Volume 14

inkstone

2005

volume 14

an exploration and expression of Asian-American culture

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Elizabeth Chiu John MacDonald MANAGING EDITOR Rupa DasGupta ART EDITOR Sarah Nie LITERARY EDITOR Caitlin Howarth FINANCE MANAGER Juliana Schroeder SECRETARY Elizabeth Chan WEBMASTER Ellen Wright PUBLICITY Angela Hou & Nan S. Ling

staff FUNDRAISING Rosemary Liu Rimi Kawashima PRODUCTION Sara Yenke (leader) Rahul Jindal Stephanie Kang Fei Yang STAFF Ann Fu Sou-Yeon Han Karen Hu ADVISORS Kevin Wong & Pauline Wu

Inkstone is a student-run publication dedicated to providing a medium through which people of all ethnic backgrounds can express their views concerning Asian American culture and identity.

Inkstone is not affiliated with the University of Virginia, but is a student-run publication recognized as a Contracted Independent Organization. The views expressed in the magazine are not necessarily those of the University or Inkstone.

We encourage creative work and correspondence from all walks of life. Send any written or artistic work to inkstone@virginia.edu or to the following address: Inkstone Literary Magazine Newcomb Hall - SAC University of Virginia PO Box 400715 Charlottesville, VA 22903-4715

For more information, visit inkstonemagazine.com.

table of Cover: Memorial Sara Yenke, photograph

Staff Page: Cloning (detail) Soojung Shin, watercolor and History: 1 Concept Get in the Glass

Letter to the Moon 5 AChris Ro, poem

Danger Rodger Hartley, photograph

dreaming tree 6 the Binhong Lu, short story

21 Velvet Rodger Hartley, photograph 22 Ps.Rahul Jindal, poem

I Took a Picture of Some Branches Preston Gisch, photograph

9 Morning Chris Ro, poem

Kristen Luigart, oil on canvas

to Newark 4 Driving Emily Goldstein, poem bridge at philadelphia, sunset Rui Gong, photograph

16 Driven Elisabeth A. Seng, short story

Lights Sara Yenke, photograph

Rodger Hartley, photograph

of Contents: 2 Table Untitled

contents

Untitled Soojung Shin, colored pencil

Bourbon Rupa DasGupta, photograph Beginning of the End 23 The Erin Whitney McCabe, vignette

A Memorial for Home 10Exile: Hyung-Jin Won, memoir Shilla Burial Ground Hyung-Jin Won, photograph

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The Blackest Eye Rupa DasGupta, photograph

24

Doors Rupa DasGupta, photographs

Us Chris Ro, poem Dew on lotus leaf Rui Gong, photograph

26

Medicine 12 Asian Nan S. Ling, article Map (detail) Rupa DasGupta, watercolor

13

Doing the Twist Kevin Wong, poem Ode to Joshua Davis Rupa DasGupta, photograph

14

Culture Risks of Korean Americans Josephine Kim, research paper Flower StephanieKangandSaraYenke,mixedmedia

Unlocking the Past Fei Yang, article

Observing Atlas in Lower Manhattan Kevin Wong, poem Column Sara Yenke, photograph

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Daddy Ashley Simpson, poem Self-portrait in Pink Soojung Shin, oil

Inarticulate Speech of the Heart 28 The Shi-Shi Wang, short story 1000 Years Rupa DasGupta, photograph

32 Shiva Kristen Luigart, poem Together for the timebeing Rahul Jindal, photograph

a Kazakh Beauty 33 ToWilliam Barratt, poem

Singapore Rui Gong, photograph the O’Tones 34 Meet Pauline Wu, article Concert Photos Thomas Ho, photographs logo 35 O’Tones Ann Cheng, graphic View from Castel Sant Angelo, Rome 36 The Rui Gong, photograph the death of Jacques Derrida 37 On Brendan Fitzgerald, poem Mosque, Putra Jaya, Malaysia Rui Gong, photograph

38 Gila Esther Lim, short story Artificer Rahul Jindal, photograph & Contributors Pages: 42 Staff Cairo Anna Christina Mirabal, oil

Valentines Day 43 Happy Anna Christina Mirabal, acrylic 44 Colophon: Squares Elizabeth Chan, digital art

Inside back cover: These Stilettos Were Made For Rupa DasGupta, photograph Back cover: Flower Arranging Ellen Wright, photograph

Driving to Newark 4

The smokestacks on the concrete The long metal cigarette of mother earth, Vertical over the skin layer of tar concealer And her fuchsia billboard fingernails.

