Earlier this year, I was one of seven recipients for the Midwestern Voices and Visions Residency, which offers unrestricted grant funds to support emerging artists of color in the Midwest. Check out this Twin Cities Daily Planet coverage of me and Ibrahima Kaba, another Minnesotan who received this grant.
IBé and May Lee-Yang win Midwestern Voices and Visions Awards to fund new work
Monday, February 22, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
POEMS THAT NEED A HOME
These are just some random poems I wrote in 2008. I don't anticipate they will have a home in any journal or any book, so here they are on my blog. Enjoy!
-May
INVASION
Today, poetry invades my life
Because it is tired of waiting
Tired of waiting for my schedule to clear
Tired of being pushed aside for other things
Today, poetry invades my schedule
Forcing me to pay attention
BAG LADY
You would think I was homeless the way I carry bags
My bags are always heavy
My right shoulder carries the weight of
Schedules, deadlines, notebooks, poems, receipts,
Letters I forget to read
Bills I’m supposed to pay
It carries medicine from my mother
Make-up smeared with ink
It carries more pens than I should have
Pens thrown in just in case the ink runs out
Very few have run out
I have blue bags from Let’s Talk Month
I have a black bag from a Vermont writing camp
I have a red bag from a peace organization
(Did I mention these are mostly tote bags, not designer ones?)
I once had a fashionable, faux-alligator bag that was a Christmas gift
But it could not handle all the weight of my world and so one handle broke
Still, it sits in my closet, awaiting disposal
I cannot let it go until I find a home for its contents
LETTING GO
I have a hard time letting go of things
People, places, paper
Yes, paper is part of my life
Looseleaf tucked in 3-ring binders
Stacks of stationary sitting on top of dressers
I have journals, tons of them, some I am afraid to touch
I want my words to be perfect before they hit the page, so the pages remain empty
I have notebooks
Twenty-five cent notebooks, five-dollar notebooks, notepads with most pages already torn out
But there are things I let go of freely
Like time
Each year, it disappears more rapidly
LEAVING
I am not one of those people who can get up and leave a place.
There are too many things to keep, to many things that need storage.
At twelve, I owned my clothes.
At fourteen, I owned a few books.
At sixteen, I owned a word processor.
At nineteen, I owned teddy bears.
At twenty-nine, I own a lot of things but they value at virtually nothing:
Movies, CDs, books, notebooks, a broken bed, and a dresser in need of repair.
I am cutting things out of my life. How a part-time employed person can be so busy I don’t know. I am cutting things out of my life because I am tired of living on deadlines, tired of knowing what the future looks like without the help of a psychic. How it’s possible that I could spend seven years with barely any free weekends in the spring, how I can have picnics plotted down like meetings, I’m not sure.
I know I need to leave this place.
CHASING WISHES
Today, my nephew Calvin and I are at Valleyfair. He is ten. I am twenty-nine, and we both do not want to ride the Corkscrew. So we wait on the bench for the others. It was then I saw the white puffs floating through the air.
Grab one and make a wish, I tell him. So we grasp for white puffs, make a wish and blow. I watch as my white puff moves, not floating away, but spiraling down until it falls. I follow it s movement until lands on the ground, stomped by Calvin’s unknowing feet.
Well, I wished for money, he says. What did you wish for?
I can’t tell you or else it won’t come true, I say.
Will these wishes really come true? He asks.
And though I want to humor him, I say honestly, I don’t know.
Still, I catch more puffs and make more wishes for the one that I know has been lost.
-May
INVASION
Today, poetry invades my life
Because it is tired of waiting
Tired of waiting for my schedule to clear
Tired of being pushed aside for other things
Today, poetry invades my schedule
Forcing me to pay attention
BAG LADY
You would think I was homeless the way I carry bags
My bags are always heavy
My right shoulder carries the weight of
Schedules, deadlines, notebooks, poems, receipts,
Letters I forget to read
Bills I’m supposed to pay
It carries medicine from my mother
Make-up smeared with ink
It carries more pens than I should have
Pens thrown in just in case the ink runs out
Very few have run out
I have blue bags from Let’s Talk Month
I have a black bag from a Vermont writing camp
I have a red bag from a peace organization
(Did I mention these are mostly tote bags, not designer ones?)
I once had a fashionable, faux-alligator bag that was a Christmas gift
But it could not handle all the weight of my world and so one handle broke
Still, it sits in my closet, awaiting disposal
I cannot let it go until I find a home for its contents
LETTING GO
I have a hard time letting go of things
People, places, paper
Yes, paper is part of my life
Looseleaf tucked in 3-ring binders
Stacks of stationary sitting on top of dressers
I have journals, tons of them, some I am afraid to touch
I want my words to be perfect before they hit the page, so the pages remain empty
I have notebooks
Twenty-five cent notebooks, five-dollar notebooks, notepads with most pages already torn out
But there are things I let go of freely
Like time
Each year, it disappears more rapidly
LEAVING
I am not one of those people who can get up and leave a place.
There are too many things to keep, to many things that need storage.
At twelve, I owned my clothes.
At fourteen, I owned a few books.
At sixteen, I owned a word processor.
At nineteen, I owned teddy bears.
At twenty-nine, I own a lot of things but they value at virtually nothing:
Movies, CDs, books, notebooks, a broken bed, and a dresser in need of repair.
I am cutting things out of my life. How a part-time employed person can be so busy I don’t know. I am cutting things out of my life because I am tired of living on deadlines, tired of knowing what the future looks like without the help of a psychic. How it’s possible that I could spend seven years with barely any free weekends in the spring, how I can have picnics plotted down like meetings, I’m not sure.
I know I need to leave this place.
CHASING WISHES
Today, my nephew Calvin and I are at Valleyfair. He is ten. I am twenty-nine, and we both do not want to ride the Corkscrew. So we wait on the bench for the others. It was then I saw the white puffs floating through the air.
Grab one and make a wish, I tell him. So we grasp for white puffs, make a wish and blow. I watch as my white puff moves, not floating away, but spiraling down until it falls. I follow it s movement until lands on the ground, stomped by Calvin’s unknowing feet.
Well, I wished for money, he says. What did you wish for?
I can’t tell you or else it won’t come true, I say.
Will these wishes really come true? He asks.
And though I want to humor him, I say honestly, I don’t know.
Still, I catch more puffs and make more wishes for the one that I know has been lost.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
TEN REASONS WHY I'D BE A BAD PORN STAR
Some of you have probably read or heard of my short story, "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." Heck. It's listed on this page. Just scroll down. But this week, if you're in the Twin Cities area--or if you'd like to get yourself here somehow--come check out the show.
Ten Reasons Why You Should Come See "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star"
10. Because it's different (and deeper) than the short story version.
9. Because it's hard to pass up the opportunity to see a woman talk about porn for an hour.
8. Because you want to support my art. (This is the politically-correct answer, right?)
7. Because you'd like to get a sex toy. (NOTE: Every night of the show, I will be doing raffles for a free Passion Party product. Some nights, it might be a bullet. Other nights, a Jack Rabbit.)
6. Because you were already planning to go bar-hopping and clubbing in downtown Minneapolis anyway, and The Illusion Theater is just down the street.
