularly polarized around the binary of black and white. There is no consistent narrative for Asian Americans. There is no origin story in the South for Asian Americans. There is more of a “this is where we are now based on this,” so trying to fit into another narrative, more of an assimilation narrative. There is trying to be white or locate with all other others, foreigners within the South.
As a kid, Vidhu became a sort of Buddha, reading people’s palms, sewing her own clothes like Ghandi, as that’s what people expected of her Asian self. There is disconnection from being the guru of otherness, the ultimate mystical other, which is its own poison, but can get her some credentials when she is mystical. For example, what does it mean to do yoga?
At that point, Shamala jumped to the front to do a performance of tree pose as Vidhu read a poem. Like the fallacy that all Indians must know yoga, her tree pose kept laughingly sliding down. Having grown up in San Jose, where seventy percent of the kids in school were Asian, Shamala has a complicated relationship with the South.
In San Jose, there is an idea of what you did if you were Asian American, a mythology of where you came from. In the South, there is a part of the self that wishes to be fetishized to prove one is Asian American, such as at the yoga studio, where most teachers and students are white.
What does it mean to be Asian American in the South? All the panelists responded by addressing language.
Ching-In Chen started writing about the floods, when she was trapped in her house. She started taking her dad’s FB status, often rants about her mother being in a cult, so with lots of drama within the family, with her father being really upset, and she translated his FB from Chinese to English.
Similarly, the anxiety and discomfort about being Asian American in the South, is also pushing Marci to more closely examine her Asian roots, when previously as a Korean adoptee she never really thought about being Asian before, until she no longer was among Asians.
Wo has a distrustful relationship with English, his third language. He also feels frustrated about being expected to relate to his own life when there are no words.
The question is inverted: not how are you Asian American, invert it.
Ching-In has a weird relationship with language. As an English-speaking youth, she was always called upon to touch up on her family’s language, but she also knows there is so much history she is not privy to or taught. She had to teach herself, through poetry.
Shamala’s writing about being Asian American reflects her being mixed-race and queer, but not looking it, as she looks white and is married to a man.
Vidhu experienced that she was not expected to speak good English, so if her poems were experimental, she would receive editorial notes from publishers about grammatical problems. It highlights that fact that language is always policed, but having multiple or no origin, it is cool, like a cyborg identity.
Finally the panel discussed, “What are you perceived as?”
Wo noted that before no one cared about your pictures, before the digital age. He has a friend who is Korean and black, but is perceived as black. That’s how his poetry is perceived: you are representative. However, it is only one facet to catch the light.
What is important is that what you’re writing is Asian American, whether acts or resistance or rebellion but just being yourself.
Ching-In tries to be strategic. She was raised to be accommodating and is always fighting that.
Vidhu wants to run away from the South but always comes back, that’s where her family lives. Her family identities are coalitional. Her parents were from Bangladesh. Their children are neither here nor there, and must choose between many things. Punjab people can only hang out with people from there. She has been hanging out with African Americans. Having that model, she also understands that debt without being appropriative.
However, Wo recalled the 1927 Gong Lum education case that came before Brown, as an example of Asian American history and activism being silenced before, and the history of Asian Americans as being oppressed and oppressor. He projected that in the next 20 years, Asian American writers will create new ideas and reclaim images of what a black or Asian person looks like.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Draft 2 of Walking Manifesto #4--But I Will Walk, Part I

So yesterday, I wrote the first draft posted it and thought all day about the fact that it was missing something. I profoundly pondered the difference between being wounded and being angry, which is the feeling that my activist black sisters and other sisters "of color" are really expressing with regards to the Women's Marches of 2017. So here, it is. And I also added the perspective of mostly white and middle class sisters, for good measure.

Walking Manifesto #4--But I will walk, Part I, Draft 2

There is a dawn coming to my town
And my eyes cannot stay shut
Wondering what colors it will bring
The fire forging new brave hearts
For the journey that may be dark
Or the pyre of precluded prayers
From spirits already slayed

My sister says she cannot walk with me
- She says she can’t sleep
Too tired from everything
That should have been done yesterday
- She says she can’t come
Too wounded from everytime
No one came to walk with her
When she sloshed in the silt
Of drowning dreams
- She says she can’t stay
Too broken under the burden of the world
- She says she got her ticket out of town
A long holiday weekend, you know…
And who wants to deal with this crowd anyway
But thanks, and glad to hear later what happened
- She says she won’t come
Too angry about clueless people
Who don’t even see what’s wrong and
Won’t self-educate
And she sneers
At the invitation to participate
In a pale copy of what she is
And what she had created

