Death and Disaster

Recently, in a conversation with my mother she expressed a deep grieving and heart-ache over knowing that a large percentage if not all of those dying or dead in the March 11, 2011 earthquake here in northern Japan are without salvation, no knowledge of the their Creator. I never thought about it in that manner. The grief, the pain, and the suffering and my own sense of helplessness in the face of their struggle preoccupied me. But as I thought about this idea and talked to my wife. I realized this not so an astonishing reality. If a Christian should feel such duly painful grief over a natural disaster slaughtering so many unsaved people, then they should NEVER EVER even think of condoning, facilitating, allowing, or participating in actions that take people’s lives. One must allow those people as much time as possible to live and be saved. One cannot think themselves free to kill in any circumstance under this presumption.Take a step further. Who in the world then deserves more compassion than any other? The Muslim terrorist. Not only hell-bent on murder but firmly believing that he will be saved by another god if he does.

But on the other side of the coin, American soldiers could be put into the same situation through metaphor. The gods – the state, the nation. salvation honor, bragging rights. But I lack compassion for soldiers and servicepeople( a great weakness of mine). If i think of these military people as the most pitifully confused and misdirected group in America – deluded by ideas of fun, excitement, valor, honor, they plunging into a bloodbath of pain, and psychological trauma.

If one wants truly wants the souls of the world to be saved than a supernatural pacifism is absolutely necessary. Not just necessary but required. This takes a great deal of compassion not just rhetoric.

The Military State – USA Military Spending 40% of World Total

A great Christian political activist by the name of Jim Wallis once said, “a budget is a moral document.” In light of this common sensical concept the USA has a deeply difficult question on their hands: to make a nation of peace, humanitarianism, and love  with a strong, educated, healthy country of international individuals or one of insatiable militarism, imperial foreign policy, and fear tactics. The militarism poisons the officer, the family, the individual, and the society that supports it with hatred, fueled by a crass nationalism, funded by profiteering “private security” companies, and arms dealers (the very embodiment of the word “rapacious”). The victim (the opponent, “enemy” or civilians) decimated, dehumanized, denigrated with nowhere to be free to live in peace, only in constant fear.

This reality is on my mind constantly. As I seek answers to my great moral questions and concerns of a quickly maturing adult desiring to settle down in the next decade, I cannot avoid the thought that this is a moral ill that Americans, especially Christian ones should scrutinize.

Here is the infographic

Military Spending

Review and Musings on Andrew Xia Fukuda’s Crossing

Andrew Xia Fukuda, a Half-Japanese, Chinese American born in the states, moved to Hong Kong, then moved back to New York, wrote his debut book on the isolation, depression, and anger of the racial outcast. Under the shadow of the VT killer, a Korean-American by the name of Sueng Hui Cho, he feel the crushing icy glares, and stares of his all-white town pining him, categorizing him, ostracizing him. But Andrew does not leave this tale in the predictable bounds of victim and victimizer. The main character, Xing, presents the psychological complexity not only of an individual but an Chinese immigrant youth of middle-school age in a racist all-white community. The narrative structure eludes direct revelations; intimations, unaswered questions and the purposeful inclusion throughout of minute details enhance the suspense and mystery of the novel. The main character’s struggle finds real feeling, depth, and versimilitude such that the reader cannot but hope for his redemption. This hope combined with the psuedo-crime thriller plot line create a haunting, irresistable, and informative read. Pick it up. I give this book five stars. Here it is on Amazon (also for the Kindle where i read it). http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-Andrew-Xia-Fukuda/dp/1935597035/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1275514550&sr=8-1  

This books images, so visceral, raw, and heartfelt stay with so vividly as if the main character was your closest friend sharing his/her life with you. I have often daydreamed about the book thinking i was thinking about someone I knew only to realize that it was just a dream of a book.

Notably this book also won various awards including best Asian American debut.

