Third Creative Response to Family Migrations

The content below is original creative work.  Please do not use or redistribute in any form without permission.

Dog Confessions

The stage is lit by one spotlight, which shines on a mirror which is a little to the left of the stage center.  There is a rug in front of the mirror.  A teenage girl/young woman stands in front of the Mirror, with a dog sitting and watching from behind.  Her hair is in braids, with red ribbons at the end of each braid.

As she stands before the mirror, a male voice (from offstage) reads the words of a Chinese poem: 床前明月光.[1]  Behind her, on the wall, the English text is projected:

In the Quiet of the Night (Li Bai, 701-762 AD, China)

Moonlight reflects off the front of my bed. 
Could it be frost on the ground instead? 
I look up to view the bright moon ahead. 
Thoughts of hometown bring down my head.

The girl speaks:

I’ll never leave home

Not while Grandpa’s alive

If he calls me every day when I’m at summer camp

Imagine what college will be like if I go to a school far away

Plus, you’re here.

The girl turns to look at the dog, then walks off to the right of the mirror, out of the light.

Another teenage girl walks into the spotlight, wearing a formal gown/prom dress.  Her hair is in an “updo,” with white flowers woven into her hair.  She looks at herself in front of the mirror, smoothing out her dress and then putting mascara on.  As she puts on her mascara, she says:

I’ll be home by midnight

That counts as staying safe

It’s not the American high school experience

If I don’t go to at least one dance—even if I come home early.

Anyway, you’ll see me later tonight.

The girl turns and stoops down to pet the dog’s head, then walks off to the right of the mirror, out of the light.

A third teenage girl comes onstage, wearing a soccer uniform with her hair in a ponytail.  She wears a blue ribbon in her hair.  She begins to stretch in front of the mirror.  She speaks, while stretching:

I’m the only Asian on the soccer team

That makes me special—makes me feel strong

I hope I get to play up near the forwards

Even if I’m a midfielder

You can lick my sweat when I get home

The girl turns and stoops down to kiss the top of the dog’s head, then walks off to the right of the stage.

The first young lady comes on stage, wearing “every day” wear.  She carries a duffel bag, which she sets down in front of the mirror, unzips, and fumbles around in, saying:

I’m leaving home, but I’m not going far

I’ll be home every weekend. 

I know you’ll call me every day.

To make sure I’m home by midnight.

Turning to the dog, she finishes:

Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.

As she hugs the dog, the spotlight dims, and the Chinese words of the poem “In the Quiet of the Night” project onto the mirror.  After 30 seconds, the light completely fades, leaving the stage dark.

From offstage, we hear the sound of a phone ringing. 

A young woman’s voice (that of the second actor), answers, in Chinese: Hello?   

The male voice comes speaks in Chinese.  (English translation is projected on the wall): Granddaughter?  Are you well?  Do you miss home?  Remember to visit your mother.  She gets lonely with you gone. 

The young woman replies, in Chinese (with projected English subtitles): I’m fine.  No, I’m not too tired or busy.  I go home every weekend.  Are you well, Grandpa?

 The male voice replies: I’m always well after I hear your voice.  Bye bye.

When the lights come on again (full stage lights, brighter than the spotlight), we see the third young woman actor sitting on the ground in front of the mirror.  A middle-aged woman is standing next to the mirror facing the teenage girl/young woman. 

The teenage girl asks: Should we tell Grandpa that Lucy died?  

The middle-aged woman replies:  I told him last night, on the phone. 

The teenage girl says: Okay.

From offstage, the man’s voice reads the poem in Chinese again, and the lights fade.

When the lights comes back on, we see three young women (actors we have not seen yet) sitting on the rug, each holding an object in their hands.  The mirror is gone. 

Girl 1, reading from a book: In 1949, the Communists took over China.  The Nationalists fled to Taiwan and set up government under martial law. 

Girl 2, typing onto a laptop and saying aloud: Grandpa went to Taiwan in 1950, when he was 29 years old…That’s how old I am now..

Girl 3 holds a wooden box in her hands.  The box is about 5x6 inches.  She opens the lid of the box, but the audience cannot see what’s inside. 

