A Finalist for the Bellwether Prize 2008

My novel Living Treasures is one of the top finalists for the Bellwether Prize 2008. Why didn’t I win? It’s a good question.

As I see it, there are 3 big categories of stories:

Black and white: good people conquer, and evil people suffer. It takes great skill to write this type of stories. Masters include: Shakespeare, J. K. Rowling.

Stroking the wound: a person suffers a trauma, could be small and could be big, but it changes his life. He reflects on this trauma and discovers his fragile, complex humanity. Masters include: James Joyce, many popular contemporary writers, Ha Jin.

Survivor stories: a person overcomes enormous obstacles to achieve success and/or maintain his dignity. Master include: Leo Tolstoy, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, George Eliot, and Thomas Hardy. Books include: Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, War and Peace, etc.

None of the category is inherently better than the other; it all depends on the writer’s skill. Most writers are best at one type of fiction and can attempt the other 2 types clumsily, because they don’t have enough tools or energy to employ their gift to the fullest. Type 3 novels may have many “stroking the wound” episodes (Tolstoy is a master at doing this), but the main structure of the book is a survivor story, even when the protagonist dies. For this reason, I consider Thomas Hardy a Type 3 novelist, and James Joyce a type 2.

I write type 3 novels, partly having to do with my personality, my experience, and my profession. I am an engineer. Every problem has a solution, not a perfect one, but one you can live by. You find a way to attack the problem, and that’s half the success. Some problems are truly without a solution--stroking the wound story--you can only attack it so many times and then give up. I read this type of stories to gain self knowledge, but I don’t write them.

I came to the States at age 19 with $100, and my English was poor. If I dwell on the discouragement/insults people have given me over the years, I would never have written a word. I choose my “opponents” carefully: get angry over material things and ignore the verbal abuse. Similarly, my fictional characters also do the choosing, they are the masters of their own lives. They do not drift--they simply don’t dwell on a trauma like they have to sink with the Titanic. To me, this temperament to choose the course of life and stay focused to solve one important problem is the way to navigate the modern, internet life.

Readers may not admit it, but nobody represents the “Western reader” or the “Asian reader.” In fact, everybody gravitates toward a type of fiction, and it is not an intellectual choice but a physical sensation. Imagine when people see a young woman, they usually have different opinions about her looks.

“She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s okay, a next-door girl type.”
“She’s too skinny.”
“Her mouth is too big.”
Etc. etc.

You can argue with the other person until you’re blue in the face, he still doesn’t have the same physical reaction as yours. Everyone thinks he’s right, and he represents everyone else, but no one does.

I did my best with Living Treasures, and I could’ve won. In the end I believe that a writer’s intentions don’t matter. A book should move and entertain the readers. But you cannot move all the readers, it’s an unrealistic goal. Trying too hard to please the readers who are not in your camp, you may sacrifice your art and diminish your motivation to write.

Republished: East Asian Romantic Core Values

From John Wallace, one of my favorite professors at Cal, his final thoughts on the East Asian Romantic Core Values. Generous offering, inspiring!

1 Some of my core assumptions:

* from Buddhism/Freud: empty self

* from Lacan: Identity loops through another, so what it means to be you includes your place in an intimate relationship, family, social groups and so on, and so cultural differences are real

* from study of literature & Derrida: central role of narrative — narrative is the primary activity for creating the illusional (“imaginary” in Lacanian terms) content of the personal self (and ideas can alter the structure of one’s psyche)

* from Foucault, Kristeva and Nakanishi: history is real, the past is in the present

* from Irigaray, Cixous (critique of phallocentrism of language and culture) and female friends: men have problems seeing beyond their testosterone

* from recent developments in brain science: the experience of the self reaches across multiple structures from the most constructed and discursive (language-based) conceptual notions of who one is to the deepest, reptilian brain and later limbic system (both of which are experiences non-discursively); further, the experience of love, as a compressive self-event, stretches across all of these but, on the other hand, since the physiology of the female and male brain are different, the experience of love may well be substantively different

2 Where you are in terms of romance: not building families so traditional has yet to kick in (what it means to be happy once a family is built: prosperity, stability, love between partners, children, children’s welfare (envisioning future or not)

3a Fundamental difference in dominating philosophies of East Asian and European culture: Confucianism complicit with social order; Taoism complicit with cosmic order – both suggest that one finds one’s place within that order and both do not deny the value of secular success (material, corporal); Christianity posits a higher authority with the highest social mode being communion with God’s will through the exercise of one’s free will and God’s kingdom is not on earth and values spiritual matters over physical. (paradigms of devotion and self-sacrifice are acts of free will – know thyself -- that indicate one’s honoring of another, God or one’s partner … sacrifice in the Confucian context means acceding to the system)

3b Position of women: Greece had a closer affinity to Middle Eastern and Asian attitudes towards women. Christianity changed this through the cult of the Virgin Mary and the Catholic assertion of the sacred state of marriage.