“Seventy-Seven Condoms”

Written across the faceless cleavage,

At the back of every US daily

People are proffered as Amazon products.

Customizable!

(Down to the tits and tats)

Convenient locations!

Sex sells slaves,

Behind this farcical façade

Of blacked out windows.

A few bills will do.

For this sex any excuse will do,

To leave me shackled.

Through endless graveyard shifts

Despair clings in every client’s grope.

Eromatic oils, cheap perfumes,

Ritual scents wriggle over every pore.

As selfish sex shelves the conscience.

I clamor about counting condoms

As mind-forged manacles clang

In hollow desolation.

Nameless as I

Each cityscape

Presents me

With more rape

To be free is to fear.

Government

Deportation

Murderous handlers

Familial shame

With such ease society sees me:

Destitute,

Degraded,

Decaying,

Demented.

- 04/20/09

Another poem written for a creative writing exercise. Inspired by an article published in 2010 April issue of Texas Monthly, this poem seeks to present the mind of sex trafficked individual with socio-economic and political consciousness of an outsider. Enjoy or critique! Comments of either are greatly appreciated!

“Bagheera”

Clothed in umbrageous fur

Nature sought to obscure

 Your great figure of grace:

Broad and slender, swift, powerful.

The light ignites the darkness

With slivers of silver shimmering,

As sinews tense

In royal, macabre tints:

Gloomy purple hues

Green and gun-metal blues.

No victim sees or feels

The quickening death at its heels.

Your ember eye of amber gleams

As light darts in chaotic beams

From the canopy overhead.

                 -04/07/10

Written at the above date in a creative writing workshop. Enjoy or critique. Hopefully you entertain both in the comment section.

Musings on Interracial Marraige Today

As one, for whom sociology and psychology are a constant interest alongside the academic studies of literature and Japanese language and East Asian history and culture, i find myself drawn to sociological studies on diversity and race in America. This book, Diversity in Mind and in Action, caught my eye during this exam week but only now that i am done have i been able to get around to it.

The part of interest was the chapter titled, “Interracial Marriage: Current Perspectives and Unanswered Questions.” Here are somethings i found particularly amusing, interesting, or eye-opening.

African-American men are much more likely to report marital happiness – measured by quality of love received-  if they are accepting of other races and have a strong racial identity. Upon reading this i wondered if this could be applied to other races especially women of minorities marrying white men. Why do women – especially white women – feel more stressed in interracial marriage as opposed to intraracial marriage? Can this relate to the propensity for someone to give up their culture in a marriage, most commonly the woman’s for the man’s? If an asian woman gives up her culture for her husband’s, is he tyrannical? Or does she have internalized inferiority issues? How can the Asian-American community stop the media juggernaut that portrays Asian men as nerdy, effeminate, wimpy, and unathletic or gangsters and tyrants from influencing their daughters? One study, using a group of 1o0 Vietnamese and Korean girls in the States, found that they often juxtaposed this image of Asian men with the perfect masculinity of white men. sad, scary, reality… call it how you like it. I think it is very sad.

Through these musings, I have finally found the nexus of my discomfort with marrying outside my race. It was never based on race issues or family non-cooperation or discrimination but rather I wanted to believe that love could take place in a vacuum away from these factors. I did not want to feel like the empowered white man, alleviated of negative stereotypes, and worshipped as better than. I feared the inability to properly respect and carry on the culture of my non-white partner.

In response to these questions, the journals resound with a disappointing theme of “no race talk.” Race is just not discussed as a way to act as if no differences exist. This inevitably leads to destructive family situations and adverse cultural, interpersonal effects.

Thus the article has exhumed and revealed the dark secrets of my own thoughts, but not without encouragement. I know that in my relationship at least the discussion of race, and class differences is common and open. We have discussed and will continue to discuss the quality of our differences, celebrating them, and encouraging them.

