Hawaiʻi Review Student of the Month, April 2016

STUDENT OF THE MONTH

APRIL 2016

Featuring:

Brock Yap “How Should I Live”

University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa

Hawaiʻi Review Staff 2015-2016 Editor-in-Chief Abbey Seth Mayer Managing Editor Chase Wiggins Design Editor Avree Ito-Fujita Poetry Editor Julia Wieting Fiction Editor Kapena Landgraf Creative Non-Fiction Editor Rain Wright

FEATURING: BROCK YAP “How Should I Live” Copyright © 2016 by the Board of Publications, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa

Graphic Novel Editor Scott Kaʻalele Graphic Novel Design Editor Crystel Sundberg-Yannell Contact us at: managing@hawaiireview.org

A Note on the Series

Our Student of the Month series features on our website stellar student writing and visual art from the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, the institution where our roots dig deep.

In print for more than 40 years, our journal has been an established voice in the Pacific and beyond for decades, featuring work from emerging writers alongside literary heavy-weights.

The Student of the Month is our latest effort to expand Hawaiʻi Review’s reach by fostering the creative efforts of UH students.

About the Author “How Should I Live” by Brock Yap presents a stark contrast between Bill and his drag queen persona, Miss Tea, to reveal how one’s life is shaped by contradictions and a yearning to be one’s true self. From the glamorously lit stage of the drag show to the protagonist’s life at home, the author demonstrates how spaces and people affect one’s perspective. The resolution made by the protagonist is both refreshing and relatable for anyone trying to find themselves in life.

Hawaiʻi Review is proud to present Brock Yap as the Student of the Month for April 2016 with his short story “How Should I Live.”

Avree Ito-Fujita, Design Editor 2015-2016

The ingredients of insight and imagination! When Brock Yap is not busy as a Macy’s Counter Manager for Lancôme or Make-up Artist at fashion shows and photo shoots, he is a writer. In 2015, Brock graduated with a BA in Japanese at the University of Hawaii at Manoa and is pursuing his MA in English. His fiction is inspired from human-interest events, and he uses storytelling to transform perspectives in a constantly evolving society. Happy reading!

How Should I Live Brock Yap

Everyone is waiting for some over the top performance with crazy headpieces of myriad pieces of turquoise and emerald gems attached in diamond shapes and dramatic makeup of a wispy pink cat eye extending to the hairline. Pitch black fills the room. The people in the audience linger in front and on both sides of the dance floor with the black curtain draped from a bamboo stick between two walls in darkness. The curtain separates the people and the dressing room while the audience sips from their plastic cups filled with Tequila Sunrises, Hello Kitties, and Mojitos.

People speak amongst each other, whispering their gossip talk of the fashion, or who is a boyfriend stealer in the town, all with the scent from the cups creating a cloud of ecstasy. All of a sudden, the bright, white lights from the back of the room turn up and fill the black with vibrant heat and sparkling colors from the curtain of silver and gold reflecting from the sequins. The audience is hushed like the vent above sucks the voices from everyone, almost as if Ursula does it herself. The curtain opens, yet there is no one who appears.

“Good evening, everyone!” A voice comes from all four corners of the room. “Tonight is a very special night. It’s actually her first night here at Beautiful Senses. She’s a little shy, but let’s not be fooled by her sweet nature. Put your hands together for the one and only Miss Tea.”

The lights are turned off, and the room returns to its original state…blackness. Five seconds pass. The people are anxious and are waiting to see the performance of the night. The music starts to play.

I feel like the DJ is my bodyguard. You see the way he keeps me safe with the tremble and that bass. I feel free enough to party hard.

1

The lights turn up. A beautiful woman of a slender body graces the stage with many strands of tight braided hair like black licorice that comes down to her booty. A voice from the left: “Dat pink body suit, doe, hunnie!” She stands stationary, only moving her lips to the lyrics and her head down. It slowly comes up, reaching it’s highest point as her neck goes straight up. The false lashes of fiery feathers flutter open and big, round purple eyes gaze with wonder into the people of the night, and the light hits the royal blue glitter on her eyelids: the look of sapphire bits, matched with her gold-pleated turquoise and hot pink necklace pressed around her neck. “Yes, ma’am. You better werk!” A different voice this time. Her soft eyebrows shape her small face that welcomes anyone in the room, even a burly man succumbs to her loveliness. Glowing and radiating is her face of perfect highlight and contour, the dark creams and powders under her cheekbones makes the face small and slender, almost skeletal, and the glistening shimmer on the cheekbones: the illusion of glamour. A goddess for all ages.

Bodies move to the edge of the dance floor, and the hands are reaching in their wallet for dollars. The hands are coming out like punches on rapid fire, and she keeps going around collecting tips in small payments. Dollars are in her hand. The music picks up, and she moves her hips from side to side to the beat. Her arms sway in small circles.

This dress won’t go to waste, feels like I own the place. V.I.P. to be the boss. You see how these people stare, watching how I fling my hair. I’m a dancefloor lover. Baby, there’s no other who do it like I do it, yeah.

She glides across in her silver Prada stilettos, commanding the dance floor, and the colored lights of blue, orange, green, purple scatter in any direction. Every movement is a cross between a ballerina and a hip-hop dancer. One time, she twirls in elegance, coquettishly winking at attractive men. Another time, she is squatting while she puts one hand over her mouth and the other pointing fiercely at the first person she sees.

From here on out, I’ll be your commander. No fear, no doubt, I’ll provide the answer. Right now I command you to dance. I’ll be your commander. Right now I command you to dance. I’ll be your 2

commander. Right now I command you to dance. I’ll be your commander. Right now I command you to…II’ll be your commander. I’ll provide the answer.

After collecting her tips from strangers who seems to enjoy her company and dance style, her performance transcends her work. The high kicks then twirls. She jumps into the air to come down in a split. The people are hooting and cheering. One audience member goes onto the dance floor, and lets her have it with dollar falling down on her. She keeps going, dancing and dancing like she is alone, ignoring the crowd to focus on her character.

The song proceeds, and she continues until “Commander” is done. The ashes of money, a remembrance of her stellar performance, are left on the floor, waiting for her to dust them up into her pocket. It’s a mixture of culture and dance, an artistry that takes courage and audacity to oversee all bad, to exceed expectation and to be true to one’s most inner soul in expression. It’s the essence of a goddess for all ages: societal standards mustn’t be a separation.

“How does this look?” I put the A-line silhouette up against my body, hoping my mom approves. She never seems to care.

My mother is sitting on the couch watching tv.

“Bill, why are you still obsessing over women’s clothing? You’re not female.”

“But, Mom, I keep telling you that there are plenty of males in the fashion industry– ”

“Cut with the nonsense.” Her eyes dart at me. “I haven’t raised a son to turn out this way. I don’t want to hear or see this again. You’re going to medical school after college. C’mon, you have one more year left until you get your bachelor’s degree in Chemistry.” She calms down and goes to the kitchen.

I feel defeated. My own mom, not even listening to what I want to say, has always turned me down. And hoping she changes her mind, or even love me for me, maybe what I hope is not enough.

Maybe it’s a waste of my time to be optimistic. Maybe I’ll just leave. There has been so many times 3

I’ve tried to explain myself, what I want to achieve. Maybe I’ll just give up already and find someone who actually supports me. Never mind. I have to put all of this away and finish up my homework anyway.

I go upstairs, open the door, and plop on my bed. The chemistry papers, quizzes and homework, are all over the floor, even scattered on the desk. My two feet are dangling off the bed and are hanging like two lanterns next to one another as I stare at the ceiling.

One day, everything will be ok. Just one day. I can only hope.

I open the closet and push all of my boy clothes over to reach the left-side of it. There, all of my ballgown, mermaid, and mini dresses I’ve made from scratch are hanging with plastic covers to protect them from bugs. The silver body suit hangs and is the fourth piece of clothing and I grab it.

If only I can wear this. It is the one I’ve spent the most time, sewing each bead down the back and creating triangular shapes. I’m not going to let this go to waste.

“Gurl, you know, you’ll be fine closing the show.” Merz Bentley picks up her bright bubblegum lipstick to complete her look. “I know it’s your first appearance. You’re a young queen, but you’ve got this. We all have to stick together in this cruel world. We’re a family.”

