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From Razorcake #59, originally published November 2010, I believe.
Open letters! Because no one else will read these otherwise.
Dear Trader Joe’s,
Firstly, I just wanted to say that if you weren’t a corporate entity owned by some mysterious Swedes, I’d probably have a really big crush on you.
Secondly, I’m afraid we may be growing apart. I used to be a complete devotee and never questioned the value you offered or the quality of your goods. But after watching the documentary, Food, Inc., I’m wary of all your store branded items and how many of them probably contain genetically modified soybeans produced by the conglomo Monsanto. I guess this is what I get for having a crush on a grocery store.
Thirdly, when will ya’ll get a real produce section?
Yours in quinoa and spinach,
Amy
Dear Amy Carter,
Did you know that my pops named me after you? You know, because your dad was president at the time and my father had great ambitions of raising children named after the children of presidents. (Oh, but I jest. Alan’s named after a Hong Kong pop star and Albert’s named after a prince.)
Yours and mine,
Amy
Dear People Who Think I’m a Bad Driver Because I’m Asian and a Woman,
I’m actually a very good driver and if I should perform a small infraction such as pulling out in front of you a bit too soon or merging too slowly/quickly, it isn’t because of my ethnicity or gender. It’s simply because I’m not paying attention.
Or, you’re thinking, it’s because it’s hard to see out of these slits I call eyes, or it’s because my hormones are totally out of control from the slit between my legs.
Road ragin’,
Amy
Dear Justin from Second Grade,
I’m sorry I said what I said to you when you innocuously asked to borrow some crayon colors that you didn’t have. I looked you straight into your blue eyes and blithely uttered, “Got to hell.” I’m sorry you told our teacher, who took me behind the building to admonish me as I sobbed and cried my apologies.
Y’see, the night before some character on some TV show had said the exact same phrase and I, driven by my infinite literal childlike curiosity, wanted to test out those words. I had no idea what “hell” was, and how it may be offensive to suggest to a classmate that he should go there. As a non-native English speaker at age seven, I constantly confused the words “thin” and “thick”, among others. My misuse of English occurred daily, and it just so happened that I really misued a word that day.
I know now that hell is a bad place and I shouldn’t have told you that you should find your way there rather than borrow a crayon from me. Presently, I know many more offensive things to say in English and am completely competent in their usage and seldom do I use them in inappropriate situations.
Well, there are exceptions. Like when I used to live in China and would be at the bank withdrawing money from a teller and just before they hand me my cash, I say in plain speaking voice, “Gimme my money, bitch.” They always did.
Hope you’re not in hell,
Amy
Dear Udon Noodles,
It’s no secret, I love pho. I mean, no one can resist the brothy goodness of Vietnamese noodle soup, with its garnish plates of basil, bean sprouts, cilantro and a lime wedge. But I haven’t written you to confess my love for other noodles—I’ve written you this as an ode to your loveliness. You have such perfect texture that is so fun to slurp. You’re easy to prepare and green onions make you sparkle.
Slurpingly yours,
Amy
Dear 14-year-old Me,
Don’t worry, It’s totally normal to really hate your parents and spend your time in pre-algebra daydreaming about running away by trying to figure how much money you would need to live on your own.
They’re just watching out for you, doing the best they can. You can keep being a disgruntled, angst-ridden brat though, because otherwise you’ll end up as a very boring adult.
Lovingly,
Amy
Dear Americans Born in the Aughts,
I kinda feel sorry for you. You’ve growing up in a world where you’ve been bred to be oversaturated with media and advertisements. All you will ever know are things that are instant—messages, oatmeal, gratification, You will be socialized to never not know through social media—social networking to the point where some of you don’t feel as if you’ve experienced something unless it goes online to be validated by your peers. You will never not know all the trivial stuff that streams through your Facebook homepage or Twitter, but simply shrug at all those big things that matter.