I fret about who’s left to walk with me
I plan the route where they tell us
We must go only on our feet
They say to carry only the smallest bag
That will not fit enough food
They say to write on your skin
Who will save you if you fall
And no one recognizes you
In the belly of this anonymous beast
They say all the words that will
Wreck my walk
But I will walk
I never was the woman to run
When the world wrecks
I will carry on my skin
The names of all my sisters
And in my belly all the words
They wanted to scream
And those they forgot existed




I am a VONA (Voices of Our Nations) Fellow, as of 1/15/17

2017 promises to be a rough year, the first of the next four, for progressive people. Like many others who may not have been Hillary Clinton fans, I still woke up with a sense of history on November 8, 2016, and went to the polls excited about voting for the first time in DC and seeing the dawn of a new era with the first American Woman President. I did not even really track the results throughout the day, confident the American people could not really choose to elect a man who campaigned on a platform of xenophobia, sexism, bullying, and so on. I had heard people around me, some of my family included, talk about how much they just did not like Hillary Clinton (which was really surprising to me, I was not a fan, but I actually don't dislike her, more just not super excited by her) and how they actually liked Trump for his economic message. The best clue would have come when my male senior colleague said two weeks before the elections, he talked to many people in power in DC, and don't be surprised if Clinton doesn't win, there is too much feeling that she screwed up too much (after the last set of email investigations, which indeed probably nailed the coffin to her presidential aspirations). Around 9 pm, I finally glanced at the results, and was shocked to see she was not leading. I started sending comforting messages on my FB, already getting a bad feeling the worst was going to happen. I went to sleep relatively early, by 11 pm, already crushed by a sense of doom. I got texts after midnight from women in my family, crying about Trump's win. We all knew how bad it would be for the next four years and mostly, what a slap to all our faces, by all the people who voted for him and said, we did not matter, at least no more than their pocket books. I lay in bed unable to sleep the rest of the night. I could not sleep for the next two weeks and frantically read more news articles about the transition, painfully aware, indeed, I was too lax before, too trusting that other people would take good care of things, and I could rest. No more. The activist artist in me had a rude awakening and is back in operations. Around Thanksgiving, I was writing like crazy, editing for my family project, blogging on the transition, and getting deeper in my poetry. Among other things, I really badly wanted to be a VONA/Loft Fellow, joining Voices of Our Nations, a platform for artist-activists from communities of color, and returning to my literary roots, MN/The Loft. I applied in the midst of Thanksgiving chaos and was accepted. So happy and relieved, others thought I had something worthwhile to write for the world. MLK weekend of 2017: we met, we became family, and I am happy to move forward with a good network of kindred spirits and hearts.



Sunday, November 20, 2016




Post the upheaval of the 2016 Elections, like many progressive Americans of multicultural backgrounds, I have fear and worries for the future of America. Asides from starting a blog on Dream Making Our America, that attempts to collect and examine information about the new Presidency, the political process, US governance, and how to keep our eyes on building the America that we aspire to build collectively, relying on the arts to keep the hope and spirit of the America: I made a point of quickly writing a poem I could contribute to the 100 Thousand Poets for Change's Poetry Wall of Resistance (still a bit of a rough draft):

In Times of Darkness, PL, 11/20/16

I will tell you this
In times of darkness
I have seen people look for God on the pages of sacred books
I have seen people reach for wisdom opening the gates beyond the world of the living to seek the guidance of bygone ancestors
I have seen people understand the value of life beyond their human skins to embrace their fathers the stones and their sisters the wolves
I will tell you that none of them were much better or much worse than the others
Even the people who claimed to free of human bias and irrational compassion by clinging to the coldness of the rule of law
In the end, in the darkness, what truly matters is the miracle of the light of each soul and each particle of matter, each brightening a black spot in the universe making it a festival of stars, the most dazzling defense against the fear of the night

In times of darkness, none should be allowed to be dimmed out of existence


Wednesday, April 20, 2016


A short video on youtube of the Three Generations of Hmong Writing on Freedom and Democracy Reading Session at the Split This Rock 2016 National Poetry Festival, held on Saturday, April 16, 2016. Here is the beginning of one of my new poems, The Bright Light for Courage in the Darkest Night, about working on my grandfather Touby Lyfoung's book of letters. Both the book of Letters and my new poetry manuscript should be available in the near future. Thank you to Split This Rock for selecting my proposal for this session and giving this space and time to share my latest work and my family's writing through three generations. My first reading in 8 years: I can tell I am rusty, both in my public reading and my ease to read aloud in English, my second language-my accent is thicker! I will need to brush up on my public reading skills. :)Split This Rock reading, April 2016

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Split This Rock 2016 National Poetry Festival, Grand Finale Featured Reading, 4/16/16



