General Tsao

So I thought of Jenny 8. Lee today and her Fortune Cookie Chronicles about the phenomenon of American Chinese food.

My grandparents are in the US for the first time, three of them - both from my father's side and one from my mother's side. My dad has been trying to explain to one how to operate the telephone. Another can't say, "Is Mingyu Wang (my mom) there?" over the phone without getting hung up on. However, she is valiantly learning English, one tortured phoneme at a time.

My father's side has lived in a rather rural farming town for most of their lives, transferring to the warmer Szechuan climate recently for health reasons. So it was interesting today to see their first reactions to American Chinese food. We were in a restaurant called "Super Buffet" - a rather mediocre spread of deep fried nothing.

Their sushi was inedible, and that's saying a lot, for a girl who's pretty unpicky with her sushi. The salmon was underwhelming and inexplicably swimming in yellow oil, the onion ring innards had gelled into a tepid mush. I ate my old standby of stir fried string beans and chicken, picking out the rubbery calamari from the seafood soup. All the same, it was reasonably enjoyable.

My grandparents loved it. No matter how I pointed out at the food's inauthenticity ("They have stuff like this for breakfast," my grandmother said in defense of her platter of fried donut, french fry, General Tsao chicken, and crab rangoon, the last of which confused her) or how it was actually a hodgepodge of American fast food and liberal reinterpretation of the far East, they loved how it was all-you-can-eat (a revelation), cheap (another revelation), and unabashedly tasty.

We brought home a carton to one grandparent who hadn't come along. She had already eaten, but as soon as she saw the food, she grabbed a plastic fork and dug in.

"How do you like American Chinese food?" I asked her.

"I like it," she said without any hesitation.

Jane Magazine

Jane magazine, for those of you who don't follow the woman's magazine world, recently folded. It had a irreverent tone, quirky articles, and thumbed its nose at more staid examples of the genre.

(For example, one article that made fun of those sex tips that say things like, "Wear your favorite pair of shoes to bed." The author then proceeded to detail the hilarity that followed after wearing a pair of beat up Chuck Taylors between the sheets.)

I think I got my Jane subscription through those transfer of my father's frequent flier miles into tangible rewards. Each month, I would cart the newest issue upstairs and read it in bed, drinking a can of diet Pepsi. On my trip to China, I brought a few extra copies to give my cousins.

I had been exposed to almost every kind of teen magazine and my primary complaint is that they're geared to an aspirational, insecure preteen who has to take quizzes on whether they're a bad girlfriend or if that cute boy likes them. The only one I could stand was ElleGirl (now also defunct, I sense a pattern). Teen Vogue's articles were nauseatingly generic and written for an IQ of 85. Women's magazines, on the other hand, seemed to be aimed more at people in their late 20's and 30's, and I felt like I was eavesdropping on maturity.

So of course, I gravitated to Jane and its demographic of "single, 20 year old women." I was 16, precocious in some ways and underdeveloped in others. Maybe I didn't need to make rent yet, but it didn't take age to gawk at the infamous Dov Charney of American Apparel fame in one well-known article.

What did I love about Jane? I'm too young to remember its predecessor, Sassy, also started by the same editor-in-chief. But it brilliantly fulfilled a gap between too mainstream and grown up (Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Vogue) and the sheer idiocy that was teen magazines (Seventeen, Teen Vogue, and yes, CosmoGIRL!). Its tone was hip and smart alecky, it never suggested I should get a boob job, and the articles sounded like they were written by fun, real people. Instead of makeovers, they did "makeunders" where they took an overprocessed, war-painted Darryl Hannah-in-Blade Runner type and took away her contouring blush. The brilliant makeunder of all? Jenna Jameson, porn wunderkind, exposing her freckles, looking frighteningly like a naturally pretty woman.

When Brandon Holley took over the editor in chief position and a redesign followed, my subscription lapsed. I found the new design chaotic, like a digested rainbow had attacked the glossy pages. I didn't pursue my dad for another year of Jane, and gradually, I forgot the happy feeling when I opened my mailbox to another issue. I had been vaguely planning to pursue an internship there, but with that plan dashed now, I'm wondering about the alternatives.

Jane, I will miss you.

Flushing, Queens

Flushing is the illegitimate child of commercial Chinatown and the ghetto. Despite the fringes of outside society occasionally peeking in - an Old Navy, a Payless, the ubiquitous Golden Arches - it is mostly cramped and dirty and cheap. Sometimes the shopkeepers will speak English, sometimes they won't. The stores are stocked with foreign brands and unusual delicacies, the butchers sell strange parts of animal, and old women in ratty overcoats thrust pamphlets covered in characters as you walk by and try to ignore them. There are hipster asian boys in screenprinted jackets with orange mullets and cigarettes. We always eat at a si cai yi tang - four entrees and soup - where you are given rice and point to four dishes on a buffet-style table. They are invariably greasy and unreasonably tasty.

