Multiculturalism & Me

I have an addiction: I collect and read articles and essays until I don’t have space for them anymore and until it’s nearly impossible for me to read through all of them. Not only do I have a growing collection at home, but my bottom file drawer at work is now bulging with reams’ worth of printed reading material. I usually read on my breaks, during my lunch hour and when I’m on the bus. Whenever I get free time at work, I compulsively surf on over to some choice websites and collect links to various articles and/or essays that appeal to my intellectual curiosity, and then, when no one is watching, print them out.

What does this have to do with ‘multiculturalism’?

Well, I was looking through my file drawer and picked out several essays I printed out a couple months ago regarding an ongoing debate between various authors and philosophers about the merits and faults of multiculturalism, especially in the context of the growing Muslim population in European countries.

Like many things I read, this debate made me question myself about what I really thought, felt and believed about this topic. I reached back in my memory to when I was first introduced to the concepts of multiculturalism and postmodernism. Of course, it had to be that seminal period in my life at college when I was exposed to so many different personalities, behaviors and viewpoints. This was a time when I, and my classmates, were challenged to be skeptical and to actually think for ourselves and to use our intellect to come to certain conclusions. College forced me to take a look around myself and to know my place in the world by knowing what the world is like.

My definition of “multiculturalism” is the recognition and appreciation of the fact that humanity is made up of a plethora of nations, cultures, belief systems and political systems. As a methodology, I consider it to be an effective tool to deconstruct the monolith of White supremacy and undo the harm of colonialism and postcolonialism. I think multiculturalism has been misconstrued and turned into a pejorative epithet to characterize the supporters of multiculturalism as enablers of authoritarian and/or fanatical ideologies and groups whose attitude is usually rabidly anti-Western.

In this debate, reactionary critics argue that multiculturalism is a relativistic philosophy that views every culture and nation, regardless of its belief system or political orientation, as equal in both their worth and people’s respect. In their opinion, multiculturalism is antithetical to the Western traditions of empirical reality and logical reason. In fact, what most of these critics are truly afraid of is that multiculturalism is simply a Trojan horse to not only destroy European/North American culture and traditions, but to also physically replace Western (and Westernized) bodies and land with those who would murder and pillage in the name of some cult-of-personality or apocalyptic religious faith.

However, I don’t take multiculturalism to be any kind of faith or doctrine or dogma. I don’t need anyone I come into contact with to automatically agree with what multiculturalism stands for or even to fully understand it. I also don’t think of it as a religion where I must profess my undying piety and then pray to some human-derived deity [sorry for the unintended rhyme!].

To acknowledge that the world is complex and to appreciate that there are differences among people, as multiculturalism encourages us to do, is not a capitulation to lawlessness, sociopathic hubris or blind faith, and it certainly is not a repudiation of the democratic process or the value of freedom held in this country as expressed in the immortal words written by Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence: “…all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

In Memorium

“Not for a second did I expect my own efforts to make a difference. But I did nurse the hope that my voice might combine with those of others — teachers, writers, activists and ordinary folks — to educate the public about the folly of the course on which the nation has embarked. I hoped that those efforts might produce a political climate conducive to change. I genuinely believed that if the people spoke, our leaders in Washington would listen and respond.

“This, I can now see, was an illusion.”

 

I Lost My Son to a War I Oppose. We Were Both Doing Our Duty.
By Andrew J. Bacevich

Powerful tribute from a father to a son about feeling powerless.

Journey From The Fall

If you haven’t seen Journey From The Fall yet, you’ll have to wait for the DVD. It had limited release in theaters across the country, but I, thankfully, got to see it at a movie theater in downtown Seattle.

I admit that I hesitated to see it because of the subject matter, but I wasn’t disappointed. Compelling characters, good acting and a driving, enthralling plot.

