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leatherboundshorts · 6 years

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Some Feelings After Black Panther

The screen darkens and I am in tears. A stranger behind me is crying as well. Turning around, we’re both surprised to see ourselves reflected in each other. Both Asian-American millennial women.

I wonder: why did Black Panther elicit such a deep emotional response from us?

Because every scene resonates with that common dialogue of the Diaspora. (I could write another five pages dissecting the movie scene by scene.)

From the very beginning of the movie, Erik Killmonger claims the museum artifacts as stolen, brutally taken by force. Does that not call to mind the plundering of Beijing’s Summer Palace in 1860 by the British and French? The history of Opium Wars to access Chinese silk and tea? The Cold War backing of two political ideologies leading to the Korean War and split into North and South?

Memory is short, and stripping a people of their history strips them of identity. This is a crisis so many of my peers and I face. Unable to fully connect in a Western society but no longer in tune with their home. We feel rootless and lost, like we’re clawing into impenetrable rock trying to create a home for ourselves. Erik’s disconnection from both his Oakland home and his alienation from Wakanda strikes so close to home. His anger, passion, and ultimate acceptance of his fate is something we are all too familiar with.

It’s a struggle, it’s a war. Those are words we’ve all heard before. Choosing a war mask and physically acting out the metaphor, Erik is our anger (and histories) personified. All in 5 minutes.

The movie doesn’t dilute out its punches. It’s hard, fast, and will not wait for you to catch up. It doesn’t cater to your pace. It is an unashamedly unapologetic statement of, “We will no longer kotow to ignorance. It’s time to step up and keep up.”

It’s a raw celebration of the culture: the architecture, geometries, clothing, music, and traditions. It’s a dauntless gauntlet shoved in your face, daring you to strike it down.

Too often, when we confront institution or individuals, the immediate response is one we’ve faced everyday; the onus to validate our claims, the onus to push for transparency and responsibility that institutions and individuals alike will not take the initiative to do.

It’s a bold-faced, willful celebration that I have not seen from the Asian-American community.

When faced with racial inequity, we have always stepped down and bowed to external pressures, because we were taught that was the graceful way. To inconvenience ourselves for others was the right thing to do, to flow like water around our obstacles. To use the words of Hasan Minhaj, we were taught to pay that American Dream Tax, to not have the audacity to demand true equality.

East-Asians are often praised as “the model minority”, making it too easy to sweep our accomplishments, sweat, and time under a “positive stereotype”. Only last year, did Dr. Gu lose his job after taking the knee. Sadly, he is not alone. A staggering 25% of Asian-American healthcare professionals lose/leave their current jobs due to racial discrimination. And we have been trained to be too well-mannered to speak out.

Black Panther gives me hope to see a changing of that ideation. That taking a firm stance to see our future free from the shadow of internalized shame and externalized discrimination is something worth the potential backlash. I’m now craving realization of my own experiences. For my heritage to be appreciated, celebrated, and understood.

I don’t want to take away the discussion from the real dangers our Black brothers and sisters face. But I also don’t want to see our Asian-American discussions continue to languish away, never seeing the limelight of mainstream public discourse. I hope our minds have the capacity to discuss both. I hope these discussions can support each other.

Because to change daily attitudes of discrimination, we need to change the public discourse, public understanding. For fundamentally, you cannot love/accept what you do not know. I want to see my white allies understand and accept our customs. But more importantly, I want my peers to know themselves, to find something that’s theirs. To love themselves.

So I call for more Asian-American involvement in media, in the arts to fairly represent who we are. It’s time for the world to know.

#black panther #discussion #diaspora #leatherboundshorts #discourse #relatable

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leatherboundshorts · 6 years

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Poem 9

Dvorak Jealousy

Top heavy pens lend an upward lean

He turned down Brahms' Vienna

I want to mould your gelatin

Is righteous possession of something owed?

A penny for your loafers. This!

Genetic defect is a loss of function

Mutation loves a pop

To sis-ters, daughters, mothers

Trumpet out, "What is Bohemian Rhapsody!"

I will call you to the dance.

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leatherboundshorts · 8 years

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Poem 8

Bare

Legs don’t run. Please. Let’s be done.

Caesar Salad King missed opportunities Sliding my knife to Brutus

Please. Let’s be forever together. I’m hollow without your back to claw.