She looks up at the sky from her chemical-puddle.

The volcanic soil hidden underneath synthetic layers Like a land mine, A rage conquered through her addiction To smoke, sweet and productive, Dulling the violence Of the un-bloomed pastoral flowers, Bringing the sky Closer To fake rain In short puffs, desperate condensation. —Emily Goldstein

A Letter to the Moon SARA YENKE

RUI GONG

It seemed like tonight would finally be our night Me, the deep blue canvas sleeping overhead And you, smiling or mourning—whatever it is that you do.

Even the stars knew better than to interrupt.

Finally man and moon would be intimate; Everything else, I hoped, would disappear And somehow in the lost world of concepts, We could cancel the wrongs and mend the conscience.

But you, wise moon, know better than I, I wasn’t the first to shed these clothes And I won’t be the last Because, as always, the streetlights outshine you tonight.

—Chris Ro

the

dreaming tree PRESTON GISCH

by Binhong Lu

HE COULD NO LONGER IGNORE THEM. Their voices grew too strong, too numerous, and they overwhelmed him. The pangs of loneliness, whose seeds had been sown years ago, finally sprouted and overran his body, reaching their leafy tendrils wherever they could find release. For ages he had tried to ignore them, to seal away the gnawing presence through his tireless work, his endless quests and journeys, his constant business distracting himself from the only thing that would really matter in his life.

He was alone and it pained him dearly. He knew this from the beginning, that his solitude would affect him so, but at the same time he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. His previous years, previous deeds and sins, had poisoned him and turned him into diseased stock, something destined to ruin

6

whoever came near. He would only corrupt those who he cherished and who cherished him, and although his acts of horrific perversion had burned away all decency and innocence from him, they had not affected his conscience. He was aware of what he had done and what it had done to him, and the only penance he could achieve was isolation from everyone until his death. This was the life he had chosen for himself.

So, from the very beginning, he lived only to keep everyone away. He found that cutting himself off from everyone was simple, but the persistence of such a state tore away at him and brought him to madness.

He had hoped that by engrossing himself in more and more elaborate tasks his thoughts would remain farther and farther away from isolation, but then as a result the simplest of tasks only made his seclusion

more apparent and painful. Even the act of urination reminded him that he had never felt a woman’s touch, that his current state was not a period of innocent virginity or a temporary lull between lovers, but was in fact all and everything his life would ever be. Instead of possibly dooming others he had chosen to doom himself, and not a day went by in which he didn’t curse himself for having committed such deeds.

His entire life had become such a thing; each morning he delved into increasingly harrowing tasks so that he could fill his head with more and more rubbish, and each night the bathwater washed away every hint of the day’s tasks, leaving behind only the core of his lament and suffering. Despite his miserable nature, he had managed to complete tasks that would have committed him to sainthood. He had helped preserve the lives of many, bettered the lives of others, and begun the lives of many more. If he believed that risking the sanctity of another woman would have condemned him to hell in the afterlife, he had not foreseen the hell that would await him in the living one. Each day became harder and harder, and soon his struggle was not to find more tasks, but to simply remain long enough to get through the day, resisting his many urges to rush into the open arms of death or the open legs of a whore.

The years wore on and on, and began as pebbles of loneliness within his body to be built upon layer by layer by his daily torture, and slowly grew inside. He had turned himself into an oyster of the earth, creating dark, shit-colored pearls of enraged bitterness and self-loathing. These pearls were given free rein throughout his body, traveling wherever they were needed. On days in which he built houses for the poor, they would travel to his hands and fingers to give him sores that excreted his pain, and on days in which he read fantastic and magical stories to children the pearls would migrate to his pupils and replay images of his past to him, tormenting him with pictures of women whom he had lusted after and loved in silence.

Their only purpose was to remind him constantly, throughout all of his actions and adventures, of what it was he was running from. They also reminded him

how unendurable his pain was.