I was killing two birds with one stone that night, multitasking, volunteering as an usher, which put me right at the venue where this would happen and I could hear the new acclaimed Asian American poet. Ironically, and I can laugh about it but it was unfortunate, in my eagerness to do a good job as an usher, among all the other early birds, I rushed over the woman who walked through the door and looked like she could use some help, I gave her the usual spill, “Welcome, this will be a great reading, please take a seat towards the front, so others can fill in the back!” She looked at me funny, took the program, barely mumbled some thanks, and walked on. One of her eager fans behind her rushed to me and whispered half-indignantly and half still star-truck, “she’s one of the featured poets!” Oh my face was red. Well, it had to happen again 15 minutes later, as many came through the door and once again, I did not know the faces of the other readers, as I really was only there for the Asian American featured reader. This time, the guy next to the featured reader said, “He’s a featured poet,” so I could tell him in person, “Sorry, I do this all the time!” He just waved back distractedly. Anyhoo…I also greeted poets I took workshops from and poets who came to my reading. The auditorium was standing room. It was nice, a gathering of poets and poetry lovers. My commentaries would be:
§  Interesting set of featured poets showing a range of content: Reginal Dwayne Betts-poems about the self explicitly referencing the external, Ocean Vuong-poems about the self/the self’s relationships to others showcasing universal themes, Nikky Finney-poems about others advocating social justice. The latter would involve a lot of research, to really capture the person and context and facts. The latter poet was the most mature and her poetry was more academic, but also was broader than the guys who are still growing up.
§  Ocean Vuong. Well, that was my current perception, as he went read through poems with latent and explicit content, including a piece about his parents’ time of love and sex and I guess what could have been an attempt at collective orgasm with an Ode to Masturbation. The language was pretty in some places and intense in some places, but I just wasn’t feeling it. No offense. J Anyhoo…Li Young-Lee, he’s still my #1 Man-Poet. However, my take-away from my fellow Asian American poet is his interesting reading style, soft, breathy and intimate. I will have a poem set to that tone. This said, Ocean Vuong is the current rockstar of this young generation of American poets and poetry lovers, the Justin Bieber of American Poetry. I got his last manuscript (got it signed too!) and will have more in-depth things to say about that later, probably.

§  After listening to all those award-winning stars of American Poetry, interestingly, I did not feel crushed by the weight of their brilliance and the impossible task of measuring up to their achievements. I just felt, yeah, I have stuff I want to write and I think there will be people who will be glad to see it. But my public reading skills definitely need lots more work, so, so, so rusty: my accent is thicker and I stumble a lot upon the spoken words. I’ll be practicing. J

Friday, April 15, 2016

Walking Manifesto #4- I Will not Be in Someone else’ Book/Happy Emancipation Day!, Pacyinz Lyfoung, 2016, first draft (Dedicated to Bruce Beneke,  Mary Nguyen, Cyndi Cook, Penny Snipper, Jay Wilkinson, Friendly Vang Johnson, Sharon Ramirez, Kazim Ali, Nancy Wong)


AWUM, APAWLI, NAPAWF, HWAT
Asia Women United of Minnesota, Asian Pacific American Women’s Leadership Network, National Asian Pacific American Women’s Forum, Hmong Women’s Action Team
In the end, it all spells out to
WOMAN

It wasn’t for the glory, the money, the step to my next job, the headline to the next article about me, my place in the book of she-roes,

I loved books, I loved them ever since I could read, I loved them first, begging my poor parents for the only thing I truly wanted, books

At the fork of real life, at heart, I was still a baby with my first love, words: I could follow either of my two languages, my first to effortlessly write brilliant articles gathering the dust of scholarly praise on university shelves, or my second to face the terror of what did not flow so easily in my mind and tongue but it could shield the meek and right the wrongs

My first job, I came from a refugee community, keeping a roof over people’s head, keeping a home into people’s hearts, kissing the hope in homeless people’s eyes- it was a true calling

My Asian sister found me there and said, come and help build this dream house for the women and children who have no place to go; for nine hundred and two and a half days, it was breathtakingly pure and beautiful; then the black sheep stumbled on our front steps, she had been wounded in so many ways, in the end, she slaughtered her own lambs; I’ll not lie, it broke me, not when I was the only one who did not flinch from telling the truth of our collective responsibility, but when I saw the heart of my sisterhood holding up higher the dream of that house than the soul of one of our own

My younger sister said, how dare you, turn your back from our sisterhood, but I was done with meetings- we did not speak for four years

Yesterday, I knew he was my brother when he said, I was an activist, but I could not breathe anymore, I am a yogi-poet now

Yesterday, my older sister was so proud we could stand together for the platinum anniversary of another house, but I don’t think I would have been there, a house is nice, but in the end, I did not walk for houses, I walked for WOMAN


I love books, I will not be in someone else’s book, I will be my own words in my own book