#leatherboundshorts #poetry

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leatherboundshorts · 8 years

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Poem 7

Deadline

it’s not fair I want more time smooth my hands over your lips ‘til you sleep another Eve

bells to spring through summer hibernation how green is the Other side?

coffee stained spoon to stir cast-ire skillets make chilled rice for two

Empty Prayers and Empty Bottles fast vows make poor puns till Death do us part

No More

#leatherboundshorts #poetry

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Poem 6

Apologetics I threw away the tissue paper inukshuks I littered across your floor. A nonchalant existence down the wrong flight of stairs Never to find a way back through those doors. Dreams are just dreams, Fleeting graces with infinite meanings or nothing more. A prayer to wash our sins Of feet forsworn In shoes just our size. Lost, wandering, forlorn. In ache of winter’s warmth We drink Oṃ śānti śānti śāntihi

#leatherboundshorts #poetry

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Short Story 1

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I am.

“If gravity was a switch that was turned off, we’d all be flung out into space at a velocity of over 1000 km/h. The atmosphere would dissipate into the vacuum of space, leaving every significant body of water to boil under the unimpeded glory of solar rays. Then the earth would fall apart, and crumble to dust.”

One in the morning; the rattling of my windows still has not stopped. Outside, gales of wind whip sheets of rain against the hairline fractures of my eggshell walls. Tracing the lines with the tips of each fingerprint, every groove in the wood vibrates with the threat of shattering into impossible splinters. If I willed it just enough, they might hold out for another night. I squint my eyes shut in an effort to find sleep written on the inside of my eyelids. The words are just beginning to form as glowing ribbons of pale fire, dancing across my eyes – the coffee maker is done. The squeak of floorboards and mold beneath the spaces of my toes remind me I need to perform another routine cleansing. They’re coming now with larger frequency and smaller wait-times. Now if only this was happening in emergency wings. Oh, bad thought. The scent of sickness wafts over the coffee. A morbid ghost of scratchy coughs, lifeless limbs mixed in with 2 sugars and a cream. Hmmm, CoffeeMate and necrosis. Not a bad mix. The flash of lightening pulls me back from my idle musings and plunges the room into silent darkness. I don’t mind. The roll of thunder lulls me back to soft ribbons and dancing lighters.

“Mrs. Holtan, visiting hours are over.” A kind faced voice placed a hand on the weary shoulders of a slumbering woman, bent over the edge of the bed railing. “Mrs. Holtan?” A gentle shake, “Nadiya?” A tear-stained face rose from wrinkled sheets, “Pardon?” The voice creaked from overuse and the echo of faded screams. “Mrs. Holtan, visiting hours are over.” Tired of craning her head to see the voice attached to the arm, Nadiya turned her head back to the prone figure splayed under the sheets. “Oh, I see. Thank you, dear.” Rising gingerly from her statuesque pose, Nadiya lets go of the fragile hand she held. Unhooking her cane from the bedrail, she shuffles to the doorway. “Nadiya,” the voice sighs, “Maybe…” The voice stops and falters at the look frozen on Nadiya’s visage. “Here’s some tissues, the ones in the washroom are always too abrasive.” The look of what could have been terror passes and releases Nadiya’s well-aged features from the bed of wrinkles it had become. Nadiya accepts the tissues offered from the outstretched arm. She musters a heavy whisper, “Thank you.” Wiping her face clean, Nadiya shuffles again to the door, leaves the tissues in the biohazard bin and enters the bustling hallway.

Under gentle guidance, the hairline fractures become sturdy beams of oak. Heavy, but gives that nice rustic feel. Mahogany for the rest of the walls sounds good as well. Visualizing from one end of the wooden plank to the other; suspend a thought in perfect balance between the fingertips of imagination and dream. And they will come. Birdsong. Lilac. Orchid. Lily—Nadiya’s favourite. A weeping willow: start from the roots. From each tip, each hair, optimized to soak water from the earth. Pull up to the cracks in the bark, unwind your spine and feel the stretch of branches to branches to leaves to—no sun. There has never been a sun.

“Mrs. Holtan, you can’t afford to keep going like this.” The bank cares. The bank always cares. “You can’t keep on supporting him.” The bank pauses a moment to assess the damages. “It’s been six years—” “Five years, 10 months, 26 days.” Nadiya wills herself to stay strong. “It’s been a substantial amount of time. Your account can’t handle this kind of stress.” The bank protests, “Even with you coming back out of retirement, you’ll have to declare bankruptcy in the next 6 months.” Nadiya is silent. The knowledge weighs heavy on her countenance. Her fingers grip tighter onto the bedrail. “You have to let him go.”