Two more actors, a man and the middle-aged woman, wheel a chalkboard onstage.  They each stand on one side of the chalkboard.  The three young women lay down their object, get up, and each take one piece of chalk from Girl 3’s wooden box.  They write, simultaneously, on the chalkboard, from top to bottom, each writing one column of letters:

D   O   G        D  O  G

a         f     r              o  f      i

u               a              g         r

g               n                         l

h               d

t                p

e               a

r

The young woman who is writing the middle column (“Of”) finishes first and goes offstage to fetch the mirror.  She brings the mirror to where it can reflect the words on the chalkboard.  In the reflection in the mirror, we see that a new word is spelled: GOD.  The other two young women stand on either side of the chalkboard, next to the man and the middle-aged woman.

The lights dim, and the spotlight comes on, making a circle on the rug.  The three teenage girls walk on stage, with their heads looking down.  They stand on each side of the rug, facing the audience.

The first girl says the first line of the poem in Chinese.  The English translation is projected on the wall: Moonlight reflects off the front of my bed. 

The second girl says the second line of the poem in Chinese, with English translation projected:  Could it be frost on the ground instead? 

The third girl says the third line of the poem in Chinese, with English translation:
I look down to view the bright moon ahead. 

In unison they say, in Chinese, while looking up: Thoughts of Grandpa bring up my head.

The three girls gather around the wooden box, which is on the rug.  They each take a fistful of powder-like substance and scatter it onto the rug.  Lights fade.

---

[1] See http://www.musicated.com/syh/tangpoems.htm.

Second Creative Response to Family Migrations

The content below is original creative work.  Please do not use or redistribute in any form without permission.

Red Bridge

For my grandfather

The stage is empty, save for a dinner table and a chair.  An old man sits on the chair.  His hair is white, but his body looks strong.  He is 85 years old. There is a spotlight that illumines the table.  The rest of the room is dark.  The old man is sipping from a cup of tea.  He blows into the cup to release some of the steam, then sips carefully so as not to burn his tongue.  Although his movements are careful, they are done so in a relaxed manner.  His eyes do not stray from the cup, and he seems to be meditating peacefully.  He is not wearing a microphone.  From off-stage, an elderly woman’s voice speaks Taiwanese, as if on the phone.  After two minutes, the spotlight fades, and a moving image is projected onto the wall behind the man.  The image is of waves washing up onto the shore, and we can hear the sound of the waves lapping gently onto the sand.  This lasts for one minute.

As the video fades, the spotlight comes on again, and this time a middle-aged man, around 55 years old, is sitting at the table, sipping a cup of tea.  His brow is furrowed, and he reads a newspaper as he drinks, turning his gaze away from the print only to make sure he does not burn his tongue when he takes a sip.  Because he is wearing a microphone, the sound of his sipping is loud and audible.  As he continues to sip and read, the spotlight fades and a series of black and white images comes on as a slideshow projected onto the wall behind him.  The images are from this collection: http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=848120.  The man’s sipping is consistent, at approximately the same rhythmic pace as the sound of waves from the earlier moving image.

As the images finish, the stage lights come on.  This time, the table and chair are still there, but there is a bridge that arches over the table.  The middle-aged man still sits at the chair reading books.  He has finished his cup of tea and it sits on the table.  A young man, age 35 walks over the bridge, which is red, in the style of ornamental bridges in Japanese gardens. (See below.) He has a young lady on his arm, and they stroll over and across the bridge speaking Japanese.  In the gaps of conversation in Japanese over the bridge, the middle-aged man reads from the books.  Each sentence he reads is a line from the poem, 床前明月光 (“In the Quiet of the Night”—See http://www.musicated.com/syh/tangpoems.htm.)

When the poem, interspersed between the conversation, is finished, the lights fade.  Immediately, there is the sound of a television newscast, as one would see in Taiwan, as a segment is projected on to the wall.  This segment lasts for 3 minutes.

When the segment ends, the stage lights come on again.  This time, a different kind of bridge occupies the stage.  (See below.)   The table and chair have been moved to the front of the bridge.  The following objects are on the table: a telephone, a newspaper, and a cup of tea.  Three men stand very still on the bridge, as if frozen in time.  Their bodies are evenly spaced, facing the right side of the stage and with the right side of their bodies facing the audience.  They are dressed in clothes of specific historical periods, which are all shades of black, blue, and brown.  The oldest man, wearing an undershirt and linen pants, is standing closest to the right end of the bridge.  He stands erect but still uses a cane.  The middle-aged man, wearing a business suit, is standing in the middle of the bridge.  The youngest man is on the left end of the bridge.  He is wearing the uniform of the Nationalist Army and holding a rifle.  10 seconds into this scene, he drops the rifle, creating a loud sound.  At the sound, a group of women and children, dressed in hues of red, rush onto the stage from the left side of the stage.  They are holding a very large red banner, made of gauze, and they use the large banner to cover all three men and the bridge.