There's a man who always cuts my hair for eight dollars. The salon is merely two rooms - a main one, lined in mirror, and a back room where I once had highlights done back in eighth grade. Somehow, by cobbling together my broken Chinese and some pictures, he has consistently delivered the perfect haircut, every single time. After he finished chopping off six inches of hair today, he commented something to the effect of, every time you come in, you want something very different, a big change from long to short. You're young, I guess. He's right. I don't want to look better, I want to look different.

Race and a Dash of Religion

I was walking down the street in Flushing Chinatown with my parents, and there were people trying to pass out papers, and a man was having a noisy argument with them in Chinese. I caught a small piece, which was, "They killed my family!" I tried to ask my father what they were saying; I could guess, but I wanted to confirm it. At first he shook his head and tried to ignore it, but I pressed him, and he told me with resignation that they were against the Communist party, and that the man that was arguing with them was saying they would make the people lose faith. How beautiful; this situation unfolding was like a perfectly formed catalyst for my thoughts, a physical expression of a confused psyche.

I remember being in China, and the subject of Chairman Mao came up, and all that was defensive and nationalistic welled up to the surface in a kind of fervor that made me wonder, wonder about what I knew, about what they knew, about what I should believe. My mother's best friend in college was saying how the West only knew the bad parts of Chairman Mao, the 20 percent, and ignored all the good he had done for China. Of course I, the girl who had grown up in a capitalist country in a blue state, with her anti-red propaganda tattooed on her brain, met all of this skepticism. (but I meet everything with skepticism.)

And then I am back in the US, and everyone speaking so highly of democracy and the evils of communism, and I wonder, how much are we ignoring? How different are we, how blinded are we? And back to the man arguing with those expats on the street, do we willingly try to suppress all that is negative in the interest of preserving "faith"? It seems so silly to me what that man was saying, but maybe he was just voicing a truth, a truth that did not want pain, that wanted to blindly believe, like I was asked blindly to believe in God, because it needed no proof, it was just faith that was the reward.

I have so much difficulty believing.

*

Part of the reason my history teacher bugs me so much that is he seems to equate atheism with communism, and thus, pure evil. I hate the way he tries to put words into people's mouths, and when people struggle with giving him the answers he wants, and how they seem so perfectly formed and obvious to me. I remember getting so angry when he seperated the extremist Muslims from the normal, run of the mill ones, but lumped China into one, collective, evil, god-hatin', terrorist supportin' entity. (He said that they would be very likely to go bomb the White House.) And worst of all, I couldn't argue coherently at all because I was choking on my own anger, and I knew I would sound stupid and hysterical.

In the same vein, I hate when people refuse to acknowledge the shades of gray; there is a lot of space between 'good' and 'evil', between 'right' and 'wrong', and at best, those words are merely generalizations created for convenience. I remember also having this argument with my teacher last year, and he told me I had a distorted sense of reality. My position was that society defined the right and wrong, and that was no necessarily concrete right or wrong, and maybe he was frightened that I would give people ideas so they could reason away their murders and rapes and wars. But I was not saying that all, I was saying, isn't this interesting?

Isn't this complex, how little we understand, how self-loving and protective we are of our 21st century American ideals?

Can't we admit to differences in thought without worrying it will somehow undermine our own values?

*

I'm going to become a US citizen soon, mostly for college purpose. You know, scholarships and all, and yet, I'm the slightest bit hesitant to relinquish that bit of legality, and I blame China for not allowing a dual citizenship. Though it really is more practical to become a US citizen, considering I probably won't visit China very often anyways, it's more of a symbolic gesture. I hated when my mother would always jokingly, mockingly, would say how I was the American in the family; she is right, of course, being that I hardly understand where she is coming from sometimes, and I have a much easier time eating cheese, but it's cruel to reduce someone down to their barest components like that.

My dad was quite touched when I brought it up, and he ruffled my hair affectionately. They really want me to be Chinese, or as they say, take the best of both worlds. I remember when I was younger that I hated that identity part of me, and my mother would only exacerbate it by reminding me that I would never be the same as others no matter how "American" I became, because I would always have my eyes, my face, that would separate me. And how ironic, that when I finally accept it, am proud of it even, that it somehow seems to be falling away.

*

Everyone must have their own private superiority; the Americans hold their government and economic clout dear, the Chinese have faith in their intellectual and manufacturing ability. I remember sitting in the kitchen, and my mother asked me out of the blue, "Do you think Chinese people are top in the world?"