5. Because you have never heard a Hmong woman talking about sex in the public sphere and want to get educated.(This is okay. I get this a lot.)
4. Beacuse you have a yellow fever fetish. (This, too, is okay. I get this a lot on a theoretical level though I'd like to see it on a personal level to see if the activist in me pops out).
3. Because you want to see what the list of "10 Reasons" is. Did I already note it's different from the short story?
2. Because you want to check out this piece to scout it for touring opportunities. Yay! I love touring opportunities.
1. Because you're just curious.
MORE INFO: SHOW DESCRIPTION, LOCATION, ETC.
Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star
Written & Performed by May Lee-Yang
Directing and Dramaturgy by Ka Vang
Creative Consulting by Molly Van Avery
In "Ten Reasons Why I’d Be a Bad Porn Star", May Lee-Yang employs comedic storytelling, on-site sex toy demonstrations, and some cultural competency training as she explores marriage, porn, romance novel fantasies, and how to talk about sex in the Hmong culture (a definite no-no). All performances will include giveaways and prizes.
Wednesday, January 20 @ 7 PM
Thursday, January 21 @ 7 PM
Friday, January 22 @ 9:30 PM (Opening reception and cash bar available 8:30-9:30 PM_
Saturday, January 23 @ 9:30 PM
(Please Note: On Friday and Saturday shows, you can check out the other Lights Up play, "A Candid World" by Dawn Brodey at 7 PM then stay for my show afterwards).
Tickets: $15; Students/Seniors - $12
For tickets, call 612-339-4944 or visit http://www.illusiontheater.org.
Location: Illusion Theater--8th Floor, 528 Hennepin Avenue S, Minneapolis, MN 55403
(between Hennepin and 5th/6th street--just 1.5 blocks down from Gay 90s or
the Target Center, whatever your frame of reference is)
This play is part of the 2010 Lights Up! Series that runs from January 19-24, 2010. The Lighthouse Group returns with the 5th Annual Lights Up! Series, which gives up-and-coming artists the opportunity to create new work. This year’s developing work will be performed in repertory and will include "A Candid World" and "Ten Reasons Why I’d Be a Bad Porn Star." Join us for one or both of these exciting new works - See both shows for $20 with a 2010 Lights Up! Series Package! Call 612-339-4944 or visit http://www.illusiontheater.org for more information or to reserve your tickets.
Info on A Candid World:
A Candid World
Written by Dawn Brodey
Directed by Ellen Fenster
Featuring Mike Postle, Amy Schweikhardt, Julie Madden, Matt Boatright-Simon, Clarence Wethern and Nathan Tylutki
Set in New York, 1776 in the weeks following the signing of the Declaration of Independence, "A Candid World" is the story of a father and daughter, a slave and a restricted theatre company as all try to navigate the internal and external struggles which accompany independence.
Performance Schedule:
Tuesday, January 19 at 7pm
Friday, January 22 at 7pm
Saturday, January 23 at 7pm
Sunday, January 24 at 7pm
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Poems & Stories About My Mother
Things My Mother Told Me (And What I Said Back To Her)
When someone says something bad, don’t fight back. Be nice to them because they will get what they deserve in the end.
If they’re already mean, why should we care about being nice to them?
Don’t point at the moon or it will cut your ears.
I already pointed at the moon.
Don’t comb your hair at night or you’ll be poor.
Why would I comb my hair at night?
Don’t sing at night or you’ll be poor.
What’s wrong with being poor?
Don’t sleep with your hair falling down on the side of the bed or ghosts will come grab it.
Creepy.
When someone says something bad, don’t fight back.
I still think they should get yelled at.
You complain about boiled chicken now, but when you get married, you’ll hunger for it.
Whatever.
Don’t talk to your sister’s ex-boyfriends. They try to get one sister if they can’t get another.
Creepy.
Don’t date orphans. They won’t have a family to help you.
Maybe I should marry an orphan. Then I won’t have to worry about a mother-in-law. (Her response is always, “My Gawh! Don’t ever say that.”)
When you marry, you must throw away all the photos of your ex-boyfriends.
I have no ex-boyfriends.
When you become a daughter-in-law, don’t stay in your room all day. Only lazy girls do that.
What if I don’t plan to get married?
When you cook, you must always ask your mother-in-law what their family wants to eat, how they want the food prepared. They won’t eat the way you and I do.
But what if she says, “Cook whatever you want to”? What do I do then?
If you buy something to eat, you must make sure you have enough for everyone.
What if I don’t have enough money?
If you just buy something for yourself, people will think you are selfish.
Then I’ll just hide it in my room.
If your in-laws are hosting a family gathering, you must be the first to wake up.
I’ll set my alarm for 8 AM.
(No, you must be up at 5 AM before the sun comes up.)
If you’re a lazy daughter-in-law, your husband’s family will send you back to us. Then what will you do?
Refund their money?
If you’re going to be lazy around the house, at least do well in school.
Woo-hoo! Good to know my options.
When you hear your mother-in-law yelling at her daughters about the housework, know that she is really yelling at you.
How passive aggressive is that?
If you marry into a family of thieves, then you become a thief with them. Likewise, if they work hard, you must work hard too.
My husband sleeps in, so it’s okay for me to sleep in too?
No! In reality, you can never sleep in.)
When you get married and your husband’s family is driving you away from our house, don’t ever look back or else you will bring bad luck to our family.
How do you know this?
All these things I have told you are warnings so that, when you marry, when you meet your true mother, she will love you.
After I got married, she asked, “How is your mother doing?”
I turned to her and said, “I don’t know. How are you doing?”
All she could say back was, “My Gawh!”
CROSS STITCH CLOTH
It is white—usually. No, always. There are lines running up and down and sideways like plaid of the same color. My mother used to buy yards and yards of this cross-stitch cloth to sew paj ntaub. She bought thread that came not in spools but rather in bundles that resembled colorful slivers of hair folded up or like kow poon noodles after they have been drained and folded.
She and my sister-in-law used to sit by the window, used to sit on low, homemade square-shaped wooden stools or circular, store-bought woven bamboo ones. She sat there sewing clothes for our trousseau, for the day my sisters and I married.
These will be gifts you take with you when you leave us, she said.
I am five at the time, Mee eight. The other girls are not yet born.
But I never learned how to sew.
I always expected that I would. My mother was always saying girls needed to sew. How would you give your kids Hmong clothes? They were too expensive to buy.
But I never learned to sew just as I never learned how to dance in Hmong.
Eight years later, Mee leaves.
Fourteen years later, I leave.
Twenty-five years later, the other sisters are still not married.
But perhaps this is good because my mother stopped sewing years ago.
MY FATHER FEEDS HIS PARENTS
When we have a spirit-calling ceremony called hu plig or when we have an ua neeb—I’m still not sure what the English translation on this is—my father feeds his parents. He sits at the kitchen table with a bowl of rice, a bowl of boiled chicken, and an empty plate. As though my grandparents are here and not on The Other Side, he scoops a spoonful of rice, tears off a piece of chicken, and pours some broth onto the plate. He repeats this, uttering words beneath his breath. How does he know how to do this? What are the words he says? He has not taught any of us kids this ritual, and I wonder: Who will feed him when he is gone? Does he teach lessons the way my mother does? She doesn’t say, “This is how you cook.” She says, “Go to the kitchen.” When she later learns I don’t know how to cook, she yells at me. “What were you doing all this time in the kitchen?” she asks. “Eating,” I say. “Killing time.”