The children scatter off-stage and into the audience, and two women remain on the stage.  The older woman (who was speaking Taiwanese offstage earlier) picks up the phone and begins to listen without speaking.  The younger woman (who was on the red bridge) begins to clear off the table, taking away the newspaper and the cup. 

As the lights fade, the moving image of the waves once again projects onto the wall, with the soothing sound of water lapping onto the sand. 

First Creative Response about Family Migrations

Friday, October 2, 2015.

1:00 pm

Sitting in my car, on the phone, with rain coming down outside.

“Mom, can you talk?”

One of the few times I have to schedule a phone conversation with her.  Usually I just call whenever I feel like it.

We begin.

“What year did Grandpa arrive in Taiwan?”

1950.  This was after the Communist takeover in 1949.  Most of Grandpa’s peers who worked for China’s Nationalist Government had fled prior to that.  He stayed on, not convinced that things were going south just yet.  Quickly, he realized he had to get out of there.

“How exactly did he get to Taiwan from China?”

He went to Shenzhen, a coastal city in the South, crossing a bridge to Hong Kong, then taking a boat to Jeelung, Taiwan. 

That bridge.  Memorialized in my mind as the threshold into Grandpa’s new life.  That bridge.  Where soldiers tried—but failed—to stop Grandpa and Grandpa’s brother from escaping into freedom.  Hearing about the bridge as a child, I created a silent movie scene in my head.  Two young men, running across a bridge, pursued by men and rifles.  I’ve often superimposed myself into that scene as one of the runners.  It’s been years since Mom and I have talked about the bridge, but immediately the scene replays in my head.

“How old was Grandpa when he arrived in Taiwan?”

He was 29 years old—the age I currently am, Mom points out.  Now that definitely strikes a chord.  His younger brother fell sick and died shortly thereafter—Mom can’t remember exactly when. 

Grandpa keeps a framed black-and-white photo of his brother in his room.  I remember seeing that picture—about 10x20 inches large—during one of my earliest trips to Taiwan in 1992.

We move forward a few decades.  I already know that Grandpa met Grandma, ten years his junior, when he was 32.  They worked at the same company.  After over 60 years of marriage, Grandma learned that Grandpa had been previously married back in China.

“When did Auntie Chunhua first contact Uncle Charles?”

Mom’s knowledge of this part of the story is fuzzy.  Apparently, my step-aunt, her half-sister, had contacted one of my uncles in the 1980s—or was the late ‘70s?  Apparently, Uncle Charles did not tell the others about this—certainly not my grandma.  Eventually, in 2008, Auntie Chunhua visited Taiwan.  She came as soon as she could—when direct flights from China to Taiwan opened up for civilians in 2008.

Meeting Auntie Chunhua was an interesting experience.  I was 23 at the time, had just completed my first Master’s degree.  Mom, who had always wished for an older sister, did not exactly click with my aunt.  How does family become family when separated by decades of historical distance?  Grandpa, whom I had always thought to be a man of honesty and integrity, had his secrets from the past.  Perhaps he did not mean to conceal anything from Grandma.  Perhaps he just wanted to move on with his life.

I switch the subject again.  I don’t want to trigger Mom into thinking about Grandpa’s past and how it still sometimes haunts him—and her too, to an extent.  Mom remembers hearing Grandpa cry out for his mom in his sleep.  Grandpa never went back to China or heard from his parents after arriving in Taiwan—but years later he learned that his own father, who had been a wealthy landlord under China’s pre-Communist feudal system, had died in prison under Communist punishment.

“So you and Dad came to the U.S. in 1980?”

After marrying, my parents came to the East coast to pursue graduate education.  After my Dad got his Ph.D, they moved to California, where my dad taught at the University of Southern California.  They became citizens in 1994.

I remember that day.  I was memorizing my multiplication tables while Mom reviewed her U.S. history facts.  After that day, it was as if Mom realized she could not simply be a long-term visitor in this new land.  She was inescapably American, and she didn’t necessarily see that as a good thing.

Mom always fought to instill a Chinese identity in my brother and me.  We visited Taiwan about every three years, and she made sure we could speak, read, and write the language.  She wanted her mother tongue to also be one of ours.  And yet, she herself did not possess her mother’s mother tongue, the Taiwanese dialect.