3c Cyclical & Layering vs. Discrete & Linear: love is a frame of mind so psychological this type of layering is understandable, and the cosmos penetrates this world …. Heaven and earth are separate, love is a real act not just a frame of mind (the layering example: movie 2046)

3d Confucianism, Buddhism and Shintoism do not take up the issue or sexuality or romantic love directly (the mark of romance, a certain sort of obsessive frame of mind, is seen as disruptive in the West seen as discovery of something true so “lost” on the one hand “passionate” on the other)

3e Desire: desire may or may not be socially disruptive (argument in Chinese as to whether man is fundamentally good or bad – but ultimately rather humanist); desire in Greece is towards the beautiful which can be redirected as towards the good and this becomes in the Christian context desire toward God as part of the manifestation of faith, so desire orients the person towards the good (which allows the desire within a sexual relationship a different interpretation)

4a Loneliness is a core experience, speaks to that because of notion of intimacy and companionship

4b Sexuality is a core experience, romantic notions participate in lust

4c Desire is a core experience, a romantic partner, to the extent that he or she is viewed as a prize object, is possessed and protected from the possession of others

5a We have bodies; bodies have chemical imperatives and they are real

5b We have psychic structures, these, too, have real imperatives: the psyche is empty at the center and spends a life trying to convince itself that is not so (Freud and Buddhism); the psyche is thus profoundly lonely and fearful … loving someone or something is a solution to this

5c We exist within a social matrix, we cannot transcend this, social imperatives are as penetrating as corporal and psychic imperatives but more complex

6 Beyond the imperatives the experience of love is built along clues of the cultural context but, in that that is a diverse field, individual contribution is very important

7 “Love” is a catch all term; we need precision but in that it vaguely refers to our core imperatives we need both catch all terms and precise terms

Republished: The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination

By J.K. Rowling, from http://harvardmagazine.com/go/jkrowling.html, recommended by a friend.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

************

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

I miscarried in Hawaii

This pregnancy was different from the others. I hardly felt I was pregnant, except for the frequent bathroom trips. My mind was hazy, and I sort of liked it. Being high-strung and sensitive wasn’t very desirable and could lead to insomnia. I named her Sophie. Victor said it was two Sophia girls and told me how much he loved them. Oliver rejoiced at the prospect of becoming a big brother.

On 5/24 I woke up early. I tried to get ready for the trip, but I had a bad headache and felt ill. In late morning I felt I was going to collapse. I had to lie down for a nap. The bleeding continued, but I never thought I could lose the baby. I even carried Victor up the stairs into the house. In the evening I felt disoriented and confused. I had trouble having coherent thoughts. That went on for a few hours, and around 10pm Qin said I should rest: it’s okay if we cancel the Hawaii trip, it’s not the end of the world. That assurance lifted a thousand tons of weight from my shoulders. I was deeply grateful that he put my health first.

5/25 When the plane landed in Honolulu, I started to feel cramping, like what I got before giving birth. Then I felt a lot of pressure in my pelvis. I was frightened and felt helpless. I told Qin I was miscarrying. He looked a little upset but didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even ask me to sit down, etc. I carried the bags, got the luggage, then went to look for grandparents and Oliver, all the while I was in active labor. They spent a lot of time looking for Oliver’s car seat. My legs were numb. They asked me to do things but I couldn’t understand their words. Poor me, having labor while they treated me like the regular mommy.

We went for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. I hurried to the bathroom. There on the pad was a piece of blood clot, and a wad of tissue the size of a half egg. It was an organism, complete in itself. It was all the hard work my body had done in the last two months, and now it was on the pad. I thought of keeping it but didn’t, so I left it in the bathroom, my Sophie. I came out and told Qin that I had miscarried. He looked at once frightened and disgusted. Parents-in-law were silent for a little while, then carried on cheerfully because we were in Hawaii, sat in a Chinese restaurant, and ate Dim Sum. Of all the places you could miscarry, Hawaii was probably one of the nicest and also the least likely place for you to brood and reflect.

Qin took me to the Urgent Care unit at Kaiser Honolulu Clinic. A Hawaiian nurse gave me warm blankets. The doctor was a blond lady about 40 years old. She said most early miscarriages were caused by genetic problems and couldn’t be prevented. She had had a miscarriage between her first and second child, at 11 weeks. In the end she told me my pregnancy hormone was at 300, while at 9.5 weeks it should’ve been around 15,000. Something had not gone right for a while, and it wasn’t because something I did. It meant so much to me under the circumstances. In hind sight I could’ve blamed it on so many things: I didn’t take care of myself (didn’t take the lunch breaks, didn’t rest, didn’t eat enough); I felt terrible on Saturday but I didn’t rest, instead I planned, packed, and worried about every details of the trip; that night I didn’t go to the hospital and next day I went on the airplane; I carried Victor, heavy bags, and later fell down; I didn’t restrain my activities and walked long distance, etc. etc. The doctor told me it was normal to grieve, feeling sad, spacey, confused, and disbelieving.

We returned to the hotel. I felt empty and sad. I told Victor that Sophie got sick and died, and she came out of Mommy. Victor looked frightened and repeated after me, “Sophie got sick and died. How did she come out of you, Mommy?” “I want Sophie. I miss her.” Oliver asked me to have a baby, so he could become a big brother. That night was hard. I held Victor in my arms, so I could feel some comfort. I didn’t know what I’d do if I was away from my children. Their presence comforted me, and they never appeared so precious, beautiful, and loving.

