Attempted Robbery

Someone just tried to break into my condo in broad daylight while Stevie and I were both home.

Embarrassing thing is, he got the window open while I was awake and in the room. It was 11 am on a Monday and I was on the phone with Pam at the time:

Pam: Thai, are you sleeping?

Me: No, I just woke up. The people next door are doing some sort of work outside. There’s a hose out there and sometimes they do yardwork. They’re being really loud this morning though!

…I’m almost too embarrassed to tell that to the police.

My mom says I’m lucky the guy didn’t jump through the window while I was on the phone and strangled me. And then Pam would have heard: “He-argghlksdfldhfihdf!!!”

Pam: Thai, quit messing around. (lol)

Investigators said they'll call within a week to update us. I'm not really expecting they'll catch someone. I've become more paranoid coming home late now.

What the Fortuneteller Said

Her husband had been a high-ranking officer in the Thai military. As a result, she possessed a title like “Lady.” Given her family connections, I heard she read for a handful of politicians, and even once for an African queen on a trip to the Kingdom.

But despite all this, the kindly old Lady before me did not have the air of a minor celebrity, or even that of a general’s wife. With her puff of white hair and gentle demeanor, she could’ve been someone’s grandmother - which is exactly what I was told to call her. And when she offered to read for me, free of charge, I couldn’t easily pass up the chance.

***

We sat on opposites sides of a small fold-out table in the garden of her suburban Bangkok home. It was a little plot, surrounded on two sides by her house and on the third by construction. Her son, a soldier like his father, was having an extension built, she explained. As I made myself comfortable, the family’s pet, a rather large dog with shaggy caramel fur, slipped under the table and into the house, apparently taking no interest in me.

There was nothing particularly striking about my surroundings or about my host. Hers seemed like an unpretentious home, and she an ordinary woman. Grandma was no mystic. When her daughter and my mother were friends in college, Grandma had been a schoolteacher. She took up fortunetelling in retirement as a pastime, learning it from a woman who had read for her in earlier times. These arts have been handed down this way for generations.

Now Grandma performed the arcane numerical calculations for my date and time of birth, and drew the appropriate charts and figures. Into a little notepad she gave me, I jotted down bits and pieces of what the fortuneteller said.

Looking at them now, my notes are pretty skewed. It looks like I only scribbled down a word here, a blurb there, and focused little on chronology. But from what I can tell, Grandmother’s forecast for the next five years is a positive once: “Your stars do not fall,” she said. At twenty-one I can expect the “support of elders” and, at twenty-two, a “plot of land” becomes available. Groovy.

But what she predicted for 23 is really interesting. Of this point Grandma was quite sure: “Your fortunes lie abroad,” she said. “Your partner will be of a different race and language. She will have money and rank and wear a uniform. And though it’s rather late, your first opportunity for marriage will come when you are between 23 and 24.”

(Note: To “wear a uniform” is an old Thai way of saying someone is a professional.)

In normal conversation, Thai people rarely say “husband” or “wife.” Instead, we use a nonspecific word like “spouse.” Also, our third person pronoun doesn’t distinguish between genders. Of course, I don’t suppose Grandma would think I’m looking for anything but a wife. Even divination is hetero-centric. Perhaps a more PC-prophecy would read, “a significant domestic partnership with the person of your choice.”

“That isn’t late, Grandma,” my mom suggested. “For kids these days, getting married by 24 is early.” I had to agree. I think that, at 24, I’ll probably be the first of my friends to tie the knot.

“Well,” was Grandma’s reply, “if he should miss his first shot, his second chance won’t come until he’s 29.” Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.

When our session was over, I asked the Lady how I cold repay her. “Don’t worry about it, dear,” she said, “but come visit again soon. Your mother tells me you’re a bit of a fortuneteller yourself. If you’d ever like to learn, I’d love to have student.”

I hope someday I can sit down with her, this kindly old Lady, and learn a bit of her old world wisdom. Maybe I’ll even bring my husband.

Womping through Boystown

When I was in high school, I did a lot of LGBTQ youth activities. Ostensibly the other kids and I went to learn about safe sex and coming out in a supportive environment...but I suppose most of us just wanted to get laid.