These pearls, which fattened and grew over time, had run amok in his body for ages now, and as he arrived in the prime of his life they seemed to grow old and tired of such busybody activity inside him. And so, seeking repose, these pearls, these shit-colored pearls of unspeakable loneliness and longing, seated themselves firmly within his heart and created one last hard shell around themselves, spinning cocoons that turned them to stone.

A year later they would emerge again, rejuvenated, metamorphosed into seeds. Large, prickly seeds lodged deep in his heart tormented him whenever he breathed; these seeds were nourished by his daily suffering and soon sprouted. They planted their roots firmly in his heart and fed off his soul, draining away all that remained of the hope and love he once had, making it impossible for him to cherish a woman as tenderly as he once could have. The pearl branches grew in his body, reaching out through his limbs, wrapping around his organs, infesting him with outstretched fingers. Even so, they were not satisfied; they were nourished by his yearning for indiscriminate and unconditional love, and they demanded it.

It had finally happened. He could no longer ignore the voices within his body. For years he had managed to ignore the growing intensity of his solitude and its effects on his sanity, but now it had reached such a level that he could not divert his attention to other matters at all. Now he had to open himself up again to all his old feelings of loneliness and self-imposed seclusion, and trailing them all, dragging along like a persistent annoyance, was the guilt of his past actions. He spent the next few days reliving the decisions and memories of his past.

He found that in the time he had spent drowning himself in other matters, those pearls and plants had slowly sucked away the quiet happiness of his nostalgia, spewing them from his pores while he sweated away, building houses for the downtrodden.

As his possessors filtered out the pleasures in the remembrances of his past, they worked to amplify the strength of what remained: the memories of the sleepless nights in an empty bed; the many times

He had turned himself into an

oyster of the earth.

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he ate alone wishing for another to sit across from him so that he could share his plate with someone; the times he would dream of a stomach upon which he could lay his head only to wake up with a soaked pillow beneath his pouring eyes; the hours he would spend imagining that perfect love that only made the rest of his life all the more unbearable. The trees in his heart uprooted these old memories and unearthed them again for him, even more vivid and emotional than ever. With their youthful intensity and his new lack of contentment and happiness cushioning their corrosive effects, he drowned in his sorrows. They possessed him, consumed his entire existence, and left him to wander in the rest of his days.

He could be seen walking the streets at night, eyes clear and translucent, allowing passersby to see the emptiness that filled his head. His mind was filled with a voice that wanted nothing more than to find someone he could belong to, someone who fulfilled him and made him remember why people were alive in the world. Someone he woke up and slept next to that would melt away the burden of a lifetime of troubles.

What space these thoughts didn’t take up was filled with other thoughts, thoughts that hearkened to memories much older, much more shameful. Thoughts that reminded him of his own misdeeds, his past sins, his mistakes and acts of corruption. Brief flashes of the faces of whose lives he had irreparably damaged would flit across his mind, each one telling him of their story; people around him would say that he would talk to himself, when in fact he was only trying to apologize to those he had ruined eons ago.

As with all wars, this one gradually exhausted its resources. Having twice roamed around the world, he felt tired. Too long he had struggled against the parasite that had been thriving all this time inside him. By now its foliage had become visible, extending

from various places in his body. Branches grew from his fingertips; his belly, softened and sagged from the years, hardened and grew scaly. His toes extended and dug into the ground with every step, seeking purchase in the soft earth. As he was slowly overrun, he found a spot on a hill overlooking a forest of soft green.

Reaching this spot he froze, a man mesmerized, and looking up at the sun he began to dream again. The warring factions within him had tired themselves out and become wisps of shadows between his ears; there was no armistice, and all that was left were fantasies.

He dreamed again of the woman that awaited him, of the languid hours of splendor as they lounged, one on top of the other in the many Sunday afternoons that lay in their future. He thought of the imperfections of her body that he would find on lazy mornings, and of the way her eyes would when they were cast against the sky. His dreams ran on to eternity, and in their drifting ether was peace for his fractured soul.