On 5/26 we went to the Pearl Harbor. I sat on the stone bench while they waited in the long line that turned several corners. I overheard many tourists talking about the Pearl Harbor: some Americans, some Japanese, some Chinese, some from Hong Kong. Victor and Oliver chased the birds in the lawn. They were adorable and made people smile. Finally we went inside. The movie was sad and heroic. The loud exploding sound made Victor jump. I told them after the show that 1177 sailors were buried under the USS Arizona Memorial so they must be quiet. The pilgrimage to the Arizona was solemn. I thought how fitting it was the day after Sophie had died. Qin threw a flower to the sunken hulk of the Arizona. I saw a boy about 13-15 years old. He stared at the sunken hulk, lost in thought. People walked slowly beside him, but he remained immobile. Was he trying to imagine the 1177 young sailors perished within 8 minutes? It was too much for me. It was unbearable to look at the names on the wall. Life was so fragile, so short, and so futile. The memorial was a heartbreaking place, yet so heroic, pure, and noble. It was probably the only righteous war (besides the brutal Civil War) that the U.S. has fought. It reminded us how war could be necessary under trying circumstances.

Since then I’ve tried to be kind to myself. I rested, took time off writing, and even started a Chinese blog http://blog.sina.com.cn/yangwrites. There I had less freedom but more responses. I chatted with a few girlfriends and learned that miscarriages are much more common than I realized. I can’t say that I put it behind me, but I’m ready to move on, slowly and surely, one day at a time.

Victor said goodbye to his favorite preschool

On May 15, Thurs. Victor came home and said his left thigh ached. He said child N bumped into him on a bicycle. Victor had been hit and pushed by N many times before, but the school ultimately wasn’t able to intervene. Over time the school lost its charm to me. It made me (and some teachers) sad that Victor loved N as a playmate in spite of his impulsive, hurtful behaviors.

I examined Victor’s thigh but saw no bruises, so I let him be. At night he limped. I told him he’d feel better in the morning. He went to bed whining a little. I thought he was cute.

On 5/16 Fri. he couldn’t get out of the bed. Victor usually ran so fast I couldn’t catch him. Now he lay on his back, because he couldn’t use any force on his left thigh. When I carried him upright, he could only crawl. Was he maimed? I was terrified.

For days I’d been obsessed with the earthquake in China. Now Victor, my gentle boy, was hurt by N at his preschool, a nationally accredited school. What kind of a mother am I if I did nothing about it?

I took him to the Kaiser, because they could do X-ray on site. If he had a fracture, I’d sue the school. The pediatrics director would see him. I expected a hoary old man, but Dr. Leo was a small Asian man who looked like a teenager. His friendly, warm demeanor won Victor’s trust, and he followed the instructions precisely.

Dr. Leo put his hands on the various places of Victor’s body, applied some force and asked him if/where it hurt. Most of the time Victor shook his head. Suddenly he said it hurt. When Dr. Leo asked where, Victor pointed to his waist where Dr. Leo’s fingers pressed against it. We laughed. Dr. Leo said, “That’s good, that’s what I want to hear.”

Dr. Leo said it was almost impossible that Victor had a fractured femur, or he would have bruises and a lot of pain. Victor had a muscle sprain, so he felt deep ache after sleep, much like that a person got a back pain the next day after a car accident. If I massaged him, he’d feel better. That was a great relief. Victor was able to walk when we left the hospital. He recovered over the weekend.

On Monday I told his teachers, “Please keep him safe for 4.5 days. He won’t be here for the summer.” Ms. S was concerned when I told them what had happened. She said she wouldn’t allow bikes that day. That was comforting. I counted down the days with Victor, “Please stay safe for one more day!”

On Thurs. 5/22 I had a brief conference with Ms. S. She said she was sorry about what had happened that semester; she had a lot of challenging children, Ms. K left suddenly, she missed her and the children missed her. Next time she’d call in help much sooner before the situation got out of hand. I thanked her and said that you did your best, and we parents felt supported.

On 5/23 Friday I went to the potluck at the preschool. Ms. S was sad that some children were leaving. She gave a moving introduction to every child at the ceremony. She said, “Victor didn’t speak when he first started. Now he talks so much! He always knows the answers to my questions. He’s so ready for kindergarten.”

Victor was happy at the potluck. J’s mom left me their contact information and asked for my phone number. When I cleaned out Victor’s cubby, he realized that he was leaving for good. He cried and wouldn’t leave. The teachers comforted him but he kept crying. Ms. P said, “You’ll make a lot of new friends, Victor.” Ms. S asked if I needed any help. I said he just needed to cry. Their eyes got wet. Finally Victor agreed to leave. Ms. S left me her home phone, and I gave her our web addresses. Victor clutched tightly onto the paper with her number and seemed to find some comfort in it. Ms. P said, “Victor, thanks for all your help!” She told me, “He was a lot of help to me.”

