Uplifting rich and diverse stories from our Asian Minnesotan community.
Episode 2.1: “Don’t give power to people who cannot see you”
David reflects on how the Asian American Renaissance came about back in the early 1990’s, why its founding was such a significant turning point in our history as Asian Minnesotans and how its legacy might inspire the next generation of creatives, organizers and dreamers.
The Young Asian Women
by David Mura
The young Asian women are shaving their heads,
piercing eyelids and ears. They stare holes
in curators, shop clerks and geisha chasers,
bubble gum snapping like caps in their jaws.
Their names? Juliana, Vong, Lee and Lily.
Could be Mina from the outskirts of Tokyo
but more likely she’s Nkauj’lis of the famous
or infamous Lyfongs (depending on your clan
and your anti-Communist persuasions).
Check out that siren named Sonia too in love
with her looks, a nasty curl of Seoul
in her smile. Or if her name is Hoa,
she’s tough as her mother, bad girl, bitch,
it doesn’t matter, she’ll survive like nettles,
flower in what ditch she finds herself, with
or without a man, or her lesbian lover who left
for Alaska, the smell of bear shit on the trail.
With her Taiwanese aunt, digs tales of Toisan
ladies, dragons and the water marsh where bandit
ghosts steal years with a kiss, talking tongues
down your throat to your belly, slipping
a demon seed inside you to grow. Oh, they’re
like that, these young women, their art alive
like Thai hot sauce on your tongue, hurtling hurt
with a half pint gleaming on the night stand.
They know how mysteriously the body is written,
how thundering colors of Benetton befit
statistics on garment workers in the Third
and First Worlds. They know Woman Warrior,
bell hooks, how the moon waxes red like
the sheets where they write out scripts, stories
and poems, unwrapping their dreams before
you, a palm of paint, pearls, I-Ching stones.
With boots black and buckled, their jeans frayed,
lips bruised purple or incandescent red,
their bodies at the dance club cut into hip-hop.
Their voices are hoarse after nights on the floor,
their faces smeared with sweat. Their cheeks aglow.
They scare the pants off the young men they know.