With that in mind, I decided to check out the youth program at Center on Halsted. I debated for a while whether or not I'm getting too old for this type of thing, but figured it would be a simple trip now that I live in the city and that I had nothing to lose.

But things are always more interesting in Boystown.

***

When I arrived at Center, the receptionist was busy on the phone, so I waited at the counter browsing through a stack of free pamphlets. I was there for barely a minute when I heard a scratchy voice beside me say, "Hello, what are you up to over here?"

I turned around and an old man was smiling at me. He had a bush of frizzy white hair and a beard to match. At first I wondered if he might be another staff member filling in for the front desk, but when I looked for reassurance the receptionist was still on the phone, oblivious to my predicament. No, I was on my own with this one.

Being the polite (and rather cowardly) person I am, I looked back at the old man and said, "Oh, I'm new to the area. I'm just checking things out."
"Really? Where are you from?"
"Um, the...suburbs?"
"Which?"
"Uh...the west suburbs."
"Oh, that's pretty far out there."
"Uh, yeah, but...now I'm here for school." (You may be wondering why, despite my better interests, I have not stopped the conversation. I really couldn't say.)
"Oh really? Where is it you go to school?"
(Crap.) "Um, in the south loop."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. It's a beautiful day outside, isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. That's why I made it out here, actually."
"Well, would you like to have a seat and chat for a bit?"

By this time, I decided the old man did not, in all likelihood, work for the Center. "Actually, I'm here for the youth program," I said, "and I think it's starting soon. Thanks though."

He seemed to take this well enough - at least, he never stopped smiling. He shook my hand, said "Nice meeting you," and left. I breathed a sigh of relief.

It occurred to me afterward that this man was Shylock from The Merchant of Venice:


By this time the receptionist - a rather handsome older man with gentle features - was off the phone. I asked about the group. "You need to go through orientation for that," was his reply. "You can come back Wednesday."

One would think such useful information would be on the Center's website. Womp, womp.

***

The day was still warm and sunnt after I left the Center so I decided to take a stroll through Boystown and people-watch. I went about two blocks before I saw the cutest guy heading towards me. He seemed right about my age (a welcome sight), and wore gym shorts and a t-shirt under which I could tell he had a runner's body. He also sported just the right amount of facial hair in the form of a neat, well-kept goatee (very sexy if you can pull it off!).

When he was a few feet away, I summoned all my nerve and gave him with a smile.

And then the impossible happened. This cute, cute guy stopped in his tracks, looked me straight in the eye, and said: "Hey, could you help me with something?"

Yes, of course. Anything.

"Could you answer a few questions for me? I'm doing a survey for my church down the street."

Womp, womp, womp.

He asked me things like how important spirituality is to me, what websites I visit the most, what the last book I read more than once was. I answered him as if we were flirting: Very, Facebook, Homer's Odyssey. It couldn't hurt to try.

The final question he asked was if I'd like his group to pray about something for me. I almost said, "Yeah, my love life. You've proven I need it."

***

After Sexy Church Boy left, I decided to call it a day. I walked another few blocks to the next bus stop and waited for the #8. Unfortunately, I soon learned that street corners in Boystown are very conspicuous spots to be standing.

A very handsome older man came walking down the street. He was at least two heads taller than me with a broad, muscular chest and a very chiseled jaw dusted with golden stubble. (He also had a really nice butt.)

As he walked past, I stole a glance at him out of curiosity. I'll admit it: I wondered if those stories were true, about men who walk around Boystown, picking up guys through mere exchange of glances. (Can you see how I set myself up for trouble?)

Bad, bad idea: the moment I looked up, he was doing one of those over-the-shoulder glances - at me. Crap. I panicked for a second and pretended I was looking down the street for a bus, but the connection had already been made: he thought I was making an exaggerated motion to look at him.

I immediately froze and stared at my feet, but from the corner of my eye I watched him walk away. He looked back at me three or four more times, and actually stood for a minute at the street corner, feigning nonchalance, in case I were to follow. My Boystown myth had been confirmed.