White Bread, White Rice

White Bread, White Rice
In a dormant town, hemmed in by fields and factories, I attend a small college known to me for its ability to turn starry-eyed high schoolers into hardened cynics but more popularly for its “international” atmosphere in student culture and experiences. I guess in many ways with these almond eyes I am part of that marketing ploy. Ever since my high school boyfriend and I broke up no boy has really caught my interest. The proverb of the school tells it all, “Come for the education. Stay for the percentage.” The typically male-centered perspective harps on how the women – in an increasing trend across America – outnumber the men significantly. Thus, among us women, we always say that for attractive men, this place sucks. Nonetheless, no individual can completely resign themselves to that kind of hopeless perspective.
At a party – more like an assembly because I did not know many people – I met this guy named Dave. Straightened, tapered bangs nearly covering his right eye accentuated each of his amber brown eyes. Black and white dominated his outfit: black zipper hoodie with white graphics, black shoes with big white DC emblem, dark brown hair, and skinny black jeans. An The intentional outfit was pulled off by the monochromatic perfection of the black. Black never looked so good, or at least that much of it. Soft voice, elusive eyes, and somewhat short height for an American white male made him so unassuming and approachable. James had recently convinced him to join his solipsistic pop idol dreams. Later I heard he lived a bit out of town in a very small town and recently moved to here with his dad. During the party, James talked all about his band and what he wants his “sound” to be. I listened and we laughed. James was always personable enough. But Dave interested me more. The few moments he spoke I found myself concentrating so directly on his voice, his words, and manners that I almost made myself blush upon realizing it. Maybe it was the shyness or the bashfulness of expression. I am really excited about playing in their band; I could use something new and different. He loves music, and video games. The former I at least know a good amount about.
For the next few months we practiced every weekend at Dave’s house, after which Dave and James would invite me to play PC games with them. I didn’t see why not. One weekend, with no band practice, my friends and I met up.
“Mei-Li! How have you been? I feel like I rarely see you anymore…,” he asks.
“Well, I live off-campus, and after band practice on weekends I often hang out with them. Have you ever heard of Diablo?” I asked.
“It’s one of those RPG games for the PC, right?” My friend answers.
“It’s awesome! Dave, James, and I have been playing it a lot together lately.”
“You play video games?” He asked surprised. Video games never really excited any real interest from me but then again between being forced to make good grades or get lectured never really encouraged a personal development of hobbies beyond the extracurricular.
“I do now.” I replied.
After four months of practice we got a chance to play on campus. The day before the big show, Dave and I went out because he suggested we get some matching accessories. I want to be that cutesy couple. He picked out a black and white checkered arm warmer, a new kind of accessory for me. That night, the music enveloped us together, matching, smiling, looking across the stage at him looking at me.
After the show Dave and I stood smiling together; he was smiling a lot. He really seemed to be happy. His shirt prominently displayed a Dashboard Confessional graphic, not my taste really but it is growing on me.
Next weekend, I decided to meet my friends at the only pub with passable food, the Graveyard, bringing Dave along. The bar is far from acceptable to an urbanite’s tastes. The air thickens with the smell of grease and frying oil, cheap beer, cigarettes, and bigotry, as I walked passed. Eyes fixed. Our skin and clothes saturated in moments.  The all white bar pins us with a sideshow glare, like a freakshow or Roswell sighting. A whisper of racial slurs circles the room to my ears, as I quickly maneuver into the patio area outside, gripping his hand tightly. Upon exiting a single black man huddled in the corner over a couple shots alone catches my eye. The picture seems complete.
Only a little while after we showed up, Dave said we are leaving. It was as if he had said hello, and then goodbye. Soon we were gone. I thought I saw a frown creep across my friends’ faces.
That Monday, after having finally acknowledged that I couldn’t put my paper off anymore, I began the day before the deadline. Final exams are next week too. Wanting desperately to relax I began looking for my tea kettle. My knee jerk reaction to any kind of stress has always been tea. Dave and I just talked earlier before he went to work. He wanted to see me after work but I told him I had lots of work to do tonight. He seemed really disappointed. I am too but he seemed a little angry as well. I felt a little better after a sip of my Japanese green tea, semi-sweet, but it reminded me of our relationship and my friend’s questions earlier that day.