WHAT WE LIVED ON
(originally published in The Saint Paul Almanac)
$13,200. That’s what we lived on every year.
$850 a month in cash from the county + $250 a month in food stamps.
Divided among nine people.
My mother explains the expenses to me:
Rent: $600
Electricity: $120
Phone: $20
She doesn’t mention expenses for shampoo, clothes, notebooks, and other things.
What about the food stamps? I ask.
1 pig at Long Cheng: $120
A few chickens: $30
Miscellaneous groceries: $100
Miscellaneous includes gallons of Kemp’s ice-cream I always beg for. Sometimes it’s Neapolitan, Strawberry Swirl, or Tin Roof Sundae, but my favorites were always Cherry Nut and Mint Chocolate Chip. They’re only $4.99 per gallon, I tell my mother.
The pig comes straight from the Long Cheng slaughterhouse in South St. Paul. My mother and dad chop it up and bag the ribs, pork chops, and lean meats into the long chest freezer squeezed in our kitchen. Even when we lived in a two-bedroom apartment, the chest freezer traveled with us and was housed in one of the bedrooms. The pig’s feet, head, and other fat ends get boiled down until the meat is tender and swimming in its own fat. Mother adds minced ginger to it. No salt.
The remaining fat is cut into small pieces and boiled down until the fat becomes hard and crisp, until it becomes kiav roj. Mother stores the kiav roj in empty ice cream buckets. Later, she will stir fry them with greens. The liquid fat also goes into other ice cream buckets. There it hardens into lard that we will use to cook with. No need to buy vegetable oil.
The chickens are worse. If I’m lucky, they have already been killed and dressed before they come home. Sometimes, they come home alive. If that is the case, they live temporarily in an overturned cardboard box or a paper bag. When they are ready to be killed, my mother and someone else—sometimes my sister-in-law—set up a spot in the kitchen. There is a pot with hot water, a bowl, a knife, the trash can, and newspaper or garbage bags spread on the floor to serve as a tarp. One person holds onto the chicken’s legs and wings while the other person slits the throat. The chicken is still wailing as its blood drips into the bowl. When the blood-letting is done, the chicken’s body is soaked in the hot water, taken out, and its feathers are pulled.
I don’t like freshly-killed chicken though. You can’t fry them because the skin’s too tough.
During the summer, we have a garden. One year, it is in Rosemount. Another year it is in Lake Elmo. Other years, I don’t know.
The garden is green, but it isn’t beautiful. The closest thing to flowers are the white, lacy blossoms from the cilantro. There are poles made from skinny branches taken from some farmer’s land. Pieces of colored yarn connect the poles, which hold green beans and tomatoes. Empty half-shells of cucumbers are strewn on the ground, some with teeth marks on the sides.
Mother brings us here every couple of days to pick vegetables. My sister-in-law, Nyab Houa, comes to help out every now and then. Before my sister, Mee, got married, she came here too. My brothers, Pao and Xin, are rarely here but when they do come, Pao always finds a reason to sit in the van. Lisa, Cindy, and Virginia play house. My dad is somewhere though I can’t see him in my mind.
We snap green beans off their vines filling white buckets to the brim. There are so many green beans, they are boiled then packed into Ziploc bags where they will sit in the freezer. One summer, I remember eating pork stir-fried with sliced green beans for almost every meal.
We pick overgrown cucumbers that will be eaten in a number of ways: simply peeled, sliced and dipped in dry pepper and salt, or scraped flesh (with no seeds) mixed into a cold soup of water, sugar, and ice cubes.
Sometimes we bring home a squash or two but not too many. Mother likes to pick their leaves and eat them boiled in water. It helps to make food go down, she says.
There are other vegetables like green onions and cilantro but you don’t need five pairs of hand picking this at the same time. The peppers she doesn’t let us touch because she’s afraid they’ll burn our eyes.
Xin and I want fun things to eat too so we convince my mother to plant cantaloupes and watermelons one year. On one visit, they are too small to eat. Another time, when they should have been ripe, there are no more melons, just empty vines. Xin and I are so mad, we run to another Hmong family’s plot of land and steal a watermelon. But it is only the size of a grapefruit, all white, and rind-tasting, so we throw it in the dirt cracking its head.
We never planted melons after that.
But I would be lying if I made it seem like we lived off the fat of the land. There were the jobs we did on the side.
At twelve, I worked with my mother at factories on the weekend. We assembled bouquets and made flower arrangements that were shipped off to stores like Cub Foods.
When I was thirteen, a few times during the winter, we went to the Civic Center at ten thirty or eleven at night. When we went there, people were always on their way out of hockey games, and I’d avoid their eyes, fearful that my classmates would be among them. The only other time I had been to the Civic Center was around Thanksgiving time when we’d go celebrate the Hmong New Year. On those nights we went to clean, we’d be assigned seating areas. It was our job to sweep then mop our designated areas. I remember the smell of popcorn and puddles of beer. Sometimes the older people couldn’t work as fast, so my mother made me go help them finish their section because no one could leave until we were all done. Our pay off was twenty-five dollars a night. Years after that, when I went to the Hmong New Year and saw piles of food strewn by the garbage can or puddles of pop on the steps, I’d wonder who would be cleaning it that night.
During the summers I was thirteen to sixteen, my mother figured we could make money picking cucumbers. It was only when I was in tenth grade and learning about ex-slaves and share cropping did I make the connection that we were doing just that. We rented a few acres from a local farmer then we’d pick the cucumbers and sell them back. My mother explained that the smallest kinds yielded the most money but you had to pick a lot for them to matter. The largest kinds, the ones that were used for spears and pickles on a stick weighed the most but yielded the least money. So we always aimed to get the middle ones, which were plenty. The hard thing about cucumbers was that they grew fast, so we had to pick them just when they were right and come back the next day if we didn’t finish some rows. Maybe every three or four days, we’d get a break so that the cucumbers could continue growing again, then we’d be back in the field.
I did this for about three years. The year I stopped, my mother had gotten me, Pao, and Xin jobs at a place that made Christmas wreaths. She and other old women put the evergreen boughs together to create the wreaths while my brothers and I took sticks of berries and twisted them. Later, the berries would be attached to the wreaths. We had a certain quota we needed to meet every day before we could leave. Maybe it was five boxes of berries. If there was someone lagging behind, we all helped out.
By the time I was sixteen, I was tired of these jobs, tired of saying, “Nothing” when people asked me what I did on the weekend, tired of sitting in the lunchroom eating sticky rice and fried fish next to people with sandwiches and chips, tired of working jobs where no one knew your name and didn’t care to know. That summer I turned sixteen, I left the berry-twisting job and got a real job, one I could put onto my work history. I became a cashier at the Kmart on Maryland Avenue working for $5.50 an hour. I made somewhere between $100 - $140 a week, which I figured was more than what we’d made picking cucumbers. If we were lucky, we made $100-$140 every three days and that was divided among the whole family.