You’ll never know rotary phones; television sets that didn’t have remote controls and you had to get up to turn knobs or press buttons on the set itself; blowing into video game cartridges when their 8-bits aren’t showing up right.
Being nostalgic can be a waste of time, but really, it’s a shame you’ll never know how cool it feels to be carrying around a pager! A freakin’ pager! Ha!
Best,
Amy
Dear Richard Sanchez from Fourth Grade,
You were a real asshole, you know that? You tormented me, seeking me out during every single recess just to hurl childish slurs at me. It seems silly now in hindsight, but when you would call me a chink, or ching chong, or gook, or whatever the fuck else, it hurt because I was 10-years-old and never had faced such blatant daily racism and I just didn’t know what else to do but cry.
You were the reason I hid in the girls bathroom, sitting on a toilet and waiting for the minutes to tick by until the bell rang again and it was time to return to class. You made me hate going to school—even worse, you made me hate recess. But you never made me hate who I am.
So there,
Amy
Dear the Copper Paragard IUD in My Cooter,
How do you work?! No seriously! What are you doing down there? Someone told me that your copper vibe chops the heads off spermies that are trying to fertilize my shit. I know that ain’t true because sperms don’t have “heads” per se.
What is going on down there?! Have you made my cooter hostile? Is it a “bad neighborhood” now and no one wants to hang out there?
Regardless, I’m just stoked I’m not on hormones and I don’t have to remember to take a stinkin’ pill everyday.
Thanks!
Amy
Dear Ira Glass,
When are you going to call me?
Granted, I am not Jewish, nor am I a gay white male, nor a straight white female with a nasaly voice. Granted, my acerbic sensibilities do not come from a middle class, white suburban upbringing, but I’ve got sass too!
Ira, call me! I’ve got stories and I don’t stutter nearly as much as I did in fourth grade. I’ve got stories and they are about growth and change and the human condition and how my dad’s pet name for me is “homeless.” I’ve got stories about America, about its people and how its people are so hard to define and how they morph and grow into and out of each other.
Ira, don’t you know that my not-so-secret goal is to become the next David Sedaris, but in a shorter, more yellow female way?
Now you know. Call me!
Toodles,
Amy
Dear Gong-gong,
I remember the steam buns you used to cook in the home where 13 of us used to live together. I hope you’re still baking them.
I’m sorry I was so far away, but part of me thinks it was probably better that way.
Love,
Lai
Dear 88-year-old Me,
Wow! You’ve lived a very long time. Have you hit the wall yet? Y’know, that metaphorical wall that all old Asian women encounter where they transform from looking very-good-for-their-age into a hunchback gremlin.
Woah, I just did the math and it’s 2068?! Holy fuck! Are there hover cars yet? Do you have an iEye implanted in your retina where you play your mp19s and the world is in 4-D?
Can you shoot lasers out of your fingertips?
Why not?!
See you soons,
Amy
Dear That Time In My Life When I Was Very Very Depressed,
You may come back again, but I’m grateful you’re at bay for the time being. You blindsided me, I was wholly unprepared for your darkness. But somehow I was able to climb out of you, to shed off your illogical mumblings in my ear and the weight of pain that had settled on my chest.
I’ve changed a bit because I have known you, and sometimes I’m very upset about it. There have been moments where I pine for a time before you were in my life—but pining for something like that is like grasping at wind.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? Do you think the cliché is fitting for me? Is it true?
Sincerely,
Amy
From Razorcake #58, originally published late 2010.
It’s really about time.
I find myself realizing more and more often that I just don’t give a fuck. It isn’t the nihilistic I believe in nuh-sing don’t-give-a-fuck, it’s more the I care not what ye thinketh don’t-give-a-fuck. This feels more genuine than all my previous fleeting don’t-give-a-fuck phases because as I near the dawn of my thirtieth birthday at the end of this summer it’s as if I’m too tired to care. Or perhaps I’ve just come to an understanding with the universe that I’m no longer going to be burdened with the seemingly ineffectual insecurities that plague me and the universe is going to let me vent to you in 1,244 words for you here.