The chapel is the ark. Two of each animal. One of me. Grains of monkey business are permanently engraved into the oak. Perhaps marble would’ve been easier to clean. Or, perhaps, something new. Perhaps, a house for every animal.

“Doctor, don’t tell me there’s no chance!” Near hysterics, Nadiya clutches at a pristine sleeve. “I’ve seen him move! I’ve held his hand, and his fingers moved!” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Holtan.” The doctor intones, “Oftentimes, coma patients exhibit minute movements. They don’t stay completely still. They’re “phantom movements”, so to speak, from lost neurological connections or psychological immaturity. I understand this can cause hope, but there really is no central neural activity behind these movements.” He thought it would be kinder if she didn’t hope. “Okay.” Nadiya couldn’t look at the doctor. A moment of silence. The hiss of life support slithered through ear canals, straight to Nadiya’s memories. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Holtan, there’s nothing else we can do. If you need anything—” “Just tell me, what are the chances of Mical… Ever…?” The doctor looked at her with pity, and almost exasperation. “It’s been six years—” “Five years, 11 months, 4 days.” “Okay.” The doctor concedes, “The chances of Mical ever coming to are slim. They’re very, very slim. And even if he did, his neurological state would rival that of an infant’s. There is no possible way for him to regain the functions he’s lost.” “I see. So it is kinder to…” Nadiya hesitantly approaches the question. With a nod of affirmation and approval, the doctor agrees, “Yes. It’s for the better.” A moment of silence. Softly, the doctor’s hand overlaps Nadiya’s clenched fist. Wrinkles are left on the plains of a newly starched hospital gown. “It’s time to let him go, Nadiya.”

The mighty phoenix rises as the sun, every day a death, every night a rebirth. Tracking his way through the cloudless sky to swim upstream to the same palace to be born, to die. Every sun set, my palace would glow with the fire that lights the world. And for just a split second, I can see the bird in the fire. It is a poignant moment where lament becomes almost tangible. Then the world plunges into a darkness so blinding, so perfect, it’s disorienting. Ashes rain from the heavens like tears of angels weeping for the light sucked out from existence. The scent of burning flesh fills a good wing of the palace, but is soon swept away by the gale winds. The phoenix stays for the night, smouldering in its ashes. Soft sounds of purring can be heard just before daybreak. Then with the clink of metal, my bird rockets from death to life to sky and becomes the sun. Behind him, lies the ashen nest of tomorrow. Marble was a great idea. Much easier to clean.

“Mical. I still don’t know if you’ve ever heard me. But if there ever was a time to hear me, hear me now. I can’t afford to keep you on life support anymore. Please, please, give me any sign. Give me something to know you’re still there.” Nadiya whispers to the bedrail, hands clutched into sheets. Her head bows over to form an arc over a limp hand, an effigy of prayer. Raising her head, she looks softly down on worn brows and gaunt cheeks. “I brought you flowers. Lilac, orchids, and lilies.” Rising, Nadiya places them in an overflowing vase. “The sun’s out today. It’s been absolutely lovely.” Reaching up, Nadiya grabs hold of the blinds, and sends them flying upwards with a cascade of metal collisions. Sunlight pours in, highlighting the protrusions of his brow and cheekbone, casting hollows into darker shade. In Nadiya’s eyes, he was the perfect portrait of sleep in repose. Shuffling forward, Nadiya moves to the bedside. Gingerly reaching out, she touches the sunlight in his hair, and softly places her lips to his forehead. No change in heart rate. Life support continues to wheeze on.

Why does the wind never stop? I don’t mind. I’m merely curious. Everywhere, the wind never stops. Houses that aren’t deeply rooted simply fly off into nothing. Walking along the pavilion, three houses have already flown. Whispers float across the breeze to tear gargoyles apart. All my architecture, bows to the gales.

“We’re ready doctor.” The nurse stands at the ready. “Please,” Nadiya pleads, “check for any signs before we proceed.” The doctor takes pity. “Of course.” Unhooking a light scope from the wall, the doctor opens both eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. Shining the light into one eye then the other, the doctor states “Uneven pupil constriction. Push 5cc’s of catecholamine.” The nurse takes the prepared syringe and places it at the mouth of an open intravenous catheter. The liquid pushes out slowly. A moment of silence. No response. “No change in heart rate or blood pressure.” The doctor takes Nadiya’s hand. “I’m sorry Mrs. Holtan.” A moment of silence. “I’m ready.” Behind the dam of tears in her eyes, Nadiya is determined. Taking a step back, she watches as the doctor removes the tube from Mical’s throat with a soft gurgle. The nurse turns off the life support then deflates and removes all catheters from his veins. His monitor is the last to be turned off. Dams breaking in Nadiya’s eyes, she gives a final parting. “May you go gently to death’s adumbrant embrace.”