“When did Grandma’s family arrive in Taiwan?”

Grandma was born and raised in Taiwan.  Her ancestors most likely went to Taiwan 300 years ago, from China’s coastal province of Fujian, during the Ming Dynasty.  Fujian was one of China’s poorer provinces, so those who could migrated to Taiwan for a better life.  Mom mentions how at the end of the Ming Dynasty, the Manchus were coming to take over China and start the Qing Dynasty.  A Fujianese leader with the last name of Zhen (and whose first name is a homonym for the Chinese word for “success”) brought a group of people to Taiwan, unwilling to succumb to Manchu rule.  Taiwan was ruled by the Dutch at that time, but Mr. Zhen, true to his name, successfully drove them out.

Mom and I review together what we know of Taiwan’s history—how it passed from the rule of one country or dynasty to another (Spain, Holland, the Manchu Qing Dynasty).  How it was “given” to Japan after China lost the Sino-Japanese War.  How the Nationalists fled there in 1949, with every intent of using Taiwan as a base from which to take China back from the Communists.

“Back to Grandpa.  He moved around quite a bit even before migrating to Taiwan, right?”

Grandpa was born in Hubei Province, attended middle and high school in Jiangxi Province, left for a college education in Japan at 17 and spent eight years there, and then lived in Shanghai for 4 years after that.  Shanghai is where he met his first wife.  Shanghai is where he realized he needed to leave China, because he was working for the Nationalist government, the losing side.  He never got to say goodbye to his family.

I feel bad neglecting my dad’s side of the story.  “Their ancestors went to Taiwan with Mr. Zhen, 300 years ago, right?”

Mom thinks so.  There’s not much drama with that side—the story is more straightforward, she says. 

Drama is one word for it.  These narratives are all-to-familiar, but I never tire of hearing about family history, something I don’t get to talk about with anyone but my mom.  There is so much more that could be said, but this will do for the purposes of my course assignment.

Oh, and one more thing, Mom remembers.  (I think she’s been Googling as we speak).  “The Dutch left Taiwan in 1662.”

I look outside my window again.  Here I am, parked on a street corner in Connecticut, talking to my mom across a 3-hour time difference about relatives who live an ocean away, with a 12-hour time difference.  There are so many layers of emotion, memory, and trauma that interweave this family history.  “Facts” are like the points on a loom from which threads are stretched.  They can’t entirely be trusted, but we still need them to make sense of the story.

So, the Dutch left Taiwan in 1662, and that’s about when Connecticut was chartered as a British colony.  I’m back to reality now—to this New Haven of mine—and my thoughts switch from Chinese back into English.  The rain is still coming down, and I turn on the engine and drive on to the rest of my day.

Holiday Newsletter, Part 2

In keeping with the tradition I started last year, I wrote another Holiday Greeting this year.  Below are excerpts, with some edits for privacy:

December 2015

Dear Family and Friends,

I hope you have had a wonderful Christmas Season and are looking ahead to the New Year with hope.  As 2015 closes out, I am struck by how much has happened since last Christmas—in our crazy world, in the life of my family, and in my personal development.  Here are some things I’d like to share:

Changes in the life of our Family:

Last year, 3 days after Christmas, our very dear neighbor passed away from cancer.    Our neighbor and his wife have been there for us since we moved to our home in A. in 19--.  Since our grandparents live in Asia, He was the closest thing we had to a grandfatherly figure in the States. Our family was able to see him the day before he died, to play some music for him, and to say goodbye.

Just a few months later, on Valentine’s Day, my paternal grandmother passed away in Asia, quite suddenly.  Her passing made me all the more grateful that I had taken a trip to Asia that previous summer.  During that visit, we had spent some quality time together at home and in the hospital (she was a dialysis patient).   My grandmother’s unconquerable spirit lives on in my heart, and I think about all the opportunities I have been afforded that she never had.

Student Life at Yale Divinity School:

From January to April of 2015, there was snow (in some form) on the ground in New Haven.  What a long winter!  To cope with the dreary weather, my community of friends banded together for plenty of meals, sing-a-longs, and celebrations.  Because I lived alone, I was able to host several parties in my apartment and share life with Divinity School students from all over the world.