On a side note, I think gay men live their lives in peripheral. Whether it's checking out the straight guy in class, or looking at that rival you pretend not to know but secretly resent for being cuter than you, or stealing looks at potential sexual predators - it's all in the peripheral.

***

I have to say I'm amused by what can happen in a single hour in Boystown. That's why I like the neighborhood on a nice day: there's such an open atmosphere, and so many characters walking around. Even if the soundtrack goes "Womp, womp" every few minutes.

Geeks and Geishas at a Gay Bar

The other night, a Vietnamese friend and I went to grab a drink in Chicago's gay neighborhood. As the two of us walked down the strip, I heard someone mutter "Gaysians" to his friends. I was mildly annoyed but dismissed it as an isolated incident. However, not even 10 minutes later I heard similar comments from other people passing by. I was taken aback. It was as if being both gay and Asian was an anomaly, or a novelty worth pointing out. The stares and comments made it clear - somehow, we did not "fit in" there.

Now, I never expect to get flack for my race. I feel like people should know better than to make those comments within earshot. Needless to say, the encounters irked me.

If we were feeling creatively suspicious, we might wonder why labels like "Gaysian" are used. In her book, Asian American Dreams, journalist and lesbian Helen Zia offers a clue: "I was an Asian American and I was a lesbian, but in those days I couldn't be both in the same space. It was easy to maintain a facade in a world that presumed all Asian Americans to be heterosexual, and all gays to be white and generally male...The contradiction grew increasingly intolerable" (229-230).

The perception that the gay community is composed mostly of white men reduces other groups into mere subcategories instead of acknowledging them as vital components of the whole. Now, I understand that people are seldom entirely colorblind - I'm not either - and that everyone has his own preferences as to whom he's attracted to. But this is irrelevant when I am simply a passerby, off to enjoy my night like anyone else. I don't deserve the muttered remarks about my race, or the attendant stares that label me as an outsider. I want to be judged by my personality, not by my skin.

***

There's a Disney Channel cartoon about the adventures of an African American family called "The Proud Family." The other night, I caught an episode that must have been produced not long after 9-11. In this episode, the characters switch families as a part of their school's cultural awareness week activities. Penny, the show's protagonist, ends up living with a traditional Muslim family, the Zamins. Although initially dismayed, Penny soon learns to appreciate her host family and their traditions, even donning a hijab and celebrating the end of Ramadan with them. When they return home from the festivities, however, Penny and the Zamin family are shocked to see their house has been vandalized, with the words "Go back to your own country" scrawled across the garage door. The episode ends with Penny delivering a heartfelt speech about the importance of putting racial stereotypes aside.

But the Zamins are not the only "ethnic" household the show portrays. One of Penny's friends is sent to live at the Chang's, a presumably Chinese household. She is initially excited: apparently the Chang triplets - a brother and two sisters, each with a bowl haircut - are quite wealthy, their father being the owner of various businesses around the neighborhood. Her hopes are dashed, however, when Mr. Chang storms into her bedroom with an enormous stack of textbooks. "Study harder!" he orders her. When the girl protests, saying she's getting a B in class, his response is, "In this family, a B stands for 'Better work harder to get an A!'" Finally, as he leaves, Mr. Chang informs the girl that he has removed her from her normal math class: "From now on, you learn calculus!" he declares, and shuts the door.

My best guess is that "The Proud Family" is an attempt by Disney Channel to cater to a more ethnically diverse audience. The episode in question revolves around the theme of racial perceptions. This makes the grand irony of the show all the more frustrating - that Mr. Chang and his triplets are embodiments of the most common stereotypes of Asian people around. Helen Zia offers a history of these images:

"In the 1960s, a subtle transformation took place. In stories that created the 'model minority' stereotype...another monodimensional character was born: the geek, the industrious, unemotional, uncomplaining, emasculated Asian American male who blends into the background" (117-118).

She adds: "Geishas, gooks, and geeks have been the staples of the main characters of mass culture's Asian universe...As each stereotype gained a foothold in popular culture, it brought on new prejudices that real-life Asian Americans would have to contend with" (119).