My throat burns. Maybe it's the coffee. The machine’s been beeping non-stop. Then the world tilts. Hairline fractures show through marble, racing upwards to hold hands at the skylight and shatter glass outwards towards grey sky. Flashing tornadoes of planks and busts and windows crumble and shoot towards the phoenix; instant death on impact. The wind stops. The trees die in fast motion, but the smell of lilac, orchids, and lilies remain. My feet lift from the garden to dip in the cold stream of silence. My toes spread to touch imploding constellations. Oceans roar from bubbles to foam, like whipped cream. If I reached out, I could snag a drop on my finger and taste it. I watch as my world falls apart. Where has the gravity gone?

“…to death’s adumbrant embrace.”

#shortstory #leatherboundshorts

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Piece in Response to an Image

I was asked to write a creative piece in response to an image of rusty chains coming out of turbulent grey waters into a grey sky-like background.

Forgotten We were built to be destroyed. We bear the scars of our toil. We are decorated with spider silk medallions, strung onto our lapels with ghostly caresses long gone. There was once a time when the sky was blue and the waters were clean. Long ago, we were still new and fresh to the world. We gleamed with confidence in our own strength. Too long ago, we were alive. We live, only to die. Life is a gift cast in the shadow of death. Our time is overcast with limitations. So during our time, we hang on to one another for dear life. So we can create some sense of order, purpose, maybe even strength. Rust eats away at us, corrodes our very core. It eats away everything around us. It devours across the very fabric of reality, leaving everything a polluted grey. But if you look through that peephole of emptiness, found in every single one of us, you might sometimes see the times of old. Sometimes, you might witness the beauty we experienced. If you look through one of our million eyes, fantastical visions of a different side may greet you. Though, perhaps, you may be deceived by the rust that bleeds us dry. But if you can look past the scars that mark us, you might feel our longing for that shimmering reflection of a sparkling blue. But when that last patch of blue fades, I guess all that will be left is the rusted boundary that chains together water and sky.

We are akin to Atlas, condemned to hold the earth. We chain the earth to the heavens, preventing its descent into the abyss licking at earth’s heels. Or perhaps we chain the heavens to the earth, shackling to dirt that last ray of elusive hope. We are the accursed, the praised. We will be the forgotten. Our purpose long escapes us. We know not a reason behind our creation. Our arms outstretched, we grab onto whatever we can and pull them around us, like blankets to shield us from monsters. We curl into the C of a copyright logo. All we really want is that ring of safety. But there’s none here. There is no net to catch you if you fall. If you break faith, well, we will all plummet from our heights, but there are others. We will never be remembered. We are only links in a broken chain.

#shorts #writingexercise #leatherboundshorts

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Stream of Consciousness

Character Assessment

The pressure is like as if I’m underwater and running out of air. Each intake of breath is heavy and shallow. If anything sounds weird, it’s probably because not enough oxygen is getting to my head. I feel rambley today. So where was I? Ah, Mihos. An interesting character, describing him I would say he’s very emotive, despite him pretending not to be. Many other people don’t see this, I may just be delusional, but I think I do. He’s often quite crude with dirty jokes, but he toes that line between funny and too far with a finesse that comes from practice and sensitivity. He’s easily influenced but quite opinionated. And he gets hurt easily, even though he doesn’t show it. To be blunt, he’s a coward. He’s always running away from what he can’t “control” (I say this loosely. He’s not a total control freak.) But he still has some semblance of machismo. So not a total coward hiding in the shadows, but he’s not particularly outwardly fond of the spotlight. But I think, that on the inside, he wants attention. His main quality that I admire is his honesty. He’s not as twisted and crooked as many others in the world, though he falsely claims to be. He makes allusions to his past about how terrible he was, and perhaps he was, but I don’t think he’s that now. I don’t want to say “And that’s all that matters.” But I can’t really bring myself to give much credence to what he claims he used to be his past self. Perhaps I don’t trust him? But I do. At least to a certain extent. Make no mistake however in thinking the extent to which I trust him could be high. I’m wondering if I have a mental inhibitor preventing me from liking him. Sometimes when I talk to him, he’s the sweetest thing I know. And at others, I hope I never see him again. Lately, the latter has been occurring more often. I don’t think he’s changed much. Maybe it’s me. (It’s always me isn’t it? Does that prove my self-centredness?) I’m trying to keep this as honest as possible, but this mirror image of me I’ve painted with my honesty is far from beautiful. In fact, it’s probably downright unpleasant. I don’t know whether what I’m doing is right or wrong.

