Asian or American?

A book review I did in 2001. I got to read and review Vickie Nam's book - Yell Oh Girls. It was a pleasure to read and pleasure to write about this Asian American.


Shockingly green, and yellow. Screams at you. Tempts you to pick it up, especially with its lunchbox of sushi and chopsticks on its cover. But don't let its cover beguile you into thinking this is no heavyweight. 


"Yell-Oh Girls!" is Vickie Nam's "baby", so to speak. I remember interviewing her last year, asking about her anthology of emerging voices on growing up Asian American, and all the ideas that tumbled forward. She was excited. Her "baby" was coming along as scheduled, and all the hard work, the sweat were going to be worth it. The birth month? August 2001.

Tender and tough, bright and funny, Asian American girls ranging from 13 to 21 spill their innermost thoughts like never before. From all corners of America, they shared their thoughts, emailed their ideas to Vickie. And Vickie gladly sifted through them all, for this collection which was going to be, not only ground-breaking, but hardhitting and raw with much anger (yes, anger!) and honesty, as much as the Asian American girls could muster.

It's convenient to presumptuously posit that our Asian sisters over in America, good old Uncle Sam's land, have it good. I mean, that's what emigrating is all about, isn't it? Leaving the hard life in their home country and eyes, brimming with hope, shining with confidence, they step into the land of milk and Oreos. Beginning a whole new chapter of their lives, assimilating quickly and blending into a landscape of humans, and pledging their allegiance to the star-spangled banner. If only it were that cut and dried. If only Asians did not come in all shapes and sizes, or possess varied features or upbringing.

If only.

Unfortunately, when we think of America, one homogenous culture stands out. The blond, blue-eyed ideal of what an American should be. Inexplicably, we leave out the African Americans, the Asian Americans, and the others because that's too much like an advertisement for United Colours of Benetton. Despite the reality we know, that the land of the free is also a cultural melting pot of cultures, a mesh with people of many faiths, beliefs, background and inclinations. Yet, that is not what we see.

If this is not what we open our eyes to, imagine our Asian counterparts struggling with the dilemma of being either born there, or moved there at a young age. Coping, then, becomes a daily struggle. As such, these personal writings of Asian Americans prove to be an inspiring collection, as the Asian American girls are bold, proud and dynamic even when they're speaking of coping and living. Not ones to shut their mouths up, they give first-hand experiences about dual identities, cultural clashes, family matters, body image and the need to find one's voice.

Interspersed with these young girls' poignant revelations are contributions from notable Asian American women mentors such as Janice Mirikitani, Helen Zia, Nora Okja Keller, Lois-Ann Yamanaka, Elaine Kim, Patsy Mink and Wendy Mink.

What makes this collection a superb read is its outspokenness. No cover-ups, no apologies. Some of the girls are barely women, but they all have an idea that they need to be heard, to let others know that they are not what others assume they are. The titles of the writings are telling, from "Burnt Rice with Fish Sauce" to "Ginseng from Starbucks", the pages surge with a desire to be understood. It is an attempt to show mainstream America that, yes, Asian Americans do exist (they're also not all 'yellow') and they are not all slant-eyed, black-haired demure maidens who use chopsticks and wear size S clothes.

The anthology centres on the confusion that beset many Asian Americans as they straddle two cultures; their country of origin does not seem to accept them ("banana" is the derogatory term) while America hardly acknowledges their significance and birth. And so they write, rebel and say the words they've kept beneath the surface for so long.

While you may assume that a collection of experiences by Asian American girls may not touch your heart as we're poles apart, certain aspects of being Asian strike a chord.

How so? We sympathise with Carolyn Feng, 18, from California, who writes ever so candidly: "Most Chinese parents aren't very affectionate toward their children. There is no kissing, no hugging, no declarations of love. When I see Chinese parents and their children in public, I see children getting yelled at, being schooled on what to do and what not to do and being asked not to touch things."

We share too, with Kamala Nair, 19, of Rochester, Minnesota who remembers: "When I was little I used to wish I had blond hair and blue eyes. I would stand in front of the mirror with my eyes closed, hoping that if I wished long and hard enough, my skin and hair would have magically transformed when I opened them....During the day, I attended an all-white school, where I studied American history and played with all my white friends. I came home in the evening and, over a dinner table, laden heavily with spiced curries and red-hot pickles, I discussed the Bhagavad Gita with my Indian parents. At age seven, I was caught in the middle of two vastly different cultures."

We read heartfelt submissions - some are slowly embracing their cultural richness, others send messages to their family via the pen and keyboard while many actively immerse themselves into activism of a different sort - by setting up websites, and speaking out on what it means to be Asian American. Of many shapes and sizes, these girls and this anthology will, in the words of Vickie Nam, the editor, "fill pockets of possibility with brilliant ideas."

by Krista
6th September 2001

Eight Flowers On A Hill

A chilling yet provocative true story by one contributor called Mrs BH Lim. 