Later that year, my mother also came up with another money-making idea. We could cook for large events like Hmong family gatherings and serve the food. I could help out with the prep work. My mother would do the cooking. Then I would take care of serving the food. We could make a few hundred dollars every weekend, she said. I was fine with this but somehow this idea never came into fruition.
After K Mart, I worked at Taco Bell for a year then quit right before prom. When I went off to college, I got an office job photocopying papers for professors.
By the time I was nineteen, I started working in non-profits and have stayed there since.
Sometimes, my mother will call me and ask if my organization, which she calls “company,” has any job openings for my brothers. “We do,” I tell her, “but it’s not like you can just do things. You need to have skills, experience.”
“Do you just sit all day at a desk?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“They pay you to think?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you make?”
When I tell her, she says I must have at least $10,000 saved up. I cringe because, although education, experience, and fifteen years of work history are bundled together, I’m not too far from where I started when I was twelve years old.
When someone says something bad, don’t fight back. Be nice to them because they will get what they deserve in the end.
If they’re already mean, why should we care about being nice to them?
Don’t point at the moon or it will cut your ears.
I already pointed at the moon.
Don’t comb your hair at night or you’ll be poor.
Why would I comb my hair at night?
Don’t sing at night or you’ll be poor.
What’s wrong with being poor?
Don’t sleep with your hair falling down on the side of the bed or ghosts will come grab it.
Creepy.
When someone says something bad, don’t fight back.
I still think they should get yelled at.
You complain about boiled chicken now, but when you get married, you’ll hunger for it.
Whatever.
Don’t talk to your sister’s ex-boyfriends. They try to get one sister if they can’t get another.
Creepy.
Don’t date orphans. They won’t have a family to help you.
Maybe I should marry an orphan. Then I won’t have to worry about a mother-in-law. (Her response is always, “My Gawh! Don’t ever say that.”)
When you marry, you must throw away all the photos of your ex-boyfriends.
I have no ex-boyfriends.
When you become a daughter-in-law, don’t stay in your room all day. Only lazy girls do that.
What if I don’t plan to get married?
When you cook, you must always ask your mother-in-law what their family wants to eat, how they want the food prepared. They won’t eat the way you and I do.
But what if she says, “Cook whatever you want to”? What do I do then?
If you buy something to eat, you must make sure you have enough for everyone.
What if I don’t have enough money?
If you just buy something for yourself, people will think you are selfish.
Then I’ll just hide it in my room.
If your in-laws are hosting a family gathering, you must be the first to wake up.
I’ll set my alarm for 8 AM.
(No, you must be up at 5 AM before the sun comes up.)
If you’re a lazy daughter-in-law, your husband’s family will send you back to us. Then what will you do?
Refund their money?
If you’re going to be lazy around the house, at least do well in school.
Woo-hoo! Good to know my options.
When you hear your mother-in-law yelling at her daughters about the housework, know that she is really yelling at you.
How passive aggressive is that?
If you marry into a family of thieves, then you become a thief with them. Likewise, if they work hard, you must work hard too.
My husband sleeps in, so it’s okay for me to sleep in too?
No! In reality, you can never sleep in.)
When you get married and your husband’s family is driving you away from our house, don’t ever look back or else you will bring bad luck to our family.
How do you know this?
All these things I have told you are warnings so that, when you marry, when you meet your true mother, she will love you.
After I got married, she asked, “How is your mother doing?”
I turned to her and said, “I don’t know. How are you doing?”
All she could say back was, “My Gawh!”
CROSS STITCH CLOTH
It is white—usually. No, always. There are lines running up and down and sideways like plaid of the same color. My mother used to buy yards and yards of this cross-stitch cloth to sew paj ntaub. She bought thread that came not in spools but rather in bundles that resembled colorful slivers of hair folded up or like kow poon noodles after they have been drained and folded.
She and my sister-in-law used to sit by the window, used to sit on low, homemade square-shaped wooden stools or circular, store-bought woven bamboo ones. She sat there sewing clothes for our trousseau, for the day my sisters and I married.
These will be gifts you take with you when you leave us, she said.
I am five at the time, Mee eight. The other girls are not yet born.
But I never learned how to sew.
I always expected that I would. My mother was always saying girls needed to sew. How would you give your kids Hmong clothes? They were too expensive to buy.
But I never learned to sew just as I never learned how to dance in Hmong.
Eight years later, Mee leaves.
Fourteen years later, I leave.
Twenty-five years later, the other sisters are still not married.
But perhaps this is good because my mother stopped sewing years ago.
MY FATHER FEEDS HIS PARENTS
When we have a spirit-calling ceremony called hu plig or when we have an ua neeb—I’m still not sure what the English translation on this is—my father feeds his parents. He sits at the kitchen table with a bowl of rice, a bowl of boiled chicken, and an empty plate. As though my grandparents are here and not on The Other Side, he scoops a spoonful of rice, tears off a piece of chicken, and pours some broth onto the plate. He repeats this, uttering words beneath his breath. How does he know how to do this? What are the words he says? He has not taught any of us kids this ritual, and I wonder: Who will feed him when he is gone? Does he teach lessons the way my mother does? She doesn’t say, “This is how you cook.” She says, “Go to the kitchen.” When she later learns I don’t know how to cook, she yells at me. “What were you doing all this time in the kitchen?” she asks. “Eating,” I say. “Killing time.”
WHAT WE LIVED ON
(originally published in The Saint Paul Almanac)
$13,200. That’s what we lived on every year.
$850 a month in cash from the county + $250 a month in food stamps.
Divided among nine people.
My mother explains the expenses to me:
Rent: $600
Electricity: $120
Phone: $20
She doesn’t mention expenses for shampoo, clothes, notebooks, and other things.
What about the food stamps? I ask.
1 pig at Long Cheng: $120
A few chickens: $30
Miscellaneous groceries: $100
Miscellaneous includes gallons of Kemp’s ice-cream I always beg for. Sometimes it’s Neapolitan, Strawberry Swirl, or Tin Roof Sundae, but my favorites were always Cherry Nut and Mint Chocolate Chip. They’re only $4.99 per gallon, I tell my mother.
The pig comes straight from the Long Cheng slaughterhouse in South St. Paul. My mother and dad chop it up and bag the ribs, pork chops, and lean meats into the long chest freezer squeezed in our kitchen. Even when we lived in a two-bedroom apartment, the chest freezer traveled with us and was housed in one of the bedrooms. The pig’s feet, head, and other fat ends get boiled down until the meat is tender and swimming in its own fat. Mother adds minced ginger to it. No salt.
The remaining fat is cut into small pieces and boiled down until the fat becomes hard and crisp, until it becomes kiav roj. Mother stores the kiav roj in empty ice cream buckets. Later, she will stir fry them with greens. The liquid fat also goes into other ice cream buckets. There it hardens into lard that we will use to cook with. No need to buy vegetable oil.