Over the summer, I worked in New Haven as a Yale President’s Public Service Fellow, serving as a Special Projects Assistant at the Boys & Girls Club of New Haven.  It was good to get out of the academic bubble and to get to know the underprivileged neighborhoods of New Haven better.  In the fall, I started a new role as Community Life Coordinator at the Divinity School.  This job entails planning school-wide events, sitting on the Executive Committee of Student Council, and meeting regularly with the various Deans of the Divinity School.  It has been very challenging to step into leadership as an introvert and a racial minority, and I have had to be assertive, manage conflict, and work to address the needs of a very diverse (and opinionated!) student body on a weekly basis. 

My favorite class at Yale this semester involved working with a playwright and writing my own dramatic scenes and plays.  I have loved having this creative outlet and look forward to working more closely with this playwright in the coming semester.  Other highlights include:  singing in Gospel choir, playing soccer, swing dancing, blogging, church life, spiritual direction, and last but certainly not least: observing firsthand the student movement toward diversity and inclusion that has been happening at Yale and across other universities.

“In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Greek..male nor female…”

Diversity is a beautiful and sometimes challenging thing, pointing us to our need for unity through faith.

There are at least 10 countries represented here!

Staying active is an important way to combat stress and take a break from studying.

I was thrilled to be able to score a goal during my last soccer game as a 20-something-year-old!

Looking Ahead to 2016:

                  In January, I will turn 30 while living in an environment surrounded by 20-somethings.  While it has been really fun and a rare opportunity be a student again and to interact with and learn from/with so many brilliant young friends, I am also looking forward to getting back into the “real world” and being around some older adults!  In May, I will graduate from Divinity School with a Master in Religion and go on a study tour of Estonia, Finland, and St. Petersburg, Russia with the Yale Institute of Sacred Music.  At this point, I have no idea what happens after I return from that trip.  Lord willing, I will find some form of employment and take a “year of transition” to work out more long-term goals and plans.

May your New Year be filled with meaningful activities, strengthened relationships, and a sense of faith and purpose!  May you experience health and happiness in the midst of whatever life brings your way!

                                                      

Holiday Newsletter, Part 1

It's always bothered me that married people are entitled to draw attention to their lives and accomplishments (at least) once a year, in the form of the Holiday Newsletter.  (It also bothers me that just because two people fall in love and decide to make it work, they are allowed to ask their friends for money and presents, in the form of a bridal registry or a honeyfund.  Why not give the same privilege to a single person who has accomplished something big, such as obtaining a Ph.D, becoming an MD, serving the poor, becoming ordained, or making a career change?)

Ever since my friends started getting married and having kids, they would stay in touch annually with picture-postcards and newsletters.  It's not that I don't enjoy getting them--my complaint is that single people are never given permission to do the same. So I gave myself permission last year, as a way of responding to the injustice of it all.  I'm a big fan of "both/and" over "either/or."  So, let us not think that either you get married and send holiday greetings, or you remain single and silent.  Instead, let us celebrate that one can both choose singleness/studenthood AND be recognized as a legitimate adult!

A Blogger's Confession

Often, after blogging, I feel at once relieved and ashamed.

Relieved, because writing for an "audience"--no matter how small--just feels different and more significant than keeping a private journal, so I feel as if releasing my opinions into cyberspace is a sort of cleansing act.

Ashamed, because revealing my own pettiness (in the form of opinions) reminds me of how much inside me is ungracious and haughty.  Often, it is not until I have put unconscious thoughts into words that I realize how much there is in me that ought to change.

I went on a walk this morning with a very good friend.  One of the things we discussed was: what would you like for the coming year?

Two things, I said: humility and generosity.

As a leader, it is extremely important for me to learn to be humble, even as I grow in boldness.

I want to be more generous in my heart--in the way I think about others, and in the way I assess their behavior.

These are things I cannot accomplish on my own.  In fact, they entail more "stripping away" than "adding to."  But I know it can happen, and that's what I look forward to in the coming year.

Cheers to becoming a better human--and hopefully a more mature blogger!

Till We Have Faces

I've been reading, with much delight, a story by C.S. Lewis called Till We Have Faces.

A PDF version can be found here. 

A (very minor, and not related to the book's major themes) quote from today's reading resonated much with me, a former tomboy:

Can she be jealous?" And so it was, through all those years, whenever we met. Sometimes I would say to myself, "She has lain in his bed, and that's bad. She has borne his children, and that's worse. But has she ever crouched beside him in the ambush? Ever ridden knee to knee with him in the charge? Or shared a stinking water-bottle with him at the thirsty day's end? For all the dove's eyes they've made at one another, was there ever such a glance between them as well- proved comrades exchange in farewell when they ride different ways and both into desperate danger? I have known, I have had, so much of him that she could never dream of. She's his toy, his recreation, his leisure, his solace. I'm in his man's life. (p. 111 from the PDF version). 