“So you and Dave are dating now?” My friend said.
“Yeah… He really is cool… way cooler than most guys around here, even though he is a townie.”
“What do you guys do together?”
“We play Diablo and other games I don’t quite remember. Listen to his music and go shopping. I wanted to do purikura  once on a date but he would not have it. I guess he is not really into cutesy stuff like that.”
“You and the band are going to Japan this summer for a short tour, right? How exciting! I hope you have fun.”
“I will.” I answered.
My friends and I often go try different cultural foods. Some metropolitan cities in the States present an especially vibrant foreign culinary culture. Therefore, when my friend and her fiancée organized an end-of-the-year party for a bunch of us, naturally she picked her favorite Chinese noodle soup restaurant in the metropolis north of college. The noodles are handmade, perfectly spicy with a savory soup stock, and the best scallion Chinese-style pancake you have ever had this side of the Pacific. Before Dave and I arrive I am worried though. Will he like the food? I hope he likes it, then he won’t complain, like during the tour in Japan. Unlike during those times, the menus will all be in English, not “gibberish.” I am sure he will find something he likes. He did. He ordered the fried chicken; and proceeded to eat it with his hands.
Per the usual, I had brought a tall bottle of sake (Chinese wine tastes like distilled celery) and so had James. I offered it to all the others at the table, and when I got to Dave, he quickly waved it away with a grimace. Then I remember what he told me last week.
“I don’t like alcohol. People do things they would not normally do and expect to get away with it.”
“Lots of people do but that does not mean I or you will.”
“My last girlfriend cheated on me when she was drunk.”
“Seriously that is your reason. How childish!” I did not say that. But I wanted to.
Later that week, walking out of work, the phone rang. Reaching for the phone, I grabbed my mass of charms, and answered. Through the jingle came Dave’s voice “I’m mad.”
Taken off guard by such sudden confrontation, I wavered a bit then asked exhaustedly, “What is it? What happened?”
“I hate that pretty boy; the way he talks to you… flirts with you. It pisses me off.”
“He lives in Japan! It’s completely harmless. He is a friend. Not to mention, this is on fucking facebook, never in person!” she exclaims.
“I am glad you weren’t there when James and I met him during the tour. I don’t want to see his face again. Also, I am tired of how you and James act so smug, talking about Japan, China, and college and stuff… I feel left out all the time.”
“Well… Its not my fault you don’t think college is important. ‘Cause money is certainly not an issue for you to go to school.”
“College is such a huge waste of money!”
“No! It’s not!”
The phone beeps on the other line.
Eventually I gave up on Dave calling and apologizing, and decided to call him.
“Hey, Dave…” I paused, “You know we are going to meet my parents this weekend. They really want to see you. We have been going out for like 8 months now.”
“Why do they want to meet me so badly?” He said.
“’Cause they are my parents. It’s just dinner.”
“Alright. I will see you at 6:30 then.”
“Yeah… Don’t be late okay. It’s very, very rude.”
“I won’t”
He was, but only a little. The details of the dinner could have been better. Dave asked if there was any soy sauce. Upon receiving it, he proceeded to drown his rice in it, turning the perfect, pure white rice into a muddy brown. My parents grimaced. I was astounded but I guess I supposed he would know what he shouldn’t do. Using a fork and knife, Dave with noticeable reluctance ate the meatless dinner. The table was silent for a while as if recovering from the faux pas of moments earlier. Until my dad speaks up.
“So Dave what are you doing? Are you in school?” I winced a little, knowing his coming answer.
“No. I am working and playing in a band with Mei-Li and her friend.” He replied, hoping they would leave it at that.
“Oh… I see. Where are you working?”
“I am an electronic sales person at the local store in Sherman.”
“I see.” He replied, while exchanging a glance with his wife.
After Dave has left, my parents questioned me. To their inquiries my answers echoed silently within me. I really enjoyed hanging out with him. Dave was different from all the other guys. He at least cared about his appearance, and musical taste. He needed me. I felt necessary, exclusively desired. I adapted to him. But then again no one eats white bread and white rice together. It’s just does not taste right.