How do I respond to that? So I kept quiet, and she sighed, and went back to cutting the vegetables. I thought how racist that was, but the more I think about, (a lot of) Americans are guilty of same kind of cultural superiority, the ugliness of ignorance, the justification of pervasive culture. Is it so hard to accept that things are different in other parts of the world, that attitudes are different, without attacking them? Sometimes the ugliest things are flying under the guise of patriotism. I'm probably guilty of this myself.
Posted on Mar. 22nd, 2005 at 04:02 pm

An ode,

music: Madonna - Hung Up

Madonna, you look real good.

Seriously, for a woman in her early forties whilst all the other Hollywood debutantes lose their dewy sheen of youth post twenty nine, you work it hard. Let's forget the Desperate Housewives phenom for a second, and just focus on you crashing your pretty T Bird into a phone pole and hitting the gas pedal in CFM stilettos. That pin straight platinum bob! That navy blue jumpsuit! Even that pointy coned corset top Gaultier fashioned for your Blonde Ambition was pretty damn cool. Your latest album is Confessions on a Dancefloor, and I'm ogling the music video on your Myspace page. Madonna, you are so cool. That scene with you walking in tune with the beat in that badass black leather bomber and skinny jeans is just divine.

You keep ribbing on your crazy youth, but please don't! We all know that popping out of a big cake and hitting the ground in your white lace wedding gown was your idea, and we love you for it. Sure, you had to make everybody think you hit your vulgar low point in the early nineties, but subs and doms the world over appreciated it. Burning crosses? Just brilliant, Madge.

You had the world wrapped around your blinged-out pinky finger. You were my first strong female figure to look up to, after Michelle Kwan's sweet little figure skating smile, I could instead by hypnotized by your crazy outfits and wild antics. Maybe I can blame you for the way I am today. Oh Madonna, those were good days.

That whole reinvention thing too, makes my stony heart go a flutter. Material Girl to Dominatrix Girl to Nirvana Girl to Goth Girl and everything in between! I wish I could achieve your level of perfect blondeness, sport those bleached-out locks with the same panache. You shapeshifter, you chameleon, you so perfectly in tune with the indiosyncrasies of pop culture (with a clunker here and there, but you are so terribly and charmingly human, after all): you entertain me so. I will rail against those parental watch groups, those Christian lobbyists, who have tried to crush you and only succeeded in driving you even higher up the food chain.

Your controversy is as variable as your hair color. I can only aspire to the same.

Piano Lessons

I suppose some part of me was always rebellious, whether out of human nature or of personal compulsion, I do not know. I remember being carted off to piano practice when I was 7 or 8 or so, with an old lady whose name escapes me now. Her rug was plush ivory cream, her sofas black leather, and I dutifully pounded out simplified Disney renditions and "The Saints Come Marching In" every week. We weren't rich, no matter which way your adjusted or viewed it, so I practiced on a my tiny Kawasaki keyboard a half-hour a day. I remember on her wall hung a list of names and practice hours, and I was number one. One day, we had a mini-recital at her house and I played some kind of Christmas song and afterwards, we were served white frosted cake served on elegantly cut glassware. I had not yet acquired a taste for sweets, so I declined.

I remember that we rented the top half of a house, the refrigerator was rumbly and ancient, a yellow behemoth, and on the lower half lived a college student named Andy. He loved the Lion King, and let me and my friends watch it one time when my family had a party. In the hallway, on top of all the oily floral wallpaper, was a gallery of all my drawings, including an emaciated rabbit with stick whiskers and an Easter basket. I remember there was a bush of red chokeberries by the cracked driveway. Andy told me that only birds could eat them; if I ate them, I would have to go to the hospital. I never tested out his claim. My friend Caroline and I (with whom I had a love/hate relationship) made grand plans to make ink out of them.

My parents always claimed to have my best interests at heart, and perhaps, now, looking from a slightly higher perch, I can see they did. I always give up before I begin, though, and my piano playing days were numbered. One day, my mother held my hand as we walked up that familiar white shutter door, and tucked in it was a note that the teacher had moved. Somewhere else. After that, the piano lessons stopped. I remember going into a showroom of pianos and playing the only tune I remembered, something from The Little Mermaid whilst the salesman smiled indulgently. There's nothing now - not even the faintest memory of what those dense, impenetrable forests of flagged symbols mean. Although, my reasons for wishing I knew how to play are very different now; before, it had been an understanding of some vague destiny of greatness, of Harvard - but now, I just wish I had that musician camaraderie.