His mind swimming in these newfound reveries, the pearl-plants devoured his body. His toes finally found a steady piece of earth and dug themselves deep into the hilltop, drawing in minerals from the soil beneath him. His belly and back grew rounder and rounder, his scales grew larger and flakier, until his entire midsection had become nothing but a large trunk, belly button forming a large knot where squirrels would live. Arms and fingers reached up toward heaven, forming a dense thicket spread to gather in the light of the sun. Taking one last look at the clouds, sun and stars above him, he let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Now the only light would be the light of her being in his dreams. He became a lone tree atop a hill, a tree that they said knew of all emotions good and bad, of loneliness, of destruction, of misery, of never-ending love and affection. This was a tree for inspiration and contemplation. This was the dreaming tree.

SOOJUNG SHIN

morning

She doesn’t talk much She says she prefers to listen As soon as a cigarette touches my lips She takes it away “you don’t need that” she says

Every morning when she thinks I’m still asleep She goes outside And touches the end of a lit match To her own And I quietly watch I will miss the shape of her lips when she exhales the most.

—Chris Ro

9

Exile: A Memorial for Home

by Hyung-Jin Won

OVER FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I ARRIVED HERE in America from my ancestral home in Korea. Fifteen years of cold winter, cold exile had left me with nothing but idle dreams and regrets. My father came back to me like a shimmering messiah but I was being sent to exile, not home.

The abruptness of the departure left my entire life behind: my hopes, my dreams, my heart, and my soul. I returned to Korea for the first time last summer, having left little more than a terrified child, and returning home a bitter grown man madly longing— The other day, I was wondering where the verdant fields of my childhood went.

How each blade of grass must have felt longing for my playful laughter, lost forever, not surviving until my too-late return, seeing only hot black asphalt and memories fade away like sand through my fingers.

I remember sitting idly in vast grass fields with my mother, the windswept autumn air crisp against my skin.

I remember the faint taste on the tip of my tongue, grass with a mildness of milk, taste of the white ends, laughing at the strange novelty. Fifteen years of drifting and my tongue must remain patient while my mind, heart, and soul lament my past, remembering what was once mine: a kingdom of green fields and crisp autumns.

I remember the days spent longing for my father an ocean away, and how quiet it was. How I did not know the magnitude of tragedy that had befallen my childhood, and of the worse travesty of what was to come—oblivious. The whirlwind of departure, as if we were taking a short trip. The chaos of the airport and the strange trauma of flight (which I’ve long forgotten except for the silent terror), the premonition of something gone terribly awry. How I never expected to land countless footsteps away.

My heart longs to return east, but my mind already knows there is nothing left for me there but the broken shards of memory. I left my dreams, my laughter,

my soul back home. But when I returned to reclaim them, they weren’t mine anymore.

I stare back at to the east, futilely trying to burn memories of what once was and what could have been into my mind.

Sometimes, I can taste a flicker on my tongue, remember a floating piece of memory.

How empty and cold it is. The first winter I felt here in exile has never dissipated. I huddle near a fire and pray for warmth, dreaming back to the essence I lost. The taste is unfulfilling, e m p t y, u n s a t i s f y i n g — t h e mildness of milk gone sour.

And so all I have are my memories and the hope that I can finally return home, and never leave again. How my empty soul warms at the thought of sleeping in my verdant fields again.

I want to be home again.

Us

RUI GONG

You tried to contain the space of our sentiments Penetration never looked good on you I was more interested in the smell of the air Our hands didn’t fit Everything we were not was more remarkable I was more interested in the smell of the air— Everything between us but free of us.

—Chris Ro

HYUNG-JIN WON

11

A Philosophy of Balance and Harmony

GROWING UP IN AN ASIAN HOUSEHOLD, IT was not uncommon for me to be treated with strong, burning rubbing oils or bitter-tasting powder during bouts of sickness. When such Western products as Robitussin, Nyquil and Tylenol failed, my mother turned to traditional Eastern medicine. Since the concepts of Eastern medicine treatment are alien to Western ideas, people unfamiliar with Asian culture may have difficulty accepting such different doctrines. However, once acquainted with the history and beliefs of oriental medicine, those raised with a Western view may better acknowledge the effectiveness of Asian remedies and therapies. The foundation of Western medicine is based upon pinpointing and extracting the exact chemical properties of an agent to obliterate a particular symptom or area of concern. This method does not adequately address the interdependence of biological systems and how specific spot-targeted treatment will be circulated toward other areas of the body. Asian medicine is more concerned with the body in connection with the spirit and the universe.