The chickens are worse. If I’m lucky, they have already been killed and dressed before they come home. Sometimes, they come home alive. If that is the case, they live temporarily in an overturned cardboard box or a paper bag. When they are ready to be killed, my mother and someone else—sometimes my sister-in-law—set up a spot in the kitchen. There is a pot with hot water, a bowl, a knife, the trash can, and newspaper or garbage bags spread on the floor to serve as a tarp. One person holds onto the chicken’s legs and wings while the other person slits the throat. The chicken is still wailing as its blood drips into the bowl. When the blood-letting is done, the chicken’s body is soaked in the hot water, taken out, and its feathers are pulled.
I don’t like freshly-killed chicken though. You can’t fry them because the skin’s too tough.
During the summer, we have a garden. One year, it is in Rosemount. Another year it is in Lake Elmo. Other years, I don’t know.
The garden is green, but it isn’t beautiful. The closest thing to flowers are the white, lacy blossoms from the cilantro. There are poles made from skinny branches taken from some farmer’s land. Pieces of colored yarn connect the poles, which hold green beans and tomatoes. Empty half-shells of cucumbers are strewn on the ground, some with teeth marks on the sides.
Mother brings us here every couple of days to pick vegetables. My sister-in-law, Nyab Houa, comes to help out every now and then. Before my sister, Mee, got married, she came here too. My brothers, Pao and Xin, are rarely here but when they do come, Pao always finds a reason to sit in the van. Lisa, Cindy, and Virginia play house. My dad is somewhere though I can’t see him in my mind.
We snap green beans off their vines filling white buckets to the brim. There are so many green beans, they are boiled then packed into Ziploc bags where they will sit in the freezer. One summer, I remember eating pork stir-fried with sliced green beans for almost every meal.
We pick overgrown cucumbers that will be eaten in a number of ways: simply peeled, sliced and dipped in dry pepper and salt, or scraped flesh (with no seeds) mixed into a cold soup of water, sugar, and ice cubes.
Sometimes we bring home a squash or two but not too many. Mother likes to pick their leaves and eat them boiled in water. It helps to make food go down, she says.
There are other vegetables like green onions and cilantro but you don’t need five pairs of hand picking this at the same time. The peppers she doesn’t let us touch because she’s afraid they’ll burn our eyes.
Xin and I want fun things to eat too so we convince my mother to plant cantaloupes and watermelons one year. On one visit, they are too small to eat. Another time, when they should have been ripe, there are no more melons, just empty vines. Xin and I are so mad, we run to another Hmong family’s plot of land and steal a watermelon. But it is only the size of a grapefruit, all white, and rind-tasting, so we throw it in the dirt cracking its head.
We never planted melons after that.
But I would be lying if I made it seem like we lived off the fat of the land. There were the jobs we did on the side.
At twelve, I worked with my mother at factories on the weekend. We assembled bouquets and made flower arrangements that were shipped off to stores like Cub Foods.
When I was thirteen, a few times during the winter, we went to the Civic Center at ten thirty or eleven at night. When we went there, people were always on their way out of hockey games, and I’d avoid their eyes, fearful that my classmates would be among them. The only other time I had been to the Civic Center was around Thanksgiving time when we’d go celebrate the Hmong New Year. On those nights we went to clean, we’d be assigned seating areas. It was our job to sweep then mop our designated areas. I remember the smell of popcorn and puddles of beer. Sometimes the older people couldn’t work as fast, so my mother made me go help them finish their section because no one could leave until we were all done. Our pay off was twenty-five dollars a night. Years after that, when I went to the Hmong New Year and saw piles of food strewn by the garbage can or puddles of pop on the steps, I’d wonder who would be cleaning it that night.
During the summers I was thirteen to sixteen, my mother figured we could make money picking cucumbers. It was only when I was in tenth grade and learning about ex-slaves and share cropping did I make the connection that we were doing just that. We rented a few acres from a local farmer then we’d pick the cucumbers and sell them back. My mother explained that the smallest kinds yielded the most money but you had to pick a lot for them to matter. The largest kinds, the ones that were used for spears and pickles on a stick weighed the most but yielded the least money. So we always aimed to get the middle ones, which were plenty. The hard thing about cucumbers was that they grew fast, so we had to pick them just when they were right and come back the next day if we didn’t finish some rows. Maybe every three or four days, we’d get a break so that the cucumbers could continue growing again, then we’d be back in the field.
I did this for about three years. The year I stopped, my mother had gotten me, Pao, and Xin jobs at a place that made Christmas wreaths. She and other old women put the evergreen boughs together to create the wreaths while my brothers and I took sticks of berries and twisted them. Later, the berries would be attached to the wreaths. We had a certain quota we needed to meet every day before we could leave. Maybe it was five boxes of berries. If there was someone lagging behind, we all helped out.
By the time I was sixteen, I was tired of these jobs, tired of saying, “Nothing” when people asked me what I did on the weekend, tired of sitting in the lunchroom eating sticky rice and fried fish next to people with sandwiches and chips, tired of working jobs where no one knew your name and didn’t care to know. That summer I turned sixteen, I left the berry-twisting job and got a real job, one I could put onto my work history. I became a cashier at the Kmart on Maryland Avenue working for $5.50 an hour. I made somewhere between $100 - $140 a week, which I figured was more than what we’d made picking cucumbers. If we were lucky, we made $100-$140 every three days and that was divided among the whole family.
Later that year, my mother also came up with another money-making idea. We could cook for large events like Hmong family gatherings and serve the food. I could help out with the prep work. My mother would do the cooking. Then I would take care of serving the food. We could make a few hundred dollars every weekend, she said. I was fine with this but somehow this idea never came into fruition.
After K Mart, I worked at Taco Bell for a year then quit right before prom. When I went off to college, I got an office job photocopying papers for professors.
By the time I was nineteen, I started working in non-profits and have stayed there since.
Sometimes, my mother will call me and ask if my organization, which she calls “company,” has any job openings for my brothers. “We do,” I tell her, “but it’s not like you can just do things. You need to have skills, experience.”
“Do you just sit all day at a desk?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“They pay you to think?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you make?”
When I tell her, she says I must have at least $10,000 saved up. I cringe because, although education, experience, and fifteen years of work history are bundled together, I’m not too far from where I started when I was twelve years old.
My Life This Last Week
I will remember being 30 forever.
Excuse my language, but this has been one of the most fucked up years of my life, yet it has also one filled with great opportunities, friendships, and revelations.
For the last several months, I've been thinking of attending the National Asian American Theater Festival in New York. I thought it would be a great opportunity to see what national Asian American artists are doing as well as network. Only one problem: I was broke.
Then in a chance meeting last week, someone said to me, "If you want to go, make it happen." So I wrote an email to friends and acquaintences and within 24 hours, I'd fundraised 90% of my goal. Since then, I've met my fundraising goal and am still amazed at how much people support me. I feel incredibly loved, blessed, and taken care of by the people aorund me.
Just yesterday, I got an email (which might have been accidentally deleted because it went into my junkmail folder) that I'd won one of seven artist residencies through the Midwestern Voices and Visions Program, which supports the creation of work by artists of color in the Midwest. 1 of 7 in the Midwest! That was exciting, amazing, and validating.
But now onto the bad things:
This has been a tough year for me personally. I hate it when people are all cryptic but here goes anyway. I feel as if nothing negative has happened to me in years. Yet this whole summer has been filled with nothing more than one mental slap to my face after another.
On top of that, my mother has been sick. This past Sunday, I received a call that she was having trouble breathing and had been rushed to the hospital. I was fortunate to see her alive for one hour before she died.
One of the things that angers me so much about my mother's death is that she worked so hard, even until the end. I'm naive in thinking that my mother would live until she was as old as my grandmother spending her days chilling by the window, sewing paj ntaub, and watching little children. Maybe she'd tend to a garden in Rosemount and meet up with old friends at the casino for fun.
But the truth is that she's always worked. She worked overtime and had no health insurance. She had no time to sew paj ntaub or tend to a garden as a hobby.
After my mother's body was taken away, my oldest sister, Pa, said to me, "You know how to write. Write a story about her life."
What I didn't tell Pa was that I had been writing about my mother for years.
And now her stories and lessons are all I have left to hold on to.
Excuse my language, but this has been one of the most fucked up years of my life, yet it has also one filled with great opportunities, friendships, and revelations.
For the last several months, I've been thinking of attending the National Asian American Theater Festival in New York. I thought it would be a great opportunity to see what national Asian American artists are doing as well as network. Only one problem: I was broke.
Then in a chance meeting last week, someone said to me, "If you want to go, make it happen." So I wrote an email to friends and acquaintences and within 24 hours, I'd fundraised 90% of my goal. Since then, I've met my fundraising goal and am still amazed at how much people support me. I feel incredibly loved, blessed, and taken care of by the people aorund me.
Just yesterday, I got an email (which might have been accidentally deleted because it went into my junkmail folder) that I'd won one of seven artist residencies through the Midwestern Voices and Visions Program, which supports the creation of work by artists of color in the Midwest. 1 of 7 in the Midwest! That was exciting, amazing, and validating.
But now onto the bad things:
This has been a tough year for me personally. I hate it when people are all cryptic but here goes anyway. I feel as if nothing negative has happened to me in years. Yet this whole summer has been filled with nothing more than one mental slap to my face after another.
On top of that, my mother has been sick. This past Sunday, I received a call that she was having trouble breathing and had been rushed to the hospital. I was fortunate to see her alive for one hour before she died.
One of the things that angers me so much about my mother's death is that she worked so hard, even until the end. I'm naive in thinking that my mother would live until she was as old as my grandmother spending her days chilling by the window, sewing paj ntaub, and watching little children. Maybe she'd tend to a garden in Rosemount and meet up with old friends at the casino for fun.
But the truth is that she's always worked. She worked overtime and had no health insurance. She had no time to sew paj ntaub or tend to a garden as a hobby.
After my mother's body was taken away, my oldest sister, Pa, said to me, "You know how to write. Write a story about her life."
What I didn't tell Pa was that I had been writing about my mother for years.
And now her stories and lessons are all I have left to hold on to.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Recipes
Recipe for a Late-Night Meal
As a child, I often took advantage of my dad. I've told this story many times. When I had to start attending school, I refused to go. As a way to appease me, my dad took me to Hamburger Stand everyday. Hamburger Stand was like a generic White Castle if you can believe that. My dad took me there every day and bought me a hamburger as a bribe to go to school and, even after I was okay with going to school, I still let him take me on this daily trip.
When I was in second grade, we began another ritual. The family was already asleep when I'd get up in the middle of the night and declare I was hungry. Back in those days, we didn't have Totito Pizza Rolls or cans of Chef Boyardee readily available in our household. Instead, my dad made a meal out of ginger, salt, and water.
To prepare, take a piece of ginger root and peel it. Because ginger is strong, a one-inch thick piece may be enough. Pour some salt onto a plate. Get a bowl of rice and add water to it. To eat, simply dip the ginger root into the salt. Follow this with a spoonful of rice and water.
Recipe for a Bad Hmong Girl
Cut your hair. Dye it. Watch TV until your vision becomes blurred. Tune out Mom and Dad. Listen to Alanis Morrisette. Work at Taco Bell, McDonald's, anywhere but the teb. Let people think you hate Hmong guys. Keep your temper short. Long tempers equal forced early marriages. Burn the rice. Wake up late. Don't kill a chicken. For God's sakes, don't kill a chicken. Eat before the men. Threaten to call cops on bad parents. Learn French. Watch foreign films. Bake cakes. Embrace sass. Dream. Move. Run away.
Recipe for Collecting Memories
1. Take a photo and ask yourself: Why didn't you look at the camera? Where is your sister? Why are there no photos of you and your mother that day? How long will it be until you wear Hmong clothes again?
2. Go to the airport. Pick up the aunt whom you have never met. Have faith you will know each other immediately. See? She has your mother's face.
3. Take a pen. Put it in your left hand. Attempt to write your father's name. Discover how hard it is to forge his simple signature.
Recipe for a Dream
Sleep.
As a child, I often took advantage of my dad. I've told this story many times. When I had to start attending school, I refused to go. As a way to appease me, my dad took me to Hamburger Stand everyday. Hamburger Stand was like a generic White Castle if you can believe that. My dad took me there every day and bought me a hamburger as a bribe to go to school and, even after I was okay with going to school, I still let him take me on this daily trip.
When I was in second grade, we began another ritual. The family was already asleep when I'd get up in the middle of the night and declare I was hungry. Back in those days, we didn't have Totito Pizza Rolls or cans of Chef Boyardee readily available in our household. Instead, my dad made a meal out of ginger, salt, and water.
To prepare, take a piece of ginger root and peel it. Because ginger is strong, a one-inch thick piece may be enough. Pour some salt onto a plate. Get a bowl of rice and add water to it. To eat, simply dip the ginger root into the salt. Follow this with a spoonful of rice and water.
Recipe for a Bad Hmong Girl
Cut your hair. Dye it. Watch TV until your vision becomes blurred. Tune out Mom and Dad. Listen to Alanis Morrisette. Work at Taco Bell, McDonald's, anywhere but the teb. Let people think you hate Hmong guys. Keep your temper short. Long tempers equal forced early marriages. Burn the rice. Wake up late. Don't kill a chicken. For God's sakes, don't kill a chicken. Eat before the men. Threaten to call cops on bad parents. Learn French. Watch foreign films. Bake cakes. Embrace sass. Dream. Move. Run away.
Recipe for Collecting Memories
1. Take a photo and ask yourself: Why didn't you look at the camera? Where is your sister? Why are there no photos of you and your mother that day? How long will it be until you wear Hmong clothes again?
2. Go to the airport. Pick up the aunt whom you have never met. Have faith you will know each other immediately. See? She has your mother's face.
3. Take a pen. Put it in your left hand. Attempt to write your father's name. Discover how hard it is to forge his simple signature.
Recipe for a Dream
Sleep.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Ten Reasons Why I'd Be A Bad Porn Star
Author Note: Okay, so as promised before, I'm posting my story, "10 Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." I wrote this in 2003. You are reading the original version, completely unedited though know that I am trying to re-work this piece into a one-person show.
Number 10:
I can’t afford a boob job. I truly believe that, to be in the adult entertainment business,
it is necessary to have an ample bosom. Really, I hate it when people get all self-
righteous and say things like, “It’s so unfair that girls with bigger boobs get better
jobs.” Really, in an industry where you're selling flesh, don't you want to have good
flesh?
