[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the initial post here]
This week I would like to feature the contemporary poet Aria Aber, whose work I admire. This is her most recent poem published in the New Yorker. The poem also references another poem by a different poet I enjoy, and that poem is given below as well.
Walking deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, Leo kept his head down, pulling his costume closer to his body to protect against the chill. It was properly dark now, the world dulled into an indigo blue. He veered away from other kids, shying away from their glances.
This might be Leo’s worst Halloween ever, even worse than eighth grade.
He was so preoccupied with his own misery, staring down at his beat up sneakers, that he didn’t notice the sidewalk arced to the left.
He thumped down off of the curb and into the grass, tripping and falling to his knees with a grunt.
He stood back up, heart beating hard, face red and flustered, brushing dead leaves off his legs.
In front of him, there was a huge, kidney-shaped pond, the edges littered with wheaty fronds and lily pads.
On a pavilion sticking out into the pond was a pagoda of sorts, an octagonal, wooden structure with benches and bird feeders.
It was all really pretty, and might be the only thing Leo liked about the neighborhood, but that wasn’t what caught his eye.
No, it was the people who inhabited the pavilion.
There were about six or seven kids huddled in a tight circle in the middle of the pagoda. They were all wearing long, black robes, with hoods covering their heads. Someone was holding a flashlight to illuminate their faces from below in eerie, yellow lighting.
And they were chanting.
It was rhythmic, monotone, and quiet, like the foot stomping at the beginning of “We Will Rock You.”
Leo knew he was acting like the ditzy girl in a horror movie, but his fascination propelled him forward. He crept toward the pagoda silently, sticking to the grassy area. Nearing the railing, he looked up from the bushes at the gathering.
Their faces were clearer now. One person had a lot of piercings. Another person had rainbow hair. A whopping three–three! of them were wearing band t-shirts from bands Leo was obsessed with.
Now he could make out the words of their chants.
“Do it for yourself, do it for your health, self love, self peace.”
That was not what Leo expected, but when the words sank in, they pulled a wry smile up onto his lips.
It was a good message.
But most importantly, it was weird.
These kids were out here being weird as all getup and they didn’t care.
Leo was officially obsessed.
In channels of white walls
Lined for miles with brown doors
I saw a boy
Painting his song on black and white keys
He didn’t sense the sensation I felt
That brought me to this poem
His teacher stood behind him
Their skin creating a waxing crescent
Turned 90 degrees
I wonder how far he’ll go
If his dreams will unfold
To the sound
In porous practice rooms
Where proofing only masks sunlight.
I wonder if he’ll find joy
In worshipping white forefathers
Tolerating white foremothers
And giving his ancestors specialty concerts
On Wednesday morning, I woke to news of a hate crime that left 8 murdered in Georgia. As an Asian American, there are plenty of thoughts swirling in my head surrounding the event. In a time when crime targeting Asian Americans has risen given a perceived association with the coronavirus, it’s interesting to tackle what my Asian identity means to me.
The same Wednesday, I also received my weekly email from the University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA). UMMA brings art straight to my inbox, something that’s been convenient given the pandemic. The subject line #StopAAPIhate caught my attention, and in addition to art, the email contained information about an event and podcast focused on recent anti-Asian and anti-Asian American violence. The art of this week? Dinh Q. Lê’s mixed media piece Interconfined.
The artist, Dinh Q. Lê (Vietnamese name: Lê Quang Đỉnh), was born in 1968. He is most known for his photography and photo-weaving techniques. According to the UMMA website, many of his works refer to the Vietnam War. Concepts and themes of memory and its relationship with the present are also featured. This work, Interconfined, has three figures, with the central figure being interwoven between a Buddhist statue and a Christ-like figure. The central figure is none other than the artist himself.