Reflections After Mimi Swartz Article Concerning Sex Trafficking in Houston and the US

Sex trafficking something people in America would love (especially the men who visit these terrible “spas”, “massage parlors”) to believe. But according to the FBI, nearly 15,000 woman are smuggled or trafficked into the US each year. Mostly from East Europe, Asia, and South America. Houston makes a great spot for this, with is sickening sprawl of suburbs, myriad of ethnic enclaves, huge international airport, and seaport, one can easily disappear into the fray.

That’s right. Right here in Texas, thousands of woman are enslaved in sex trade, and sex-related businesses against their will. Constricted by obligations to families back home, fear for their lives from their bosses, isolated as they are constantly moved between “parlors” in Philly, LA, Boston, Houston, and Atlanta, shattered, ashamed, and disease-ridden escape and recovery seem nearly impossible. But the torment does not stop there. The law enforcement systems, immigration laws and agencies, and government programs are more cantankerous than having your hands and feet bound, pants at your ankles, and blindfolded while trying to cook. Its humiliating, and nearly impossible. Even the Mondragon case in which 167 women were set free, the crime ring exposed and indited, only half of the women have gotten the special T visa from the US government that allows sex trafficked or smuggled victims receive a road to citizenship. Furthermore, the police forces are severely understaffed to fight this massive epidemic of social sin and destruction. Only 24 police specialize in the field in all of Houston. As the Houston police vice officer notes, “The girls get trapped…especially the Asian ones.”

The level to which these woman are degraded cannot be fathomed by the average individual.

Mimi writes:

“And so sexual slavery takes place right in front of us, its victims hidden in plain sight. The brothels don’t limit their business to our city streets; you can find them in teh back of the alternative papers in ads for massage parlors, many of which promise a “grand opening,” because as soon as the police close one another seems to pop up down the street under a new name.” (I have often thought when i see these ads that these women, especially the ones promising “sexy asian girls”, are women who are victims of sex trafficking. As i read i thought, “What if one was to go into these places acting like a customer then refuse to be entertained sexually and just interview these women? Would that be possible? Could i help people that way? OOOHHH God what can i do for these women?) The quote continues:

“And, of course, there are Web sites where you can sort through dozens of Houston massage parlors and spas, looking for one that’s most convenient, perhaps, and selecting a girl that perfectly fits your specifications – height, weight, breast size, hip size, body type, along with the type of sex acts she will perform – and then, after the fact, rating her, just like a product on Amazon.com”

How absolutely terrifying. If any of you have visited these parlors are reading this, please think about it. Think before you support such degradation. Those appalled, moved by compassionate, anger, and sorrow, it is your obligation to these women to decency to speak with others to spread the word to get involved. Raise money. Get into a recovery ministry for these women. Send a letter to your legislator emphasizing y0ur desire for the government to amend the laws and excessive bureaucratic difficulty for these women to find safety and recovery. As it stands they must get cooperation from but not limited to the ICE (a widely corrupted organization), the FBI (a cantankerous group), local police endorsing the application for the T visa mentioned earlier.

I have often heard my liberal (and conservative sometimes) mention that prostitution should be legal. What!? Really?! Somehow legalizing this destructive debacle will help people. Absolutely not.

As Dottie, the woman working with educating police fighting the sex trafficking industry, notes, “I haven’t found any willing prostitutes in my life.”

If you can get a copy of Texas Monthly April 2010, please read it.