However, the experience was almost ruined when a family came in and the little daughter wouldn’t shut up. The theater was almost empty because the movie didn’t start until 7pm and it was a Thursday. Incredibly, out of all the empty seats surrounding me, they chose to sit right behind me. I decided to relocate and move more to the front of the theater to get away from their yammering. This must have put them off a little because as soon as I gathered my things and got up to move, the talking abruptly stopped. I could feel their eyes digging into my back, but I felt relieved to be moving to a spot where I could enjoy the film undisturbed.

I’d love to see a film adaptation of either Kien Nguyen’s book The Unwanted or Le Thi Diem Thuy’s book The Gangster We Are All Looking For.

Con Lai poem

My poem “Con Lai” has been published by In Posse Review.

This is one of my best, and favorite, poems because it is a visceral reminder of the children born to American fathers and Vietnamese mothers who were left behind after the War ended.

Con lai translated into English is “half-breed” or “mongrel”. It is not only an epithet, it can also be construed as an insult to those people whose lives were forsaken in the most traumatic of times and abandoned like yesterday’s trash.

There are already several books specifically about Vietnamese Amerasians. The ones I’ve read are:

• Debonis, Steven, Children Of The Enemy: Oral Histories of Vietnamese Amerasians and Their Mothers, 1994.
• Bass, Thomas A., Vietnamerica: The War Comes Home, 1997.
• McKelvey, Robert S., The Dust Of Life: America’s Children Abandoned In Vietnam, 1999.

I’ve been asked to review another book about Vietnamese Amerasians called Surviving Twice: Amerasian Children of the Vietnam War by Trin Yarborough (2005).

Many of these people grew up stigmatized, degraded and rejected in Vietnam. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, died from neglect, abuse or suicide. Thousands came to the U.S. under the Amerasian Homecoming Act of 1987 whose aim was to rectify the situation. But, this silver lining quickly faded for more than a few who were able to emigrate. A lot of these people wanted to look for their fathers, with what little information they had, full of high hopes of reuniting and making whole their broken hearts. However, they soon had to deal with reality and suffered through another rejection when either they had found their fathers who didn’t want to meet them or they just couldn’t find them at all. These Amerasians also found out when they arrived that even though they were born to American fathers, that didn’t automatically mean they would be accepted as homegrown American citizens. Growing up in Vietnam meant they were accustomed to a completely different lifestyle and the language barrier kept them dependent on the Vietnamese-American communities that settled around the U.S.

Back to my poem. I think I wrote it as testimony to the lives (and deaths) of Vietnamese Amerasians. I know it’s small consolation to write a couple words about the lives of others and their perceived hardships, but the poem also acts as another mirror into which I often look to make sure that I am still made of flesh and blood. I still recognize myself as a sentient human who is trying to make sense of the reasons for living the way we do.

Why do I ever?

So, why I am back to blogging? I count four times so far that I’ve told people I’m packing up my toys and going home. Always resolved to never come back, I inevitably feel the pull of the words, the ideas and the possibilities, begging me to try it out again, give it another try. It’s only a matter of time until I’m back at the keyboard, clicking away.

I think I know now what’s been wrong. I’ve approached blogging as if I need to write a complete article or essay, taking days or weeks to compose something coherent and newsworthy. Or, I believed that I needed to pick a topic and stick to it. Or, I thought I needed to post every day to keep people interested.

Now, I know; now I see. I need to do this for me because I am foremost a witness to these times. It is comparable to holding up a mirror to my mind.

No expectations, no reservations, and always the Truth (whatever it is).