Those self-righteous people are forever annoying me. I saw an episode of Howard Stern once in which a woman came by to show Howard her great boobs. Au naturel, she said. When he asked her to strip down, the woman wore a corset, which lifted her breasts. When he asked her to get rid of it, there was blur as TV censors covered it up, but Howard’s reaction was enough.
“But it’s natural,” she said.
I loved what he said next: “So what? Why do we put so much stock in real boobs?”
Really, bad breasts are bad breasts.
Number 9:
I’m too picky. I’d probably get fired for saying, “The guy looks like a white Yeti” or “I don’t do oral unless you’re clean.” I mean, if you look at the way I eat, you can tell just how bad I am. The other day, I ordered a Rueben with fries. At the end of the meal, my plate was fuller than when it came out. The sauerkraut was scraped off the bread. The bread crusts were littered everywhere. I mean, I'm pretty picky with food already.
But what I suppose I’m really saying is that the industry is probably just like high school. You know, keep your eyes closed. Don’t say anything. Don’t be critical. It’s odd when you think about it. I’m planning on having sex with a guy, yet I shouldn’t even look down at his genitals to see if he has warts down there. Or, I shouldn’t ask him to wash his privates before oral sex. What’s up with that?
Number 8:
I don’t have sex on hard surfaces. I prefer to keep my backside free from scrapes. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the chiropractic fees anyway. I have to wonder about the various locations that porn directors choose to shoot in: a table, a kitchen island, the floor, the stairs, on top of the toilet. I think they choose these “exotic” locations because, once you get down to it-no pun intended-the sex is all the same really. Porn directors tend to have a very limited span of creativity. The scene almost always begins with oral sex being performed to both the men and the women. This is then followed by some in-and-out sex. I suppose that the correct term for “in-and-out sex” is actually coital or vaginal intercourse. Of course, Caleb, my current boyfriend, has teased me about this. “After all,” he said, “Isn’t everything in and out?” But I digress. The in-an-out sex is then is then filmed in various positions to create diversity, but we almost never see the missionary position. After all, people watch porn for fantasies, not reality.
Maybe this is another reason why I might not make a very good porn star. I’d probably have creative differences with the directors. In a movie that incorporates a story line and thus, dialogue, for example, I might instead suggest to the director that the actors not speak but do interpretative, well, acting. Even I, a lay person, cannot stand to hear some naked blond chick saying, “Oh, no. Rescue me, Dick Master!” I would definitely go for the interpretive thing.
Number 7:
I believe in a woman’s right---to an orgasm. The scene does not end when a man comes. I'd probably get my ass fired so fast by saying, "Hey, what about me?"
Number 6:
I talk too much. No one wants to hear, “I think we should get to know one another better before we do it.” My mom is constantly telling me how fortunate I am to have Caleb, Caleb who has talent for listening and hearing-or so I’d like to believe. In the late hours of the night, as he is busy playing the latest Final Fantasy saga on his Playstation, I’ll rattle off like crazy talking about anything from the latest Jane Austen movie to a contemplation on the greater meaning of Debbie Does Dallas.
Despite what the popular consensus is, Caleb and I agree that the adult entertainment industry has a great sense of humor as well as a great flair for puns. Who, for example, would have ever thought of a title like Thump’n Hood or Ass Ventura? We do appreciate the deeper aspects of these works.
Number 5:
My body is sensitive. It can’t withstand more than one orgasm every five hours nor can it stand the constant ramming of dildos. Maybe I’m envious or vindictive or even just naïve, but I have to question those women who claim to have “Oh, at least seven or eight orgasms every time.” How is that possible? Do they count small spasms?
Anyway, the point is that my body is so sensitive, I'd either be broke from making only one movie a month or I'd be on disability so fast, it wouldn't be worth it to hire me.
Besides, I'm not very flexible. Having stopped doing exercises in tenth grade gym, I rely solely on decent genes to get by in the world. As a result, my body has very limited movement. In fact, the only movement I can make for long periods of time is with my mouth.......With talking, that is. Remember? I talk a lot?
Number 4:
I have no stamina. As a child of the eighties, I grew up with endless movies about yuppies having casual sex. The man and woman usually meet in smoky bar. He offers her a drink-tequila or scotch straight up. It’s never anything like a pina colada or strawberry daiquiri. Always some hard liquor. They check each other out with sly, seductive smiles. Next thing you know, the couple stumbles into an apartment, kissing violently, the man’s hand enraptured in the woman’s hair and the woman trying desperately to undress the man. They make it seem as if they’re just so horny, they can’t stop for a moment and say constructively, “Careful with the buttons. That shirt cost me a lot.” What they don’t say even less before they have sex is, “Are you clean because I don’t want to go down on you if you’re not?” I know. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want to screw up the chemistry of the moment, but damn, it would be even worst to be putting your mouth-man or woman-against someone’s putrid genitals.
For all I have to say, however, Caleb and I did try to re-enact one of those scenes. We went through the doorway, hands all over each other, panting heavily. We even managed to throw our bodies against the wall. Without undressing me beyond ripping open my blouse-for which I later regretted because it was one of my favorites-he lifted up my skirt and heaved my legs around his hips, pushing my back into the wall. On the outside, it was a great display of eroticism. But we couldn’t even keep it up for more than two minutes before we both gave up exhausted over the effort. Even as we sat on the floor, Caleb and I were still breathing heavily, making me realize that our heavy breathing wasn’t a result of hormones. It was the result of exertion. Besides, my hair felt as though they’d been pulled out of their roots.
After this pitiful display of TV-imitation, Caleb offered to get me a drink. “Orange juice?” he asked.
“No, I want something stronger: Pepsi over ice.”
Number 3:
I believe in safe sex. Therefore, I don’t wear stilettos, especially when having sex. After watching Single White Female in which Jennifer Jason Leigh kills Bridget Fonda’s boyfriend with the points of her stilettos, I was convinced that shoes were not the way to go when having sex. Besides, while I’m not a clean freak, I’m not particularly fond of beds sprinkled with dirt from your shoes. After the sex is done and over with and you and your partner have escaped yet another close call with the pointy heels, the last thing you want to do is go to bed with small pebbles scratching against your bare ass.
Number 2:
I don’t swallow. Not even for Caleb. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think the porn stars like to either. I think it’s just a way to turn men on. Robbie, who was the first boyfriend whom I really made out with, used to suck my fingers. There was something soothing about that. His tongue sliding gently against my indexes. His gentleness. Once I summoned enough nerve, I started sucking and licking his fingers too until he said it wasn’t necessary any more.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, performing oral is enough. It’s not necessary for you to tease me with that gesture anymore, you know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that, to him, the gesture of sucking his fingers was symbolic, a tease meant to enhance his arousal. I didn’t realize that he couldn’t feel the same thing I could.
That’s what I think swallowing really is. Just a symbol for men. So now I like to show them that my clean face, too, is a symbol, a symbol of one who has a clean face.
Number 1:
My butt has a sign on it: EXIT ONLY. Enough said.