***

Prejudices like being stared at as I go to a bar. Typically when I go out, I try to evoke Venus - attractive, amiable, and accommodating Venus. Next time, however, I may need to evoke her partner, Mars, and stand up for myself: "Yes, I am gay. And, I'm Asian. Got a problem with that?"

Besides the image of geek to contend with, I wonder if I get cast as a sort of male "geisha" (or "gaysha") from time to time. My Vietnamese friend likes to say he never gets hit on when we're together. "It's because you're exotic," he claims. "Guys like that. They can see it in you. They look at me and know I was born and raised here."

Although I doubt I get hit on any more than he does, my friend may have a point. Early depictions of Asian women cast them as seductive temptresses from the Far East. Later, these "dragon ladies" were domesticated into "geishas" - passive, subservient tea-servers, eager to please both in bed and around the house. I wonder if, for those older men who have leered at me in gay bars, I have not sometimes embodied either of these images. But I don't want to be exotic. If a guy is attracted to me, I want it to be for my character, and not because I satisfy misguided sexual longings for the foreign and exotic.

On a more positive note, as my friend and I made our way back to the car after our bar had closed, we passed through a group of people deciding where they'd like to spend the remainder of the night. As I cut through, I briefly made eye contact with a cute guy standing on the curb talking to a friend.

"Hey, I like your shirt," he told me. It seemed like a genuine compliment, so I smiled back at him over my shoulder. "Thanks," I said. It was a nice reminder that, although there are plenty of insensitive people around, there are also a lot of nice people too.

- Helen Zia, Asian American Dreams, (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2000), p. 117-119.
-"The Proud Family" is a registered trademark of Disney Channel. No copyright infringement intended, just like I'm sure they didn't intend to use stereotypes of Asian families in a show about disregarding racial stereotypes.

Honor to the Poets

"All men owe honor to the poets - honor
and awe, for they are dearest to the Muse
who puts upon their lips the ways of life."
- Odyssey VIII, Fitzgerald trans.

I sat in a faded plush chair opposite Professor W in her messy office suite. A fan sat whirring softly on a stack of hardcovers on her desk, barely disturbing the pile of papers she left lying on the floor.

Our conversation turned to Homeric Greek, and she recited for me the Iliad's first line: "Menin aeide thea..." I savored the sinuous hexameter, the undulating coil of sound, spoken by someone who knew the language. How different it sounded from my own attempts at Greek!

Professor W's expertise lies in poetry, especially poetry in translation. She's won numerous awards for it, including one in literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. I met with her last week to chat about my own projects in translation, and see if perhaps I could solicit her to read my drafts or offer some practical advice as an expert in the field. But, as it turned out, I learned a lot more from Professor W than I could have expected.

I asked if she had any favorite works in translation. I said my own preference is for those of the late Robert Fitzgerald, whose Iliad, Odyssey, and Aeneid I have come to look at as examples of excellent verse written by a man who truly had "a knack...for putting things into verse," as he himself called it.

Fitzgerald also said, "Poetry is at least an elegance and at most a revelation." "Revelation" is not an overstatement. It was Fitzgerald's Odyssey, in fact, that first introduced me to the verse in translation. That was back in my eleventh grade English class (Thank you so much, Ms. Rice!). His works have been informing and inspiring my own writings ever since. Again and again I find myself turning to them for insight, instruction, and pleasure.

"I wish he had lived to translate Ovid's Metamorphoses," I remarked wistfully to Professor W.

Professor W paused for a moment, then leaned back into her sofa, looking snug. "Yes," she said, "he really was a fine poet. You know, I knew Robert Fitzgerald."

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that two eminent scholars working with similar material should have crossed paths before, but I think my jaw dropped for a moment.

"Really?"

"Yes," was her reply. "We were friends. He really wanted everyone to enjoy the poetry."

Who knew! The revelation amazed me. Here was a woman who knew one of my favorite poets in person, sitting across from me in a messy office at my university. She even agreed to take a look at my drafts! Somehow, in a strange sort of way, I left the meeting feeling like I'd come closer to the man whose writing I've admired for years, and more encouraged about my own work as well. I want to have some drafts done, and soon!