This revelation didn’t just spring upon me; it crept up slowly like the frayed hem of my cut-off jeans. At the beginning of this summer, they began a couple inches above my knee. As the temperature rose, I began chopping off more denim until I almost neared Daisy Duke territory. The length of my cut-offs may seem irrelevant, especially since I’ve worn my fair yardage of mini-skirts, but there’s something very utilitarian and empowering about pulling on a pair of jeans shorts that’s a part of my summer uniform when I’ve been reluctant to bare my thighs for all these years. It’s what happens when your genetics decided that your thighs will touch and there isn’t much that you can do about it—except maybe grow a complex because when you’re in second grade you think that yours are the only chubby legs that are sticking to the desk chairs on hot afternoons in Mrs. Cisneros’ class. But you only thought your legs were too big because your dad teased you saying that one day you’ll inherit your mom’s Rubenesque legs. Then you begin to distort your body, your brain has been wired to turn all reflective surfaces into funhouse mirrors, and your completely normal, body-weight proportionate legs have been morphed into tree trunks attached to your hips.
It only took twenty-three years after having left Mrs. Cisneros’ class. It really is about time for me to realize that all the self-imposed body criticism needs to go. But sometimes it’s difficult even to acknowledge that we’re tough on ourselves because we—as women involved in punk rock, and as women in general—have to navigate in a world that has become so increasingly self-aware to the point where we think we’re post-gender, post-race, post-all-the-fucked-upness-that-we’re-not-really-post-anything. It creates a space where we don’t discuss these things because we’re supposed to be so over it. But I’m not over it. I’m just getting to it and I don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to hear it because you can turn the page anytime.
There needs to be an openness for me to be completely frank and honest because it’s tiresome and discouraging to hear about empowering oneself from women who seem to have an infinite supply of self-assurance. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to all the small moments of self-doubt and insecurity that I contend with often. How can we support each other if we’re all so busy pretending like we’re so strong that we don’t get shaken? It’s not cool to admit that after some twenty-odd years of being completely fine with my body, I let one snide remark from a boyfriend chip away at who I was. I can finally come to terms with it now because I’ve gotten over it, but it was shameful to have to admit that part of me was crushed when I playfully stuck out my small beer gut and my boyfriend’s only comment was, “Gross.” He’s an ex now, and I’m sure he doesn’t remember this moment at all—but I can still recall what I was wearing, the lighting from a small lamp in his cramped studio apartment, the way I let that comment sink into me.
It began with my legs, then my belly. And just recently, independent of remarks from a third-party, I’ve been really bothered with the dark fuzzy stuff on my upper lip, which is glaringly obvious to me in between waxings. (Surprisingly I’ve never grown a complex about my tits because they never grew.)
Our own individual obsessions about all the little quirks that dot or bulge from our bodies may seem trivial, but they can snowball and manifest themselves in negative ways. And sometimes just knowing that you’re not alone can alleviate some of the pressure. That’s why I’m writing about my insecurities because if my mini-mustache can help just one other woman feel a little less worse about her own mustache then my column has done its job.
Maybe once we can start talking about superficialities, then perhaps we can begin discussing other things that bug me—and maybe a few of these things may also annoy some of you, too. Like how there are some dudes who are inordinately preoccupied with sticking it in a girl’s butt. Listen, if she said no the first three times to the idea of you sticking your penis in her poop-hole, you ought to just move on. I’m also fed up with how the onus is on women in terms of birth control (much respect to my vasectomized friends). If ya’ll can dutifully take a pill every day, endure implants and IUDs, deal with patches and sponges—the very, very least your partner can do for you is to be mindful and acknowledge this. And consider this a PSA for the romantically impaired: this should really go without saying—poking your boner into a girl’s back is not foreplay; something is amiss if you have to be drunk to fuck; and the best sex is with someone who makes you feel completely beautiful and comfortable in your own skin.