My drag mother and her words of encouragements settle my stomach. She has taught me everything from makeup to fashion to even correctly putting my hip pad on. This look now is definitely not what it is like in the beginning of doing this. I just look in the mirror, looking at my face, my wig slightly crooked, and the lips are not symmetrical. I have to fix that, and I don’t even know how I’ll be able to perform. What it’s going to be like, what will happen. People are out there to judge. Everyone judges. I need to be calm and collected for this to work. I can’t compare myself to others or let all of these voices of “you’re not good enough” or “why do you even do this” fill my head. Grabbing my makeup bag on the other counter, I accidentally hit someone else’s. It hits the floor, and the pressed powder cracks. The dust flies everywhere in the room.

4

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just wanted my makeup bag, but I hit yours and…I’ll get you another one,” I said anxiously.

“Miss, don’t worry about it. And you don’t have to get me one. I work at MAC store so I can get one for cheap. It’s really not that big of a deal. ” The queen tells me. “All you need to do is to finish getting ready ‘cause you’re next. Just get it, queen,” she tells me nonchalantly and returns to change her wig for the second performance.

Well, that doesn’t help. I’m worried about this, the people, my self-esteem. Am I self-loathing?

We all have to stick together. We’re a family. Aren’t those the words I want to hear all the time?

“Well, wasn’t that a performance? Don’t you just love Mistress Tofu? She better be having the time of her life ‘cause she don’t have much left.”

I hear the audience laughs, nervously scrunching my toes in my stilettos, and see her come backstage.

“Woah, that was fun.”

I can’t believe it’s my turn. Ready or not, I have to do this and I will shine…and show everyone I’m worth it.

“Kaz, that’s Merz Bentley,” I exclaim, dropping the green tinsel.

“That’s not her.”

“But, it is. She doesn’t have any makeup on.”

“Go talk to her then. You always want to meet her every time we go to Beautiful Senses anyway. You see her perform and love it.” Kaz picks up the fallen tinsel. “It’s been a year and we go ever fricken’ weekend. Just go.”

“What do I say? What do I do? Oh my god! How will–”

“Shut up!” Kaz pushes me in Merz Bentley’s direction, and I run into the fake flower stand on the main aisle. Merz Bentley looks and turns towards me.

5

“Was that ok?” I was putting all my dollar bills on the small round table.

“Hunz, that was great! The way the audience was cheering.” Merz Bentley was finishing up putting translucent powder all over her face. “You did me proud. I remember when you first put on hip pads. It looked so lumpy. And now, you are a goddess for all ages. You better sissy that walk.

And those countless nights memorizing the lyrics and countless hours teaching you how to put on the makeup.”

“Thanks, mom. I just can’t believe now. Like, you’re my mother, and have taught me everything you know. Our first conversation in that craft shop on Spring street one year ago was so old.”

“You asked if I could be your drag mom and teach you my way of being a drag queen. And you knocked over that stand, too.” She took her MAC fix+ and sprayed her face. “I can’t believe, as clumsy as you were, that you are Miss Tea, and you are turning it out! I’m so proud.”

Her words are like honey. Sweet. My real mother has never said that to me, or anything like that. It seems like she doesn’t care about me or what I think. All she cares about is how she doesn’t agree with what I say or do. Merz isn’t related to me by blood in any way, but whatever a mom is supposed to be doing. She has shown me the lights and the other half of the drag world. It’s high fashion. It’s glamour. It’s having fun with blurring the gender norms. Come to think if it, I hate my real mom. So what if I’m a guy and I like Pretty Little Liars or I like to put on makeup just for the hell of it? (then she criticizes). So what if I want to read Glamour or Vanity Fair? (then she criticizes). Life doesn’t come with a manual on “How To Be A Man” or “How To Be A Woman,” does it? I can choose my life. There are so many people living, who feel ashamed, who feel empty, who feel alone. And why is that so? Because views in society are a piece of bullshit. I can wear a wig. I can wear lipstick. People just cannot live their lives.

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This Could Be ...

If you are student and would like to feature your work in Student of the Month or an instructor for a creative writing course would like to submit exemplary University of Hawaiʻi student work to Hawaiʻi Review’s Student of the Month initiative, please send submissions to our Submittable account at bit.ly/submit2HR

Featured Calls Student of the Month: Our Student of the Month series features on our

website stellar student writing and visual art from the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. If you are student and would like to feature your work in Student of the Month or an instructor for a creative writing course would like to submit exemplary University of Hawaiʻi student work to Hawaiʻi Review’s Student of the Month initiative, please send submissions to our Submittable account.

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