Although there is no single founding philosophy of Chinese medicine, several aspects of it revolve around the harmonious ebb and flow of the elements of the body with the dynamic nature of the universe. A diagnosis from my mother would consist of comparing signs and symptoms of my illness to the five basic elements of the Earth: water, wood, fire, earth and metal.

These concepts stem from the Taoist belief that all life, concepts, and natural phenomena are interconnected.

Each element represents different physical components of wellbeing, such as the physical organs necessary for function, emotions deeply interconnected to the mind, and inner energy called Chi that ultimately results from the balance of Yin and Yang (also known as hot and cold). The greater balance that is achieved between the five elements, the healthier a state one is in. For instance, when I was younger I suffered from high fever, excessive mucous, shortness of breath and excessive coughing; it was determined that an imbalance of water in my body disrupted the harmonious interactions of the other elements of my body.

The initial diagnosis by a Western doctor labeled my discomfort as the common cold, and I was sent home with a prescription of Vitamin C and orders to drink plenty of fluids. However, my mother knew that my symptoms displayed something more serious than

by Nan S. Ling

a common cold. Weeks into the illness, she took me to a physician who gave a very different diagnosis: acute bronchitis. In addition to an inhaler and antibiotics, I was treated with such traditional medicine as finely crushed Chinese herbs and strongsmelling, distasteful drinks. Not only does this experience show that Western medicine is not without its pitfalls, but also that Chinese philosophy is rooted in some substantial experiences and seemingly miraculous results.

Some advocates of modern medicine would probably dismiss many homeopathic methods of Asian medicine as insufficient for treating serious illnesses and health problems. I do not deny that the technology utilized in our modern societies has contributed greatly to improving healthcare, but I also believe that the modern healthcare practitioners have lost sight of what is important in the process of healing: care for the individual and the whole soul, not just the disease. Asian medicine integrates the individual into the practice of healing sickness. Many of the ingredients that make up its ameliorative powders, liquid remedies, and ointments are derived from Mother Earth, such as Dang Gui (Angelica Root), Ren Shen (Ginseng), and Mu Li (Oyster Shell). The use of natural ingredients is derived from the idea of balance and harmony between man and the universe, yin and yang, and the five elements. The focus is on the whole rather than just a particular disease or injury – on the delicate equilibrium achieved between body, spirit and mind that is essential for good health.

ALL ART RUPA DASGUPTA

Asian Medicine

RUPA DASGUPTA

doing the twist inspired by Pulp Fiction

His sweaty, socked feet, Freed from their 70s-styled ovens, Make parallel strokes in unsteady Heroin eroticism.

His Elvis hips buck and shift To the aggressive melody Of Chuck Berry.

His arms fight through the Heightened colors that close in, Swimming against the tide in unison with her, His tunnel vision focusing, like a morgue corpse, Laconically upon her black, bobbed hair And settling on her Sly pupils As he passes his baggy eyes With peace-sign hands.

Her feet massage the floor like a breaking tidal pattern The bare ball and heel rolling Against the oak wood, Alternating from one leg To the other, she jerks her Slight shoulders In frenetic seizures Of amphetamine-addled movement.

Her sinuses sting with coke and sanitized air As she jars her jet-black hair And pounds the space with her alternating fists.

She closes her eyes and tempts him with her Hips.

Her senses reach a fever pitch as she spins, Hallucinates flashbulbs Upon her distinctive face.

She exudes a sexiness That only altered Mind states Could know— And in ecstasy Reaches towards her death. —Kevin Wong

13

THE COLOSSAL INFLUX OF IMMIGRANTS from diverse countries has restructured the nature of ethnic dynamics in American society. The fastest growing racial group has been the Asian American population, and Korean Americans constitute one of the fastest growing subgroups, comprising approximately 11% of the Asian American community (U. S. Bureau of the Census, 2000). It has been well documented that Korean Americans do not readily seek mental health services. Part of the reason for this is due to the perpetuation of the myth that Korean Americans in general are the model minority, free of mental illness and therefore without a need for mental health services. Contrary to popular opinion, rates of psychopathology among Korean Americans have been underestimated.