What’s sex got to do with our own perceived body images? I’m no sociologist, but the connection between a woman’s self-worth seems deeply intertwined with her confidence and strength in taking ownership of her sex life. I’m rather stubborn and have never been talked into doing anything I didn’t feel comfortable with in bed—but I do struggle with setting boundaries—and just wanted to let other women know that it isn’t a weakness but just something that we need to continually work on to stand our ground.
It should be punk to dwell on all the minutiae of being a woman because women are a part of punk rock and you should care.Why don’t us girls just get over it and bro-the-fuck-down? Shirts off, dudes on or whatever, right? We all own the first Bikini Kill record and there are so many bands with girls in them—and they aren’t just relegated to the bass either. Is this feeling very early 1990’s? Like, didn’t we go through all this with riot grrrls and the third wave of feminism? You think you’re tired of hearing about it? Imagine how tiresome it is to live it.
We’ve come a long way, but maybe we have much further to go still? I’m not asking for much, just more words and discussion. If we think there is no need because the work has been done, we’re sorely mistaken and it leaves so many people feeling alone. I think I’m so frank because I need to speak these sentences out loud, for anyone to hear, hoping that it will resonate with just one other person.
Academic English can only get one so far. Then you’ll have to get into the nitty gritty of the language.
“Ma’am,” Nishka waited around after our literature class, “I have a question, but it’s not about literature.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“What is a freak? I have seen people saying it in movies and such but I don’t understand what it means.”
“Hrm…” I thought for a moment. “Usually, we use freak when describing someone who is strange or weird.”
“Oh, okay. Does it also mean like someone who cannot get along well socially? Like I was watching a movie with a scientist and even though he was very smart and brilliant, he did not know how to interact with people. They called him a freak in the movie.”
“It could mean someone like that. Sometimes if you watch a movie set in high school, there will also be groups of students who are considered freaks.”
“Yes!”
“Like a group of outsider students who dress in all black or look strange.”
“And are they also awkward in social situations? Does it mean that?”
“Not necessarily. Someone can be a freak and still be very social. It can describe how someone is socially awkward, but it is also used to describe people who are into weird things. You know, like someone who worships Satan is considered a freak, but he might actually be very good socially.”
“This is good to know.”
“Yes. But you should be careful when you use this word because it also has a connotation about sex. Like maybe if someone is being called a freak it might also mean that they like to do weird sexual stuff.” Then I called upon my ability to mimic young urban youth and said, “Dang, she a fuuuuhh-reeek!“
“That’s really good to know. Thank you miss!”
“My pleasure.”
“Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she’ll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she’ll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she’ll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she’ll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.”
I dunno who wrote this, but it’s rather apropos as this moment. Enjoy.
The things we wish for.
A teacher was munching on green grapes that were given out at lunch and commented that they “taste like Windex,” and continued to pop them in her mouth.
“But I still keep eating them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Maybe they’ll make me sick and I’ll have to go home.”
I thought it was a fine idea.
A testament to our present mentality.
In an e-mail to friends:
My runner’s legs are back (which means my runner’s butt is back too! [FYI: Runners have hot butts!]! (I couldn’t run for a month after a knee injury I sustained in Nepal.) Thanks to some of you who have sent me Glucosamine Chondroitin. I’m also doing mad yoga. Not “angry” yoga, but mad like “lots of.” That’s a young-person-colloquialism right? Damn, I’ve been away so long I don’t even know.
As I was getting ready for one of our many school functions, some students were helping me with putting on a sari. It’s not an easy task, wrapping and draping yards and yards of fabric just so. The front pleats of the skirt were lopsided and I asked Charla to help re-tuck it in. We carefully pulled out the gathered fabric from the waistband of the petticoat and she began repositioning it when she ordered, “Ma’am, please spread your legs.”
I choked with laughter and obliged.