Rolling Dunder

“Motorcylce group revs for Bush”

This article about the motorcycle group, Rolling Thunder, made up of military veterans, reminded me of something I wrote in an essay last year about my senior year in high school:

My dad would wear a T-shirt with the name of the next phase of the war emblazoned across a yellow ribbon that lay at the feet of a stink-eyed bald eagle: Operation Rolling Thunder. I think he ordered it from a local radio station, WCMF, at which a popular morning radio show host, The Weaze, held sway over public opinion in and around Rochester, NY. The Weaze, aka Brother Weaze, a Vietnam vet, constructed both an irreverent attitude toward those who were not amused by his bluster and an establishmentarian stance based on his reverence toward authority figures. He was also a big fan of his Hog, or Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and soon gathered up a large group of fellow Hog riders to rally around the Liberty Pole in downtown Rochester in support of the troops and by extension the war with Iraq. The local TV stations showed clips of this pathetic demonstration of ultra-nationalism while their coiffed talking heads wore the requisite yellow ribbons on their lapels and prattled on about how our military was securing freedom across the world for generations to come. At this point my permanent estrangement from the popular media outlets took root. It was as if a canister of stupidity had been released and a thick cloud had come right through the TV speakers and I was left squirming on the ground, trying desperately not to breath in the poisonous air.

More Books Than I Can Shake A Stick At (But I Keep On Shaking)

The Seattle Central Public Library got a new shell back in May 2004 to much acclaim from architecture experts all across the country. Unfortunately, as I’ve found out over time, the interior absorbs no sound because most of it consists of steel, glass, plastic and polished wood. Basically, you can hear every voice (it doesn’t matter if it’s hushed or not), footstep and roll of the pages’ book carts. But, I go there anyway because I’m a sucker for books.

So, last week, I took out the following five books:

1. Scigliano, Robert, South Vietnam: Nation Under Stress, 1963.
2. Penniman, Howard R., Elections In South Vietnam, 1972.
3. Hunt, Richard A., Pacification: The American Struggle for Vietnam’s Hearts and Minds, 1995.
4. Do, Kiem & Kane, Julie, Counterpart: A South Vietnamese Naval Officer’s War, 1998.
5. Lam Quang Thi, The Twenty-Five Year Century: A South Vietnamese General Remembers The Indochina War To The Fall Of Saigon, 2001.

As you can see, I’ve been on a South Vietnam history bender. All of these books can be bought from Amazon.com, by the way. I had in mind writing a book about the causes of the demise of the Republic of South Vietnam. But, that all collapsed as soon as I read the intro to Lam Quang Thi’s book in which he recounts writing a book about this very subject. Plus, type in “south vietnam” in Amazon’s search engine and a cursory glance will tell you that it’s all been written about before. Oh well.

Eleanor (Nelly ) Parke Custis Lewis

I guess Nelly Custis could be considered the very first First Adopted Daughter in the U.S.

After the death of her father, John Parke Custis, in 1781, she and her brother were informally adopted by Martha and George Washington.

Sources:

1. Wikipedia entry for “Eleanor (Nelly ) Parke Custis Lewis”
2. Eleanor Parke Custis: An Inventory of Her Papers
3. Personal letter from Nelly Custis

War Fatigue

I wrote in an essay once that, “From my understanding of history and from my own observations, I’ve come to a sobering conclusion that war is humankind’s lasting inheritance.”

Am I being overly pessimistic? Unfairly cynical?

Take a look around you, though, and tell me what you see.

Dream-Mares

I have what I call “dream-mares”. They appear like dreams, but end up as nightmares.

A couple days ago, in the early morning, I had another one. Standing outside a non-descript building I watched as people were being fed through the window, like cordwood. Waves of heat distorted the image, like in a desert (probably Iraq), and there were no other colors in this scene except black, white and gray. The bodies seemed to be floating in mid-air, all emaciated and filthy. One by one, they passed through the blackened flaps covering the window and everytime those flaps would open you would catch a glimpse of the horrific killing going on inside.

Sledgehammers, knives, splotches of gore. But, the most frightening aspect of it was the non-stop screaming and the gurgling of murderous death.

When my mind decided to end this dream-mare, I had the funny feeling that I wasn’t really sleeping through it, but that I was a physical eyewitness to this crime. But, I was helpless in doing anything about it. My feet didn’t move, and all I could do was stare.