From Capture the Flag, to snowball fights, to soccer, to paintballing and frisbee--I have had the pleasure of knowing men as a teammate and not just as a female, and I wouldn't give that up for the world!

Another quote:

I hid all the things I was feeling — and indeed I did not know what they were, except that all the peace of that autumnal journey was shattered — so as not to spoil the pleasure of my people. Next day I understood more clearly. I could never be at peace again till I had written my charge against the gods. It burned me from within. It quickened; I was with book, as a woman is with child. 

Labor pains.  They happen for writers, too.  For internal processors like me, it often takes a while before we can adequately express ourselves.  Thank goodness I write, because I hate burdening others with my verbiage.

Speaking of labor pains, a friend texted me on Christmas Eve, and it spoke to some of the difficult things I have experienced this winter and the feeling that the fruit of those things has and will continue to come out of me in some way : 

Thinking about you this Christmas Eve, and the labor pains that come with God giving birth to something new in you.  Giving birth is painful; labor is intense.  But the new life that it brings is joy.  May Christ be formed in you this year.

I'll never be as athletic or eloquent as I desire, but fighting (as a tomboy) and writing (as an introvert) are still two of the ways I express myself.  Cheers to that!

An Appeal of Solidarity

An empty stage, dimly lit.  Actors wearing coats and hats enter from both sides of the stage.  Faces are smeared in soot.  They say, in unison:

If we've failed, it's not for lack of trying.

We listened.  We watched.  We stood behind.

We tried to back you up without getting in your way.

A man steps forward:

If I've failed, it's not for lack of trying.

I listened.  I empathized.  I served you as best I could.

I tried to support you without telling you what to do.

And if I was too passive, too aggressive, too fast, too slow, I'm sorry.

I tried.  But I just couldn't keep your pace.

A woman steps forward:

If I've failed, it's not for lack of trying.

I listened.  I learned.  I practiced this new language of yours.

We both speak English, but your way of talking is not the way I think.

But I'm trying to catch up to your generation, without seeming like I try too hard.

I tried.  But I just couldn't get it right.

A child steps forward  Under the hat, one cannot tell if it is a boy or a girl:

If I fail, it won't be for lack of trying.

I'm honest.  I'm blunt.  I tell you what I think.

That's the best gift I can give you, but perhaps you don't like it?

I'm trying, and I'll keep trying until I fail.

A Humanist Soliloquy

An empty stage.  One spotlight.  An actor walks into the spotlight.  Speaks.

Sometimes I wonder if what I affectionately call the "alphabet soup"--LGBTQIA+--was given to mankind because the power struggles between two sides of a binary needed to be disrupted. Patriarchy harms not only women, but also men, and humanity as a whole suffers.  Feminism makes valid critiques but has also garnered criticism.  It's time we stop thinking about the binary.  It's time we look to the human and recognize when the person is first a human, and then a woman, man...

It's not wrong for a woman to love a man, if it makes them both better.  It's not wrong to give up career for family, if that's what one believes is right.  It's not wrong to pursue one's dreams, as long as no harm is done.  But, cynics will say, does not everything come with a price?  Does not sacrifice count as some kind of harm?  But back to my stream of thought.  It's not wrong for a man to love a man...

I'm an idealist.  A humanist.  I believe in what humans are capable of.  I believe we can somehow make a way where it's not either/or, but both/and...


Lights fade.

Playing, Writing, Playwriting

I played hard as a kid.

I liked to write, too.

In fact, I wrote a play when I was nine, and I forced my brother and childhood friends to partake in its performance.  I took the story from a book called The Other Kitten, and renamed the play, To Think of Others First.  We still have a home video of me actively directing a group of children, ages 2-8, moving props, making announcements, and just being a generally bossy presence "on stage."

What few opportunities I had growing up to do any kind of acting, I relished--once in grade school, once in seventh grade, and in speech class/auditions in 8th/9th grades.  I was often shy in social situations, but as an actress I wasn't terrible.  With coaching and confidence, I might have actually gotten into it.

It's hard to do that when you're homeschooled for much of your life, and when most stage parts are of characters who don't look like you.