I took Victor home and returned to work. I stayed late to finish up work and try to finalize the Hawaii trip details. I left at 8pm while the office building emptied at 3:30pm. I felt drained and a bit ill. At night I saw Ms. S’ email. She cried after reading my blog and suggested that I should send it to the school. I was moved. Victor left his favorite preschool, not voluntarily, but I couldn’t allow him to be hurt physically, emotionally, or intellectually. I was too overwhelmed to take an action against the school. I didn’t know then that I started to miscarry at 9 weeks.

Remember the earthquake victims

I have two young boys, and I’m two months pregnant with my third child. I cry when I see baby pictures on the TV.

I forgot May 12 was Oliver’s 3-year-old birthday. It was the day when the earthquake struck Sichuan, China and claimed 15, 000 lives, many of whom were schoolchildren trapped in collapsed classroom buildings. The images of frightened, injured, and dead children were more than I could bear.

But I kept reading the news. The NPR story gripped my heart:

Dozens of bodies of children were laid out on the ground, waiting for parents to identify them. Once claimed, the bodies were wrapped in shrouds and brought under plastic tarps. Hundreds of parents waited for hours in the rain for word of their children.

Parents built makeshift shrines and placed the bodies of the dead on pieces of cardboard or plywood as they grieved over the small lifeless forms. Some lighted red candles or burned paper money to send children into the afterlife. Others set off firecrackers to ward off evil spirits. The grim ritual played out by dozens and dozens of families as they kept watch over their babies one last time.

For two nights I wouldn’t let Victor out of my sight. What if something bad happens to my beautiful, vibrant and loving child?

Of course I’d use my body to shield him. I’d do the same for a stranger’s child if I was in the earthquake. I’m not heroic, it’s mother nature.

But this doesn’t take away the pain. No amount of heroism could alleviate the pain of losing a child or a loved one. No matter how we comforted the victim families, their lives are changed forever.

When you feel their pain, your life is changed as well.

It’s the kind of despair that knows no bound. You cannot keep your head above water. You are powerless, unable to move, speak, or even feel the pain. It has crippled you. You keep breathing, because it’s the only thing left to do.

If you can express your grief, the worse is over. If you can ask for help, you’re on your way to recovery.

I remember after 9.11, we were heartened to hear President Bush declare that we’ll prevail, that freedom will prevail. Now 7 years later, that day was but the beginning of a perpetual descend into a dark, painful reality that we didn’t do the right thing. The victims of 9.11 weren’t honored. The country didn’t heal. There was more violence in the world, more hatred, poverty, and helplessness.

At the height of patriotic fervor, I applied to the FBI. In 2004 I passed the interviews. When I trained for the physicals, I found I was pregnant. I had Oliver instead of joining the FBI. I have no regrets.

Survivors should remember the victims with love. The memorial is in our hearts.

I donated money through Mercy Corps to the earthquake victims in China. I will remember the beautiful and vibrant children. I feel their parents’ grief, and their grief changes my life.

Victor’s Preschool Journal (Spring 2008)

April 8: I spoke with Ms. S and told her that Victor hadn't been hit for a few days. He is more relaxed, happier and rarely talks about N. She said: "Don't tell M, I'm like Victor's bodyguard." I cannot be more grateful.

********

April 9: Yesterday on the playground N hit Victor’s eyes and nose. Victor cried and went to an adult for help. I’ve had it! I told Victor to say, “I’m not your friend. I won’t play with you unless you stop hitting.” He said S told them not to say such things. I said to N you can and should. If N continues to hit you, you have to defend yourself, or I will transfer you to another school. He cried and wouldn’t go to the P Preschool. He said they do a lot of timeouts and he hated it. There’s no perfect balance between discipline and freedom. I told him to defend himself and go to the adults for help.

The supervising adult told me, “Victor loves to play with N, but N hits him. It makes me so sad to watch him get hit. It’s very sad.” If the bully maims him, I’ll call the police. The school will be responsible.

In the morning I spoke with Ms. P about the incident. She asked Victor to go to her when he needed help. I spoke with S that Victor couldn’t nap yesterday when the new girl cried. She said they moved the other kids away from her during the naptime.

S said Victor is growing. He gets hungry in the afternoon and eats a lot of fruit and snack. He ate an orange yesterday and later ate a bowl of strawberries. “You’re growing big,” S said, her face glowing with pride. I agreed to pack him some fruit or other snack.

********

4/9/2008 8:11 PM When I picked up Victor, I asked: “Did you get hit today?”

Victor: “No, I played with N. He didn’t hit me or push me.”

Y: Why did you play with him? What if he hit you?

V: But he didn’t.

Y: What if he hits you tomorrow?

V: He didn’t hit or push me today.

I had to leave it at that. Fifteen minutes later I brought up the subject again.

V: I said to him, “I play with you, if you don’t hit or push me. If you hit me, I won’t play with you.”
N said, “OK.” It means he agreed. So he didn’t hit or push me today.

I am so proud of Victor.

********

4/10/2008 10:13 PM When I picked up Victor, I asked, “Did you get hit today?”

V: N hit me.

Y: Didn’t you tell him not to hurt you, or you won’t play with him anymore?

V: I told him. He hit my back. Then I hit his belly, his ugly belly.