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Step by step we half-crawled and half-climbed up the steps of the gloomy cave temple. The reflected light from the flickering oil lamps cast long shadows on the steep and narrow curving steps hewn out of solid limestone rocks leading to the crest of the hill.

As we emerged into the dazzling sunlight, we came to a small, well kept temple at the top of the limestone hill. Behind the main temple was a pool where water-lilies grew, toads croaked and colorful carp fish swam lazily under the hot tropical sun. We caught our breath beneath the hardy stunted "nine o'clock tree" - so named after its inexplicable ability to emanate the most pleasant fragrance after 9 o'clock in the night. From where Elaine and I were perched, we had a panoramic view of the Kinta plains stretching as far as the eye could see.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was only the silence of the dumb between the two of us, broken only by the soft hiss of breathing. Elaine was my cousin, and I had known her since we were in kindergarten together. I knew she wanted to share something very close to her heart as I could see her transfixed in deep thought and her earlobes twitching nervously in the reflected sunlight.

Finally, she spoke: "When mother passed away four years ago, I felt the deep pain of losing her and saw the anguish on father's face. He could not sleep in the room he had shared with her for 41 years and would sit on his deck chair every night until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

"We thought, with time, he would recover. However, things got from bad to worse. The family business started to flounder because hypermarkets were mushrooming and it greatly affected our wholesale trade," she said.

Then, their youngest sister, a lecturer in a local college, suffered a nervous breakdown after becoming involved with a deviant born-again sect. The next crisis was when her elder brother developed cancer of the colon.

This was followed by a bizarre happening in the house. Handprints were found strangely embedded in the incense urn sitting on the alter. One day, Elaine's uncle came rushing to the house looking for her father. He told them that the ancestral tomb had cracked and that the back portion of the tomb had slipped down and spilled over to the adjoining tomb.

This spate of ill luck precipitated a response from their eldest aunt. She was convinced that they were no mere coincidences and that unless they got down to the root of the problem, more misfortune would dog the family. She persuaded Elaine's father to follow her to a small town near Kampar to consult a medium.

This was no ordinary medium, but one who practiced the ancient forgotten art of "Char Kang Sua" which translated literally from Hokkien, means to search one's streams and hills. To be precise, it delves into one's origins so as to determine a person's past, present and future - to search for his heritage and his destiny.

Elaine had driven her father and aunt through the winding hills before arriving at the small one horse town which had seen better times during the heyday of the tin-mining era. Now all that remained was a community of elderly folk and a very famous home-made wanton mee shop where lorry drivers would stop for their afternoon and evening snack. The most important business in the area was commercial frog rearing.

They arrived at the temple late on a Saturday afternoon and there was a crowd of approximately 20 people ahead of them. It was almost an hour and a half before their turn arrived for consultation. The medium was garbed in what looked like a long Chinese gowns used in Teochew operas to depict a courtier from the Ming dynasty era. Elaine's father softly stated his Chinese date of birth and time, as well as his age and the animal year he was born in.

Before he could finish giving his address, the medium in his deep-throated voice said:

"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not. Now these two are requesting for a place in the family hierarchy. If they are not given their proper place in the family, as is their destiny, then there can be no harmony and peace for all the family.

"They were denied their rightful place on earth, and though they bear you no grudge, they seek their rightful place within the family."


Elaine continued: "Father's face turned a deathly shade of pale and I could hear his breathing change to a shallow wheeze. The mole on his face quivered in the semi-darkness of the incense-filled temple hall and I knew that the medium had touched a very raw wound. I could hear father speaking . . . as the sound poured forth like the disemboweled sound from the depths of the earth: "What should I do?"

The medium swung his fly whisk like he was swinging a sword and then reached out for his pit or Chinese ink brush. He dabbed it into the inkpot and started to write vigorously on his two feet wide pre-printed yellow paper.

The medium directed: "Take this hoo or talismanic paper and then on the 9th day of the 9th moon, go to the ancestral tombs and beseech your ancestors to help you invite the two lost flowers that never had a chance to bloom. Tell them that these are the other two members of your family and that they are children number six and number seven. After making the offerings and saying prayers for their benefit, return to your home and in front of the altar, introduce them to your family and the household deity. The following day, arrange for their chosen names to be engraved on the family tombstone."

Elaine went on: "Those were the instructions of the medium. I could not understand what he had said or what he was trying to do but my father nodded his graying head, which was fast thinning on the top. Tears rolled down in rivulets along the wrinkles on his cheeks."

It was a very strained drive home back to Ipoh, where Elaine and her father lived. On the way, they dropped off their aunt and parted ways. As they drove through the streets of the leafy tree-lined town, Elaine's father said: "Only your mother and I know about this until now. You have always thought that you come from a family of six children, but there was a time after your second brother (the fifth child in the family) when your mother conceived again. It was just after the May 13th incident (racial riots) . . . there was so much uncertainty . . . we were struggling to survive and your mother and I felt that we could not afford to have another child.