This past semester, I got to work with a playwright through a seminar at Yale Law School.  I got to write my own creative reflections and dramatic scenes, and I completed two short plays.  My plays were read aloud, even as I participated in table reads of others' plays.

Near the end of the semester, some really difficult things happened at the Divinity School.  I used playwriting as a means of processing and commenting on those things.  The final product (a 10-page play, accompanied by a 9-page reflection) became my final assignment for the seminar.

My dad, after reading the play, said, "You write things like a hen lays eggs.  I hope you continue writing always, no matter what kind of vocation you choose."

During Christmastime, friends send newsletters with pictures of their growing families.  I have no such progress of which to boast, but I have given birth to creative work that reflects family history, social movements, and cultural realities.  Our Creator has gifted us with the ability to perpetuate life, whether that is through procreation or through creative projects.

The Feminist Monologues: III

An empty stage.  One spotlight.  A woman steps into the spotlight, adjusts her glasses, speaks.

I am a daughter.

A sister, too, but primarily a daughter.  Since I was a child, I have felt responsible for my mother's happiness.  When you are the firstborn daughter of immigrants, you have a special bond with your mother.  You feel her pain, understand her sorrows, and you want to do all you can to make her life better.  You take her side when it's your brother you hurts her.

I am a daughter.

A friend, too, but primarily a daughter.  When friends of mine started coming of age and making their own decisions, I still cared way too much about my mother's opinion.  I never went away to do my own thing without leaving half of my heart behind at home with my mother.  I could never really leave, you see, without looking back.

I am a daughter.

A student, too, but primarily a daughter.  I tended to do well in school and had fleeting aspirations of academic greatness.  But I never applied to my dream school, never really "went for it."  It was always more important to me that family come first.  What would I be if I achieved my goals, but at the expense of family?  Many things, but not the daughter I wanted to be.

I am a daughter.

A lover, too, but primarily a daughter.  I have loved many men, and many men have loved me.  But never to the point where I turned my back on my mother's feelings.  I understand that my personal happiness is always tied in with how I fit into my family.  Yes, I often do what I please.  Yes, I say "no" to my mother as often as I say "yes."

But I always do so as a daughter.  A daughter-friend, a daughter-woman, a daughter-feminist.

Lights fade.

The Feminist Monologues: II

An empty stage.  One spotlight.  A woman steps into the spotlight, unbuttons the top button of her shirt, speaks.

There are some women who call themselves feminists, who verbally subscribe to ideas that liberate women.  But when it comes to relationships, they are still submissive and anxious to please the man.

There is nothing new under the sun, and history contains plenty of such cases.  (I have been on a period-drama-watching binge.  No doubt these examples are conflations of those storylines.)

The man has a past, a history with other women and men.  She doesn't care.  "What we have is valid," she says, knowing nothing of the past.  The man goes on a trip and uses part of that trip to visit old flames.  She's ok with it.  But she pines away silently at home.

It's rare to be treated this well by a man, so anything he does warms her heart.  Flowers, caresses, little romantic gestures.  What she doesn't know is that he's been practicing on women for a long time.  It comes as second nature.

Her other friends have all sorts of dirt on the man, but she never bothers to ask them.  She doesn't want to know, because that would ruin things.  It's nicer to think best of the man you're in love with, because your heart is infatuated and that's such a good feeling.

And so, in the end, the feminist becomes a hypocrite, still spouting out strong speech but succumbing in all other ways to the first man that treats her like she's worth the attention.  It's not that she can do better--it's that he can.  But only if she realizes it--and pushes him to be better.

Bad boys attract good girls, and that's been the story of mankind for ages.

Lights fade.

The Feminist Monologues: I

An empty stage.  One spotlight.  A woman steps into the spotlight, smoothes her graying hair, speaks. 

There are some men who claim to be feminist--but treat their mothers with impatience and only minimum respect.

There are some men who claim to be feminist--but never think about giving up male privilege for the women in their family.

Sure, they respect women who are like them--rational, logical, and factual.  After all, those are traditionally "male" qualities.

But God-forbid a woman is emotional, sensitive, and has no apparent "logic" to back up her intuition. That kind of behavior doesn't merit respect.  That's being needy and weak.

Ironically, men like this often garner the respect, adoration, and friendship of women outside the home.  Because many women still give too much credit to hypocrites who call themselves feminists.
Not that I know any such men personally, but so I have seen...

Lights fade.