For Dinh Q. Lê, a Vietnamese American multimedia artist, the piece represents the “struggle of finding one’s identity as an Asian immigrant (represented by the Buddha) in a Western, Eurocentric world (represented by Jesus)” (UMMA Exchange). This is tastefully represented by how the material in the art piece is cut into strips and is woven together. As a mixed Asian American, I’m inclined to consider how the piece represents being torn between two worlds, or stuck in the middle of two cultures. There are also themes of connectivity in play; the central figure is strategically overlapping the figures of Buddha and Jesus Christ, perhaps suggesting how they – or more so, what they both represent – are found within him.
I come from different ethnic backgrounds, with some parts of me more visible than others. They all, however, comprise who I am. I think of my mother, who experiences a divide tenfold as an immigrant, carrying a mixed bag of stories, traditions, and customs. In the US, we are constantly forging new traditions and identities as cultures and people collide, learning from one another and creating a mixing pot that should serve as a a place for liberty and justice for all. I say should, because as the recent hate crimes have demonstrated, we still have a long way to go as a nation. Being Asian is something that often “othered” me in my youth, and just as I began to found my voice in college, I found myself being shut down by a society that still casts me as an outsider. But just as the central figure in Dinh Q. Lê’s work stands strong, so can we. His work could not have popped into my inbox at a better time, and I am glad for a piece that resonates in such a remarkable way.
Something caught his eye as he walked along, feeling sorry for himself, not even trick-or-treating.
One of the houses up ahead had the coolest Halloween decorations Leo had ever seen.
There was a big, inflatable ghost out front, and several tombstones with skeletal hands climbing out of them. The bushes and trees were laden with cottony cobwebs and giant spiders with glowing red eyes. Dry ice cauldrons filled the yard with eerie fog. There were purple and orange lights strung up everywhere, including a big, orange arrow affixed to the side of the house, pointing toward the back of the house.
Mesmerized, Leo forgot himself, following the flashing orange arrow with a mouth hung open in wonder.
He walked down a little brick path to a wooden deck attached to the back of the house. The deck was strung up with lights, too, and party music blasted from speakers. There were more kids here, mingling with one another and eating snacks and drinking pop.
Leo steeled himself, taking a breath.
He could do this.
If only for the snacks, he could do this.
Leo climbed up the deck stairs. He filled a red solo cup with Coke and walked over to a group of boys leaning against the railing and talking and eating.
Alright. Here we go.
“Hey,” Leo said, deepening his voice. He coughed.
The boys looked up. One of them nodded his head at him. Leo guessed this was the highly-studied “bro nod.” “Hey.”
Leo nodded back. “So.” He fished his awkward, stupid brain for something to say. “What’s up?”
“The costume contest is in like fifteen minutes,” one of the other boys offered.
“Oh!” Leo perked up. Then he schooled his expression, matching the passivity of the other boys. “Uh, cool.”
“Yeah, for kids,” a third boy piped up. “Look at that girl’s costume. Is she a ladybug or a pimple?”
That got some laughs. Leo laughed nervously along.
“What’s your costume?” one of the boys asked him.
“Oh, my mom made me wear it,” Leo said, and the annoyance in his voice was genuine. “I think it’s supposed to be, like, Aladdin, or something.”
“Bro, that sucks,” the first boy said. “My mom made me go as Batman but I ditched that shit the moment I left.”
Leo thought Batman was cool as hell, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah.”
“That’s the only good costume I’ve seen all night,” a dark-haired boy said, pointing to a kid swinging on the playground swingset. Leo leaned over the railing, peering at it. It was a jersey of some kind, with a number on the front.
“Yo! Drew Brees! That’s my GOAT,” one boy said.
“Nuh-uh. Matthew Stafford, he’s so underrated,” another one said.
“If he’s underrated, why is he benched all the time?” the first boy countered.
“Why are we stuck on quarterbacks? The game hinges on the wide receiver.”
For Leo, the boys had switched tongues, speaking gibberish instead of English.
He tried to contribute at all, to ask a question, but they just spoke over him, over the music.
Completely unnoticed, Leo backed away and left the deck.
[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the previous post here]
This week I will simply share two poems from one of my favorite contemporary poets, Solmaz Sharif. Much of her work can be found online, but these two poems feel similar to me and are both striking in many ways. Here they are below:
