Drumbeats
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The afternoon breeze kicks up a few pieces of dirt, some leaves, and a cigarette butt or two as I walk to the beach across a concrete road; I want to feel sand. I want to see ocean. Taking a deep breath, I survey the vast expanse of air, space and movement before me. I think about the day so far, and I think about my life.
On this day, at this time, I am thinking about what it is to be an Asian man in a white society. Just being Asian-American permeates every aspect of my thoughts and actions.
Why don’t I see more people in the media that look like me?
Why do so many of our own women seem to hate us?
Where the fuck is my home?
To some, these are old, tired questions, but they matter to me. They cling to my mind on this hot afternoon, and I can’t get rid of them.
And what happens when we are in the media? We’re a backdrop, a liquor store owner or a camera-happy tour bus; we’re a couple symbolic letters or characters on a neon sign in the background; we’re the carefully-placed other used to accentuate the whiteness of the primary players.
Then I feel it. Just a twinge, but it’s there, waiting for something to set it off. You know what I’m talking about. The rage, the anger that settled into our souls when we weren’t looking, and now we can’t get rid of it. You can’t see it on an Asian man’s face all the time, but he feels it, and it runs deep.
We’ve been in situations where having slit-eyes has been an inconvenience, has threatened our well-beings, and like the fallen Vincent Chin, has taken our lives. We see that many of our bullies who beat us up and made us afraid are now the same motherfuckers dating so many of our women. The rage is so real that even on a beautiful day like today, with the wind blowing and the ocean lapping against the shore, I can feel my heart beating so hard that I wonder how my chest can contain it. But we are stoic, we are Asian males, we show no discomfort, no anger, no sign of the perpetual fire that sits deep and burns steadily within us.
I know that race should not be on my mind every moment. But I cannot hide from it. We cannot let the memory of all the Vincent Chins fade into some white nothingness.
My focus and gaze return to the ocean. Chest-high waves roll in, their power and steepness battling the onshore winds typical of southern California afternoons. In my mind, I hear the slow steady sound of taiko drums and my countenance hardens. We don’t belong in the old country, and we’re not always welcome in the one we’d like to call our own.
Where the fuck is home?
The drumming accelerates. Asian warriors of bygone millennia might have sat on horses with spear in hand, battle banners waving, surveying the same kind of landscape that stretches out before me now. They would have laughed at the bastards who let popular entertainment or dating trends or some hairy white skinheads sway their resolve. The drumming slows to a rhythmic, visceral tempo. Our pride, our future, our uniqueness, almost invisible to the world around us, beats so strongly here within our chests, waiting to be expressed and honored. The drumming continues, and my expression softens into a smile as I recognize those drums and banners.
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