I remember two summers ago in a class focused on pop culture, we wrote our experiences with music, and one boy, I believe his name was Justin, he wrote how music was a great way to connect with people, a conversation topic. And perhaps that's a very shallow way to desire it, but it's what I can admit to. Like those girls in the cafeteria in third grade waxing romantic on the Backstreet Boys printed on their juice boxes, they were part of some sorority I had never received admittance to. In the summer before fourth grade, I bonded with my friends over the Spice Girls, and with every guy, attempted to enjoy their musical taste, whether it be the Beatles or Counting Crows or the Sex Pistols. But sometimes, I wish I had continued and played guitar, or drums, or anything, you know. I can't even sing. And I feel like I'm missing out on something, something not as easily attained as agreeing that Brian was the cutest one, right?

Britney, circa 2005

It's been six years since ...Baby One More Time was released in January of 1999. MTV, tired of grunge rock, decided to push the iconic music video of an attractive teenager gyrating in a Catholic school girl outfit, and history was made, securing Spears a spot on the airwaves and on the bedroom walls of young girls and sexually frustrated teenage boys alike. Her much publicized declaration that she would remain a virgin until marriage (and subsequent heavily publicized deflowering by one Justin Timberlake) made her seem at first very girl-next-door, the perfect idol for grade schoolers who would lip sync and dance to her songs in talent shows while donning sparkly tank tops and white pants.

At the same time, she shockingly bared her navel and danced suggestively, earning the condemnation of PTA moms worried that she would turn their Susan or Michelle into a promiscuous, pole dancing, python toting, utterly poisoned slut.

Spears walked the fine, fine line between virgin and whore, biblical Mary and Heidi Fleiss.

In the beginning, I couldn't help but love her. Findng Baby One More Time on Kazaa, the legendary* opening chords, with her voice soulfully churning out "oh baby, baby" thrice before launching into a heartfelt regret over love lost, it just brings me back to intermediate school, six years prior, when Backstreet Boys were still the main hearthrobs of all my friends, and the music we listened to was a pristinely commercial, unthreatening brand of whiteness and Wonder Bread. It was a more innocent time, as hindsight tends to romanticize all memories. I remember watching a particular talent show performance where a boy, backed up by a troupe of stiffly dancing girls, performed as Britney, wearing a miniskirt over his chicken legs and stuffing down the front of his top.

I have only pleasant memories of her here, she being a pop princess in rivalry with "Genie in a Bottle" Christina Aguilera; she was the girl who I wanted to be, but could never be, and in this way I suppose she caused me pain in that her image made me feel displaced and conflicted. I never worshipped her, but I found her music pleasant, and who would not admit as much anonymously? There was never any real substance or "authenticity", but this never kept a roomful of middle schoolers from dancing and making a cheesy slap-across-the-face movement along all the same.

And then I turned. She was burned at the stake, and constantly brought up in conversation as an example of all that was wrong with music, with culture, an evil, suffocating force on the innocent, unblemished minds of our young. Hell, she was probably even used by terrorists to justify their hate of our capitalist, hyper-sexualized culture. No cool kid in seventh grade would ever admit to liking or listening to Britney Spears; they were all too blase, too in-the-know for that, they liked Avril Lavigne and her ersatz hardcore regalia, or the pop philosophy of Michelle Branch. They seemed more real, authentic, angry, whatever quality it was, it was merely a superficial departure from Britney, stripped of her reputation, put down as a dirty skanky slutty piece of human filth. (Later, this label would be applied to Aguilera during her chaps** and baby oil phase.) I, of course, the fish swimming along with the tide, would declare my distaste for her as well, though I admit I secretly still danced along to Stronger in front of the bathroom mirror.

These days, Spears is no longer the queen, or even the princess, she's a tabloid relic, another acne ridden, out of shape piece of pitiful white trash. She inspires malicious glee rather than self doubt and awe, and her recent marriage to Keven Federline makes even her worst critics extremely glad she made him sign a prenup. But I've also come to appreciate Britney Spears for what she is: a figure in the entertainment industry. So what if she has no talent, and even her looks are failing her? All of these shortcomings merely make her rise more puzzling, her personality more human. For what it's worth, I find Britney Spears entertaining, and no one can deny the sheer, exploitive pop genius of the Toxic music video, nor deny that they don't occasionally linger on the tabloid headlines on whether she's gained weight or walked into a restaurant in flip flops and cutoffs. Her much maligned musical efforts are really never that bad; it tends to be the backlash speaking. So let's have some support for Britney, our infamous Mouseketeer, maybe she has made you laugh or smile, so why not for once, drop the double standard*** and admit she's actually pretty... entertaining.

* - maybe this is overreaching.
** - seatless pants, often seen on cowboys, and in gay strip clubs.
*** - the double standard I am referring to is that guys can sleep around and be totally The Man, and girls will invariably be labeled as walking wastebins of STDs.