I never saw his belly. Victor said N liked to pull up his shirt and show his “ugly” belly.

Y: Did you tell the teacher?

V: Yes, I told Ms. S and P. They told him to sit in a chair.

They don’t do time-outs, so sitting in a chair is all that they could do.

Y: Have you hit other kids before?

V: No.

Y: Don’t hit other children, not anyone else. You always tell N not to hit you. But if he hits you first, you know what to do.

V: N hit A and hurt her hand. She cried. Teachers made him sit in a chair. N cried today.

Y: Why?

V: He slipped from the slide.

3-year-old N also hit 2 tall 5-year-old children. S (a sweet, adorable girl) hit him back. NA (a boy) was so tall he looked like a teenager, but even he cried after N hit him one time. It must have hurt. Everyone finds their way to cope.

Over the years I’ve fallen in love with Victor’s classmates: S was a beautiful girl, and I liked her mother.
B was a 3-year-old cutie who looked like Oliver.
J was a handsome boy, gentleman-like, and his mother was friendly and considerate. Sometimes she swept the floor and chatted with me. Today I saw J pat girl M’s back affectionately.
R used to be sweet on Victor.
NA and F hit Victor before, but now they played well together.
Victor was fond of E, a cute boy. One day in January N pushed Victor, who fell on E. E had a bloody nose. He bled so much I almost fainted. I admired his parents for not transferring him to another class. His two elder sisters had been in this class before.
Richard graduated last year, he was a buddy to Victor.
Teddy and Nathan (the twins) were smart and friendly.
Victor also liked Michelle who graduated.
Victor said most people in his class were good, except for two.

It hadn’t always been easy. When Victor first started, he couldn’t speak English. When he peed his pants, he let the sun dry up his pants and shoes. Gradually he warmed up to his teachers. Now he adores them like Goddesses. They’re also sweet to him. P said, “Victor is our favorite.”

Victor brought toy cars to share with A and B. A looked at his cars and said, “I don’t like them.” He brought the car again next week. I asked him why? He said, “Last time I brought two cars, she didn’t like them. Now I bring one, she’ll like it.” What does he know about girls?

********

4/15/2008 4:26 PM Last Friday 4/11/08 I talked to Ms. P. Victor had a good day because N didn’t hit him. P said N needed to learn to socialize: he tended to get excited and start punching and pushing. When he was frustrated, he threw things. At school Victor had self-control and didn’t let things overwhelm him, but with me he was much more expressive: clingy and explosive at times. P said some kids act out at home, and some at school. N acts out at school.

********

4/15/2008 10:30 PM Today N pulled Victor’s ear so hard he cried. Victor told Ms. J and P. They sat him down. N didn’t apologize. At night Victor said his right ear still hurt.

I asked: Did you pull his ear?

He said: No.

Y: Why did he pull your ear?

V: I don’t know.

Y: Could you not play with him?

V: But he came to play with me!

Victor couldn’t say no to friendship. I could identify with that, although it made me a bit sad. Some “friend” can hurt you more deeply than a sworn enemy; in fact, they always do because they have access to your heart and/or body.

V: S went down the slide and bumped into N who was climbing up. N cried. S said, “Sorry,” so she didn’t have to sit in the chair.

Y: Can you stay away from N like other kids?

V: But N followed me when I played. I didn’t ride the bike today. Other kids did, F, T, N and NI.

My India Trip 2006 (I)

Nov. 18, 2006. I barely made the flight, as usual. I sat beside a friendly Indian man, an Aries/Pisces family man (who called himself a sentimental fool) in love with his Sagittarius wife. After the 14-hour flight, my legs felt broken. It was hot when I arrived at the Delhi Airport. Outside the gate, many dozens name plaques were held by taxi drivers expecting their clients. I tried to read the names, when a man called me and winked. He didn’t have my name. Then I saw Qin wearing a white tee shirt. An Indian man in black uniform took over my cart. I asked Qin if he knew the man. He said yes, the man was the taxi driver. We went to the car and put my luggage inside. He drove a small Honda. Qin said it was equivalent to Civic. The driver spoke softly in fluent English. We left the airport. He ran a red light and I was flabbergasted. I was surprised by the dirt and squalor on the streets. The gorgeous pictures in my tour book gave me an illusion that India was a garden country. Silly me thought we would soon get on the highway and leave the slums behind. Cows wandered the streets, stray dogs and homeless people lived in dirt, men peed on the streets. Qin said a TV program criticized people who urinated on the streets. India was much poorer than the coastal China that I knew.

Marriott Hotel was incredibly luxurious compared to the squalor on the streets. I was abhorred. The breakfast buffet was a delicious feast, which I appreciated after the bad food on the plane.

We went sightseeing in Delhi. First we stopped by his office and met his colleagues (the service department). They were crammed in an apartment without AC. The work condition was hard, but the young men seemed optimistic. Delhi was full of gangly, bustling young men, while fewer women walked the streets. I looked out of the car window. A young man sat in an auto rickshaw rode away. He was slim, leggy and beautifully clean-cut. While our car waited at a red light, a handicapped boy thumped our window with his deformed arm. I froze, frightened out of my wits. Only after our car passed did I steal a glance at him. How this poor creature managed to grow up I didn’t know.