If you have read it and want to do something and live in Houston, give these places a call:

YMCA International 713.339.9015

Houston Rescue and Restore 713. 874.0290

Catholic Charities of Houston 713.874.6727

Tahirih Justice Center 713.250.2175

Children at Risk 713.869.7740

Social Pressure to Achieve Post-Racial Status

This post has been inspired by this new website i found.

Its not a satire. It is real. Here is what i am referring to.

Over and over again i have seen whites (usually) and some Asians in Americas, react to someone’s vitriol or moratorium on how Abercrombie is racist to Asians, or Miley Cyrus doing the squinty-eyed motion, with a flippant, “people should get over it” remark. This is unacceptable.

The reality is that America is white. The white dominant culture wants America to forget how the deeply racist past in which Asians (particularly East Asians) were portrayed as rats, with squinty eyes, turned up like ramps, and conical hats, and buck-teeth, effeminate, pathetic, emasculated males and hypersexualized, waiting-to-be-dominated submissive sex kittens. All of these images were, are, and probably will always be a way of demeaning the Asian race. Have you ever had someone pull their eyes back while taunting you, before they slur your race, or denigrate your intelligence? Or have they just done it and grimaced menacingly? If not then you lucky, be happy that God has spared you that degrading experience. But don’t tell everyone else who has been hurt that they are overreacting. That is totally insensitive to their experience of hurt and humiliation. Essentially, that attitude tyrannically tells them that their feelings are completely without basis. Its a “get over it” attitude without any respect for the present hurt, or the historical oppressive utilization of the words. I think it is best to try not to be hurt and become angry, but instead honestly confront the individual who hurt you with your hurt. Petitions, social and political solidarity that fight the negative stereotypes are not meaningless. America is the “land of the free”, not because of the military as propaganda would have you think. Freedom, equality, and racial respect was hard won by the “civil rights movement, (e.g. ”yellow peril” movement and the black power movements). Social activists fought hard for justice against those racial slurs inequality in the workplace, in schools, in society, in political representation, immigration, demeaning tests, stares, words, and public treatment. DON”T CALL THEM MEANINGLESS YOU UNGRATEFUL, MIDDLE-CLASS CUSHY ASIAN-AMERICANS!

Just because you have not experienced it does not mean it never was or is not now. America is not a post-racial society. It still needs work. Remember if it wasn’t for people like the ones you’re denigrating you would not even have the opportunity to say those words.

Furthermore, Tom Cruise’s son, from Nicole Kidman, will be producing a remake of the notoriously racist, Mcarthyistic, sinophobic film “Red Dawn”, with little change to it essential elements… for a cultural critique that cannot be topped and therefore i will not attempt to, here is the blog post.

Norbu Tea’s Pu-Erh Tea Sample Part 1

The White Bud Sheng Pu Erh is named for its white or grey ashen appearance. Like all Pu Erh teas the tea is formed into a tea blocks for storage but the White Bud Sheng Pu-Erh is then aged for a couple of years to create a special aged, musty and earthy flavor that is extremely individual. The tea from this particular tea was aged two years beginning in 2007.  This particular White Bud Pur Erh comes from Yong De County, Lincang, Yunnan, China. Pu Erh tea, after having been oxidizes and processed, is pressed into a tea block or cylinder.

I have never before tasted a non-spiced or scented tea with so much flavor and aroma. The flavor is completely unlike any typical British black tea. The flavor is robust, deep, and varied. As one savors the liquor; the flavor eludes the drinker’s description. The smell of earthy agedness mixes with the complementary musty, robust tea flavor with hints of the verdant flavor that lovers of green tea know so well.

The tea while being steeped releases a strong earthy aroma because of the aging process. The tea must be steeped with boiling water 2-3 minutes for the first infusion and for thirty seconds for each additional one. The above picture represents an infusion with water that is not hot enough. The tea is usually a darker yellowish red.

I made the above teapot and teacup in my Asian Ceramics class at Austin College this last semester. Props to MM at AC Art dept.!