"In her desperation, she sought advice from the Malay lady who used to urut(massage) her after every birth. I can still remember her face although her name escapes me. She arranged for an appointment with a well-known Pak Haji in Kampong Benggali in Selama. I hired a car for a day and drove her there.

"It was a rundown shophouse and we walked up the rickety stairs where a Malay man in his 60s was waiting. I never knew what happened as I went downstairs and walked across to the coffeshop to wait for what seemed an eternity. After two hours, your mother walked down the same rickety staircase, her hair disheveled and her face pale.

"We never spoke about what happened that day. It was only after she had to go back to that place a second time 15 months later that she told me the Pak Haji gave her a bitter, black herbal tonic to drink. After about an hour, he came back and massaged her stomach. The agonising ministrations went on and on and just when the pain got absolutely unbearable, she passed out a small bloody-looking bundle."

"Dad never finished his story after that but just maintained a stony silence," finished Elaine.

The sun was fast dropping behind the limestone outcropping as we wound our way down the steep limestone steps into the cave temple. As we passed the smiling figure of Vairocana, the Buddha of Light, I wondered to myself what secrets are hidden in our past, present and future. I can almost visualize in my mind the image of my uncle standing in front of the medium, searching for his origins or "Char Kang Sua" and hear the medium's voice saying out loud:

"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not."

I now understand why during the recent Cheng Beng festival, Elaine had set out two extra places at the table.

It is with the consent of my cousin, whose name and hometown have been changed, that I share this story with you.


By BH Lim
9th October, 2000

Simplify Your Life

This was penned by a contributor to i-asianwomen.com called Lee Bee Doe (which I am SURE is not her real name). 

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When I decided to leave regular employment to strike out on my own as an independent professional, one of the main reasons was the conviction that I wanted very much to simplify my life. I looked at the lifestyle I led then and told myself: This has to stop!

I need to take stock, lighten my baggage (emotional and physical) and renews ties with the free spirit that I had lost touch with. Just look at the sheer superfluous-ness of it all. The two cars, the fancy meals, designer labels, the Rolex. What did it really mean at the end of the day? It wasn't difficult for me to conclude that I could do less with the material trappings and more with less stress, less material belongings, better health, especially mentally, and a richer intellectual and spiritual life.

Simple living is sometimes called "downshifting." It reduces our frenzied life so that we enjoy it more fully. It means less time in an artificial environment, and more time to do the things which matter to you.

In my case, working from home gave me flexibility in the hours that I worked, and more time for my children, family and friends. It involved less shopping, less clutter, less pressure and less consumption. And usually that means being more frugal, more organised, and more efficient.

The simplicity starts from the way you wake up in the morning to the time you rest that weary head on the pillow. Breakfast need not be hurried and harried, contributing to ill-health and all manner of gastro-intestinal disorders. And eating a healthy, leisurely breakfast also means less snacking later on, which works wonderfully to keep those superfluous inches off!

The rest of the day can then start with planning what you want to achieve for that day. Different agendas for different days and of course, family figures high in them. If my children are nearing their exams, there's more time for one-on-one revision. Simply having the time to plan activities together is in itself rewarding. It gives me so much joy to see the girls glow with achievement when we spend our Saturday afternoons making a batch of recycled paper or creating origami animals for their doll house.

If a friend is unwell or in need of a shoulder to cry on, what a relief it is to be able to change gear, drop or postpone stuff and go to a pal in need. But I digress.

Simplicity frees one's mind and spirit to pay attention to what really matters. As Reverend Jesse Jackson said, "It's your presence and not your presents, that your kids want." Well, for those of you who do not have children, or for whom children and family are not your highest priority, simplifying your life can be equally meaningful. It will mean having more time and energy doing the things which you have always wanted to do: learn a new language, travel to Peru, start a herb farm. To each her own.

Of course, getting off the treadmill of regular work does mean doing without some of the things we used to take for granted. But do possessions reflect the quality of our lives? Are we happier because we have that new PDA, or the new Nike trainers, or that new 3-door fridge? Is shopping the most nurturing way to spend our increasingly limited time? How long do your new pair of Ferragamo pumps keep you happy before they get relegated to the back of the shoe cupboard?

We work our butts off, day in day out, year in year out, because we want a better life, we tell ourselves. Or a better future for our children. And so we spend 12-hour days at the office with the children at their grandparents (if you are so lucky) or with a maid. We start using e-grocery websites to shop for our essentials and literally order flowers by e-mail without taking the time to smell the roses!

Is this what life is all about? Not for me and not any more.

Perhaps you'd like to take a step back and see if your current paradigm needs to be given a good shakeup as well. Believe me, retail therapy is not effective for couples, children or families. More purchases, more packaging, more trash and more fodder for the landfill. For me now, it's less consumption, less calories, more health, more wellbeing, more time for the things that really matter to me : body, mind, spirit, family, friends (not necessarily in that order!)


by Lee Bee Doe
5th October, 2000