We saw the Indian Gate, Government Buildings, etc. All the fountains were dry, and people walked on the pool floor. Dust was everywhere. Women dug holes on the scraggly lawn in front of the Indian Gate. Teenage boys had their step training there. Chinese President Hu was visiting so parts of the city were closed. The driver took us shopping (The Silk Palace) and I bought two Indian suits under coercion: a sandy top for 1100 rupees, a blue and red woven suit for 2000 rupees, and a tan pashmina scarf for 500 rupees. They served us tea and the shopgirl kept saying how nice “Madam” looked. The driver told me to get sari but I wouldn’t bare my belly. Finally we went to see Qutb Minar (part of the Mehrauli Archaeological Park). The buildings/tower were majestic, and so was the landscaping. Such a waste it was built for dead people, worship, etc.

He took us to a nice place for lunch. Afterwards he showed us his office site and gave me a dozen flowers (mostly gladiolus and lilies). They were wilting but they were lovely. He also invited us to visit his house. I didn’t know if he was serious. The nicest area in Delhi seemed to be the Embassy Avenue. The lawn was well kept. Whenever our car stopped, beggars pounded our windows. Sometimes women held their children. Our driver ignored them, while I was nervous.

I bought a wooden elephant from the store downstairs. The water in the swimming pool was too cold, so the pool was mostly for show. We went outside after dark to a local mall/market, where I bought a cotton suit for 650 rupees. I was so tired I was barely able to make it back.

How teachers respond to the hitting

The next day (March 28, 2008) I talked to Victor’s teachers: S and P. They were eager to know about my talk with the director. Perhaps they had been given the same answer and wanted to know if I had better luck.

I told them: either Victor had to leave or we should tolerate it. Victor would rather be hit every day than go to another class.

P: That’s so sweet.

S: Oh, but that is so sad. [She looked away.]

S came up with a plan: designate a teacher to shadow N every day.

I saw them doing it sometimes, but shadowing a three-year-old for 8 hours/day is easier said than done, especially on the playground. I read that an Olympic track champion once followed his 2.5-year-old boy and imitated his moves. By noon he collapsed in exhaustion. I have only gratitude and admiration for Victor’s teachers. They are on my side, and I feel supported.

Y: Thank you so much. I know how difficult this is when you have 20 other children to work with. But this is for N’s own good. I heard he’s tuned down.

S: He’s still hitting. With this plan I feel more confident.

Y: I hope he’ll change. It’s for everyone, most of all for N.

S: I know, and it’s your right to be concerned. I want Oliver to be here, so this is a family issue.

Actually I’m not sure if I want Oliver to go through this. He’ll be three in May. He has plenty of time to grow up. I don’t want it to start with N if I can help it. Oliver doesn’t know English so it’ll be hard for him to protect/stand up for himself. But, I love S and hope that Oliver will have the benefit of her guidance.

Every day I ask Victor if he was hit at school. Sometimes he says, “I don’t know.” “I forgot.” He may not want me to make a big deal of it, but I have to ask. Yesterday (April 2) he said, “N hit A twice. She cried two times because she was hurt.” A was like Victor’s “girlfriend,” although he said, “Eww.”

A part of me thinks something is wrong if a gentle child gets hit, s/he should cry and get over it. I don’t want to go to a team meeting and be pushed down to the floor. I get up and say, “My coworker is a spirited man.”

I don’t think I can ever do that. If I can, something vital inside me must have died.

How my 4-year-old practices non-violence

A pacifist gets feisty when someone hits her child.

Victor is an introvert, like me, low-key and easygoing. He loves the preschool and calls his classmates girlfriends and boyfriends, except for a few children who hits and curses. One child, N, hits/pushes Victor every day. Victor is not singled out, because N hits others as well. But he likes to approach Victor, and sometimes they form a bond. Victor plays with N and gets hit. To get back at the aggressor, he calls N "Crybaby" to make him mad. Then the conflict escalates.

One day N did some stunt. A teacher couldn't catch him. N threw a rock and hit Victor's head. N was then taken to the director. Hearing the news, I felt as if someone bashed me on the head. I complained to the teacher and director. N was put on a "program" to learn proper behaviors. I heard that he has tuned down, but Victor still gets hit/pushed every day. Since he is not hurt, I ignored his complaints, such as, N called "Victor" during the naptime, N bared his belly, N took off his pants and showed his booty (not in the bathroom). N slapped a teacher on the hand and spat on her.

Yesterday Victor said he was pushed down three times and cried three times. His teacher saw one incident at least, but didn't see Victor cry. I talked to the director again. Evidently she has heard such complaints.

Director: Don't listen to other parents' stories. You should come to the classroom and observe the children. There's more to it than you thought.

Yang: I heard the complaints from Victor, not from other parents. [I haven't spent a lot of time in the classroom but I had some observations. Once I saw N slap a teacher. Another time N chased after boy J, who didn't want to play with him. Being the selfish mother that I am, I told Victor to imitate J. But Victor couldn't behave like J to save his own skin.]