#shorts #writingexercise #leatherboundshorts

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Fairy Tale Shorts 2

The Carpenter

Once, there was a young boy who wanted to be a carpenter. He wanted to feel the flow of creation pour from his hands and take shape and form into the wood. So he built. Years passed, and the boy became a carpenter. Day in, day out, he built. Until one day, there was nothing new left for him to build. So, he decided to travel out into in the world in search of other ideas.

In the carpenter’s travels he met a business man who offered him a job building a top secret project. The carpenter agreed and was taken to an underground lab where many other carpenters and builders were working. The carpenter was given a set of blueprints and instructions. He was provided with every tool and material he had ever seen, and some he had never seen before. He wanted for nothing.

The carpenter set to work. Without want for anything, he never left the side of his creation. It was to be his magnum opus. He worked on his project day in, day out. And just like every other builder, he only had eyes for his work.

Many years passed, and the carpenter’s hands began to grow weary. Placing down his tools, the carpenter lifted his eyes from his creation and realized all the other builders were building the exact same project. Truly surveying his work and his surroundings for the first time, he noticed that his creation encased him. Encasing every other builder was the product of their labours. Seeing for the first time, he realized he was living in a crypt. His creation was to be his coffin.

#shorts #bedtimestory #leatherboundshorts

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leatherboundshorts · 9 years

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Fairy Tale Shorts 1

The Bird Who Loved a Fish

Once, there was bird that loved a fish. The fish swam free in the stream, but every night, he passed by the bird’s cage. When the fish swam by, he would leap from the stream in a display of power, showering glistening water droplets across the water. Illuminated by the moonlight, his scales glittered like diamonds, and the bird thought the fish was beautiful.

Every night, the bird sang to the fish from within her cage, she sang for she could not spread her wings and fly in rhythmic loops and twirls with the leaping fish. So every night, she would watch for her fish in the stream and sing, hoping the wind will carry her song to the waters. Gradually, time passed, and the bird still sang.

One night, a cascade of gleaming fish fell from the mouth of the stream into the river, never to return. Several nights later, more fish began to disappear. Worried, the bird inquired a passing fish as to where all the fish were going. The passing fish replied that all the fish were headed to where the river calls them, their beginning. The fish explained that to follow the call of the river is to survive. To resist the river is to waste away to nothing.

For several nights more, many more fish followed the river and left the small stream. Yet, the bird’s beloved fish still leaped from the water in graceful arcs. So the bird stopped singing. Every night, when her beloved fish passed, she hid in the shadows of her cage and waited. One day, her beloved fish did not leap from the glistening waters. He had flowed away with the river. Relieved, the bird curled into her feathers, and did not sing again.

Without her song, the bird was soon no longer valued, and so she was cast from her cage. Free to fly the skies once more, the bird followed the river her beloved fish followed. Flying for day and night, at last she caught a glimpse of diamond in the moonlit river. Flying low, the bird sang a song of past moonlights and gilded mystery, and from the silver river leaped her fish of diamonds.

Flying low, the bird and her fish wove a dance of water droplets floating on rushing wind. With each leap of the fish, the bird swooped from the sky and together they spun through the air with velvet wingtip imparting the softest of caresses against smooth scale, a single moment crystallized in drops of moonlight. Sweeping up through the air and spiraling down once more, the bird and her fish danced through the night.

As night yielded to day, the fish yielded to the flow of his brethren through the river. Left to the skies, the bird soared towards the fading moon. Although the bird loved her fish dearly, she could not stay. Just as she could not go to her love and fly below the water, he could not stay with her to swim the skies. Each fleeting moment held no permanence. Together, they would have been caught in the rhythm of their dance, forever trying to catch each crystallized moment floating just above the moonlit waters.

Thus, the bird left her diamond fish. For her soul was the wind and could not be trapped in motionless still-life. So she spread her wings and chased the dissipating eye of night. Following Polaris, the bird sang for her fish until she could sing no more.

#shorts #bedtimestory #leatherboundshorts

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