Number 10:
I can’t afford a boob job. I truly believe that, to be in the adult entertainment business,
it is necessary to have an ample bosom. Really, I hate it when people get all self-
righteous and say things like, “It’s so unfair that girls with bigger boobs get better
jobs.” Really, in an industry where you're selling flesh, don't you want to have good
flesh?
Those self-righteous people are forever annoying me. I saw an episode of Howard Stern once in which a woman came by to show Howard her great boobs. Au naturel, she said. When he asked her to strip down, the woman wore a corset, which lifted her breasts. When he asked her to get rid of it, there was blur as TV censors covered it up, but Howard’s reaction was enough.
“But it’s natural,” she said.
I loved what he said next: “So what? Why do we put so much stock in real boobs?”
Really, bad breasts are bad breasts.
Number 9:
I’m too picky. I’d probably get fired for saying, “The guy looks like a white Yeti” or “I don’t do oral unless you’re clean.” I mean, if you look at the way I eat, you can tell just how bad I am. The other day, I ordered a Rueben with fries. At the end of the meal, my plate was fuller than when it came out. The sauerkraut was scraped off the bread. The bread crusts were littered everywhere. I mean, I'm pretty picky with food already.
But what I suppose I’m really saying is that the industry is probably just like high school. You know, keep your eyes closed. Don’t say anything. Don’t be critical. It’s odd when you think about it. I’m planning on having sex with a guy, yet I shouldn’t even look down at his genitals to see if he has warts down there. Or, I shouldn’t ask him to wash his privates before oral sex. What’s up with that?
Number 8:
I don’t have sex on hard surfaces. I prefer to keep my backside free from scrapes. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the chiropractic fees anyway. I have to wonder about the various locations that porn directors choose to shoot in: a table, a kitchen island, the floor, the stairs, on top of the toilet. I think they choose these “exotic” locations because, once you get down to it-no pun intended-the sex is all the same really. Porn directors tend to have a very limited span of creativity. The scene almost always begins with oral sex being performed to both the men and the women. This is then followed by some in-and-out sex. I suppose that the correct term for “in-and-out sex” is actually coital or vaginal intercourse. Of course, Caleb, my current boyfriend, has teased me about this. “After all,” he said, “Isn’t everything in and out?” But I digress. The in-an-out sex is then is then filmed in various positions to create diversity, but we almost never see the missionary position. After all, people watch porn for fantasies, not reality.
Maybe this is another reason why I might not make a very good porn star. I’d probably have creative differences with the directors. In a movie that incorporates a story line and thus, dialogue, for example, I might instead suggest to the director that the actors not speak but do interpretative, well, acting. Even I, a lay person, cannot stand to hear some naked blond chick saying, “Oh, no. Rescue me, Dick Master!” I would definitely go for the interpretive thing.
Number 7:
I believe in a woman’s right---to an orgasm. The scene does not end when a man comes. I'd probably get my ass fired so fast by saying, "Hey, what about me?"
Number 6:
I talk too much. No one wants to hear, “I think we should get to know one another better before we do it.” My mom is constantly telling me how fortunate I am to have Caleb, Caleb who has talent for listening and hearing-or so I’d like to believe. In the late hours of the night, as he is busy playing the latest Final Fantasy saga on his Playstation, I’ll rattle off like crazy talking about anything from the latest Jane Austen movie to a contemplation on the greater meaning of Debbie Does Dallas.
Despite what the popular consensus is, Caleb and I agree that the adult entertainment industry has a great sense of humor as well as a great flair for puns. Who, for example, would have ever thought of a title like Thump’n Hood or Ass Ventura? We do appreciate the deeper aspects of these works.
Number 5:
My body is sensitive. It can’t withstand more than one orgasm every five hours nor can it stand the constant ramming of dildos. Maybe I’m envious or vindictive or even just naïve, but I have to question those women who claim to have “Oh, at least seven or eight orgasms every time.” How is that possible? Do they count small spasms?
Anyway, the point is that my body is so sensitive, I'd either be broke from making only one movie a month or I'd be on disability so fast, it wouldn't be worth it to hire me.
Besides, I'm not very flexible. Having stopped doing exercises in tenth grade gym, I rely solely on decent genes to get by in the world. As a result, my body has very limited movement. In fact, the only movement I can make for long periods of time is with my mouth.......With talking, that is. Remember? I talk a lot?
Number 4:
I have no stamina. As a child of the eighties, I grew up with endless movies about yuppies having casual sex. The man and woman usually meet in smoky bar. He offers her a drink-tequila or scotch straight up. It’s never anything like a pina colada or strawberry daiquiri. Always some hard liquor. They check each other out with sly, seductive smiles. Next thing you know, the couple stumbles into an apartment, kissing violently, the man’s hand enraptured in the woman’s hair and the woman trying desperately to undress the man. They make it seem as if they’re just so horny, they can’t stop for a moment and say constructively, “Careful with the buttons. That shirt cost me a lot.” What they don’t say even less before they have sex is, “Are you clean because I don’t want to go down on you if you’re not?” I know. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want to screw up the chemistry of the moment, but damn, it would be even worst to be putting your mouth-man or woman-against someone’s putrid genitals.
For all I have to say, however, Caleb and I did try to re-enact one of those scenes. We went through the doorway, hands all over each other, panting heavily. We even managed to throw our bodies against the wall. Without undressing me beyond ripping open my blouse-for which I later regretted because it was one of my favorites-he lifted up my skirt and heaved my legs around his hips, pushing my back into the wall. On the outside, it was a great display of eroticism. But we couldn’t even keep it up for more than two minutes before we both gave up exhausted over the effort. Even as we sat on the floor, Caleb and I were still breathing heavily, making me realize that our heavy breathing wasn’t a result of hormones. It was the result of exertion. Besides, my hair felt as though they’d been pulled out of their roots.
After this pitiful display of TV-imitation, Caleb offered to get me a drink. “Orange juice?” he asked.
“No, I want something stronger: Pepsi over ice.”
Number 3:
I believe in safe sex. Therefore, I don’t wear stilettos, especially when having sex. After watching Single White Female in which Jennifer Jason Leigh kills Bridget Fonda’s boyfriend with the points of her stilettos, I was convinced that shoes were not the way to go when having sex. Besides, while I’m not a clean freak, I’m not particularly fond of beds sprinkled with dirt from your shoes. After the sex is done and over with and you and your partner have escaped yet another close call with the pointy heels, the last thing you want to do is go to bed with small pebbles scratching against your bare ass.
Number 2:
I don’t swallow. Not even for Caleb. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think the porn stars like to either. I think it’s just a way to turn men on. Robbie, who was the first boyfriend whom I really made out with, used to suck my fingers. There was something soothing about that. His tongue sliding gently against my indexes. His gentleness. Once I summoned enough nerve, I started sucking and licking his fingers too until he said it wasn’t necessary any more.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, performing oral is enough. It’s not necessary for you to tease me with that gesture anymore, you know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that, to him, the gesture of sucking his fingers was symbolic, a tease meant to enhance his arousal. I didn’t realize that he couldn’t feel the same thing I could.
That’s what I think swallowing really is. Just a symbol for men. So now I like to show them that my clean face, too, is a symbol, a symbol of one who has a clean face.
Number 1:
My butt has a sign on it: EXIT ONLY. Enough said.
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