D: The teachers should intervene.

Y: A teacher cannot predict when a child is going to hit. After N hits someone, she can only sit him down and tell him not to hit, which is not effective because he doesn’t listen.

D: N’s parents came to observe him. They said he doesn’t behave like this at home. They are doing what we tell them to do. I cannot remove N from the classroom. If you want, I can put Victor in another class.

Y: But Victor was here first. [Victor has been in the class for a year and half, and N came two months ago.]

D: Technically, N came first. He has been with the Center since he was six months old. [Now he’s three.]

Y: Really? I am very surprised. Then there’s little chance that he’ll change.

D: I won’t say that. I won’t give up on any child, until we go through the program, which takes some time to complete, we cannot make him drop out. N is not a bad child. He is a spirited child.

Y: [I didn’t care to label N as any kind of child. I didn’t want Victor to be his punching bag. It's not fair or acceptable to me.] N needs to respect other people’s boundaries. Otherwise, it’s not safe for Victor to be in the same classroom with him. [N also hits other children every day.]

D: Other children also do things to N.

Y: I know Victor calls him “Crybaby” a few times to make him mad.

D: You see, you need to teach Victor to stop doing that.

Y: Comparing to hitting someone, this is less offensive; besides, it’s the only thing Victor can do. He cannot hit N back, so he calls him “Crybaby” to get back at him. It’s the only power Victor has over N. If you take that away, N still hits, but Victor can do nothing to express his anger. He is victimized and powerless. This is a vicious cycle.

D: What do you want me to do?

Y: I came to you and hope you might have a solution.

D: I offer that you come to observe, or you move Victor to another class.

Y: Victor loves his teachers. [Victor told me he needed to pee, he was probably bored. I asked him to wait a second. He climbed into my chair so I had to stand up.]

D: Why don’t you control your child? Sit down. [It was getting personal. Victor and I spoke in Mandarin.]

Y: Maybe you can understand: as a parent, I’m worried about his safety at school. In the other class, there is also an aggressive child. He’s very tall and his name starts with N. He hit Victor but not on a daily basis.

D: I’m not removing N from the class. His mother is a nursing student here.

Y: [I didn’t think this was relevant. I realized I was in the wrong political camp: the wrong race and social/economic class. I didn’t have a chance.] Will N be in the summer program?

D: Why? If he’s here, Victor won’t come?

Y: I want to know my options.

D: I don’t know at this time.

Y: I want to avoid conflict as best as I can. So it’ll be helpful if I know whether N will be in the class.

D: I don’t know.

Y: Thank you for your time.

D: You’re welcome. I’ll be here until eight o’clock.

[We both smiled.]

I came outside and asked Victor, “How about I switch you to the other class?”

He burst into tears. “No, I love Ms. S!”

“But N hits you every day.”

“Let him hit me. I want to be in Ms. S’s class.”

“But I don’t want him to hit you.”

“It’s okay. N is funny sometimes.”

“How?”

He couldn’t tell me. “I want to be in Ms. S’s class.”

There was not much I could say to that.

On our way home, we listened to a Chinese song, Sailor. He hums the lyrics:

在受人欺负的时候总是听见水手说/他说风雨中这点痛算什么/
Whenever I’m bullied I remember what the sailor said/In the storm my pain is nothing

擦干泪不要怕/至少我们还有梦
Dry my tears, don’t be afraid/At least we still have dreams

他说风雨中这点痛算什么/擦干泪不要问为什么　
In the storm my pain is nothing /Dry my tears and don’t ask why

I had low expectations for the preschool. I wanted Victor to learn English, make friends and have fun. He has done that and more, he is learning to practice non-violence. It’s easy to punch a smaller child, but it takes courage, wisdom and self-reliance to practice non-violence. Victor has taken on the task voluntarily because he won’t succumb to a bully either by withdrawing or imitating the aggressor.

Republished: I am a success (in Chinese Simplified)

From: http://blog.sina.com.cn/s/blog_4a16eb0f01000994.html

不怕失败，放手一搏。朝着最初的目标走下去，迎着世界的风我要无畏的挺立，每天告诉自己一遍：我真的很不错！

学做任何事得按部就班，急不得。抱着最大的希望，我做最大的努力。对于必须要做的事我一点都不怀疑。要做就做最好的，优秀是我的性格；我知道我能做的就是不停不停地努力。

我已经开始，我不再停止，我不再退却。孤单寂寞与被遗弃感是最可怕的贫穷。人若软弱就是自己最大的敌人。装满勇气面对困难，勇往直前，永不泄气；我知道我能做的就是不停不停地努力。

我用我的生命来实践自己证明自己我真的很不错。

Keira's world in OASIS

Keira is the protagonist in my new novel: http://www.yanghuang.com/books/main.asp#oasis

My fiction is not autobiographical. In China and the U.S., I’ve belonged to the middle class. But in fiction, I’m aspired to write about the under-privileged people: peasants, workers, even an illiterate woman. Giving them a voice gives me satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment.

So, what drives people in Keira’s world? Given what you have (the land: be it poor or rich, it’s the motherland that bore and nurtured you), you survive and thrive.

What is the greatest sin? Stroke your ego rather than treat yourself well. Examples: it’s okay to be a bandit if that enables you to take care of your clan. It’s okay to be a prostitute if that’s the only way you can raise your child. But it’s NOT okay to be an educated elite and drink yourself to death. Self destruction is loathed because it wastes your talent and resources. The same goes for the environment: you should not exploit the land even if you own it.

5 bad things that a person can do:

1. Kill yourself.
2. Go crazy. Doesn’t matter if you love too much, have too much money, are super sensitive/intelligent/creative, you have failed. Your story is a tragedy.
3. Give up trying. It’s okay to lose money as long as you try to earn it. If you quit and expect your parents to feed you, you have failed.
4. Not ask for help when you need it. Parents can take you in when you lose your job. Humans are cooperative, that’s why we’re more evolved than animals.
5. When confronted with powerful evils, you suppress other people instead of fighting the injustice. For example, in a racist society, minorities try to keep each other down rather than demand for their rights.

These five deeds harm the individuals and the society of which they are a part. Survival first, and others things second, that includes: justice, integrity, compassion, fidelity, love, ambition, etc. Pride is not valued. People take pleasure in doing good work, and life seems to have meaning.

What I remind myself

Why do I write?

Paint a picture of realistic characters, and make the readers see themselves in my characters.

My strength:

Good instincts about plot, symbolism and emotional significance. Rather ambitious.

My weakness:

Plot driven, inattention to details and internal monologue, insensitivity to the effects of one character on the others.

Tendency to over explain, repetitive writing. Not confident in my readers.

Potential downfall:

Lazy writing culminates in writing like “a movie,” or a screenplay. Lack of layers and complexity.

Ways to improve (a checklist):

1. Always write a fresh experience (do my research even on the smallest actions) based on real people’s experience. Remember: show my passion through the small, authentic details. NEVER give in to mediocrity, indifference and generic details. Don’t be clever, or write easily: I can NEVER be so interesting.
2. Create a realistic world. Notice the mundane details that will “go out of fashion” or cease to exist. Never leave my characters in a vacuum with pure emotions—they cease to matter!
3. Be passionately political. It is far better than sex; in fact, sex is not any good if it’s not political. The distaste for politics (telling lies) in my early years caused me to be turned off in order to develop my independence (to see the truth). This indifference made me insensitive to the intricacy of Chinese politics. I need to know the political world my characters live in, the forces they battle in their daily lives.
4. Focus on the conflicts. There are other ways to move the plot forward: natural growth (of people, a business, a town), beautiful scenery, and essentially life itself. But conflicts are essential to fiction because they tell the reader what to focus on, and reveal characters on a deep level: what they stand for, what they are capable of, what they will betray in order to survive/thrive.

Remember Anton Chekho, "Try and write a story about a young man - the son of a serf, a former grocer, choir boy, schoolboy and university student, raised on respect for rank, kissing the priests' hands, worshipping the ideas of others, and giving thanks for every piece of bread, receiving frequent whippings, making the rounds as a tutor without galoshes, brawling, torturing animals, enjoying dinners at the houses of rich relatives, needlessly hypocritical before God and man merely to acknowledge his own insignificance - write about how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself drop by drop and how, on waking up one fine morning, he finds that the blood coursing through his veins is no longer the blood of a slave, but that of a real human being." (Karlinsky, 85).

Should a woman be smart?

I’m not smart, but I get by. I work full time as a computer system administrator. I write fiction. I’m married and have two boys.

My life is wonderful in many ways, although I am not smart.

• I feel like a pawn working in the technology field.
• I wrestle with my demons and/or the lack of it when I write fiction.
• My boys wrap me around their little fingers.

When I was younger, I once thought I was bright, but I was ignorant. I didn’t have a job, a family or children. All I had was free time, daydreams and youthful ego. Over the years I’ve had the counsel from wise people.

When I was in elementary school, Dad said, “A woman shouldn’t be too smart. A smart woman is an oddity.” But when I had the second place for the midterm exams, he felt he lost face; his disappointment has haunted me to this day.

My colleague had a baby girl. She said, “My daughter shouldn’t be smart, she should be lovable and find a good husband.” She was an engineer with an MS degree, and her husband was a university professor. How dumb could her daughter be?

My relative was worried about her 23-year-old daughter who graduated from the MIT with a BS in chemistry. “When will she find a man and settle down? A career isn’t important to a woman.” Why did she spend $160,000 on her daughter’s college tuition?

A male friend told me 98% of affluent Chinese businessmen cheated on their wives. He went on cheerfully, “A woman shouldn’t be smart. She only needs to find a good man.” From the rest 2% or from the outer space?

Like most people I don’t have opinions on this matter. Intelligence is a naturally endowed gift, like one’s height, hair color or sexual orientation. If being gay is not of one’s choice, why should being smart be considered a personality?

I’ll never tell my boys, “be smart” or “be good-looking” because I gave them the intelligence and physical appearances. They can achieve professional competence through education. My ambition is that they shall grow up to become honest, courageous men with moral integrity.

You see, I’m not smart.