Converse to the model minority myth, culturebound factors threaten the mental health of Korean Americans, placing them at risk for psychological difficulties. Korean Americans’ infrequent use of

feelings promotes poor judgment. The noble man has control over his feelings; therefore, self-restraint is highly encouraged (Tang, 1992).

These factors contribute to the use of more indirect ways of expressing emotional difficulties, and because physical complaints are much more acceptable than emotional ones, mental illnesses are often manifested in physical symptoms. Research shows that Korean Americans demonstrate greater mental health needs and are more prone to suffer from psychological symptoms than other Asian American groups and the general population. There is a dire need to examine the vulnerabilities that make Korean Americans susceptible to many emotional and psychological challenges.

Cyclical Nature of Risk Factors Perhaps the most dangerous aspect of the culturebound vulnerabilities that place Korean Americans at risk for mental and psychological difficulties is the

Culture Risks of SARA YENKE & STEPHANIE KANG

mental health services is not an indication of a lack of psychological problems. Rather, it is an indication of how the salience of shame and guilt—two core values by which Korean Americans are raised—dictates their social behaviors including the usage of counseling services. A more thorough explanation has to do with the Korean culture, which places a premium on not airing personal problems outside of the family. They prefer silent misery of psychological sufferings instead of openly seeking help, which is considered a shame of failure in life.

In understanding Korean culture-bound expressions of distress, it is first necessary to recognize deeply-rooted influences of Confucianism. Korean culture is embedded in the beliefs of Confucius, who was the most important of the Chinese philosophers because he set the tone for the development of the Asian culture. He discouraged emotional expressions not only because they are an individual’s response, but they also because they infringe upon others. The root of Confucius beliefs is that being at the mercy of one’s

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cyclical nature of the risk factors. They appear to be intertwined and interrelated in nature, feeding off of each other to intensify distress, thereby placing Korean Americans at further risk for psychological problems. Just as physical symptoms develop into diagnosable illnesses if left untreated, emotional and psychological symptoms become diagnosable disorders without appropriate treatment. Delaying treatment could lengthen the process of healing while receiving treatment could avert the progression of disorders. The list of culture-bound risk factors shows that mental health services are not only warranted for the Korean American population but that there is an urgent need for counseling services.

Counseling as a Viable Coping Resource Korean Americans in general have knowledge deficits regarding resources that are available to them—including mental health services. Counseling is a process during which counselor and client develop an effective relationship that enables the client to

work through personal difficulties. It was developed to attend to the developmental needs of “normal” people, particularly during transitional periods as a way to assist clients with conflicts and anxieties of adjusting to new tasks or roles. While counseling varies in types and modalities, and though countless numbers of theories, techniques, and interventions exist, there is a characteristic that remains unique and constant.

It is non-stigmatizing in nature, which makes it an appropriate coping resource for Korean Americans.

Counseling emphasizes short-term processes and focuses on situational problems of everyday life. Its emphasis is on clients’ strengths and their potential for growth. While diagnosis and treatment plans are utilized, it does not focus on client’s symptoms as pathologies or defects that must be eliminated; therefore, it is less stigmatizing and more empowering to clients. A counselor offers confidential services to persons of all ages and of various multicultural backgrounds. They help individuals, families,

health benefits while self-concealment is related to a variety of physical and psychological symptoms.

Actively hiding negative information about oneself has been found to be related to anxiety, depression, and physical symptoms (Larson & Chastain, 1990).

Whereas concealing distress is believed to cause ill health because of the psychological strain involved in actively inhibiting the disclosure of information, self-disclosure is believed to lead to health benefits because of the reduction in psychological stress engendered by confronting a previously concealed stressor (Pennebaker, 1997). Kahn and Hessling (2001) found that initial reports of distress disclosure predicted a two-month increase in (a) perceived social support, (b) self-esteem, and (c) life satisfaction. They also found that distress disclosure is related to increases in self-esteem, life satisfaction, and perceived social support. It can be postulated that if disclosing one instance of distress can yield such powerful benefits, then the frequent disclosure of multiple instances of

Korean Americans

by Josephine Kim couples, and groups to work through transitions, resolve personal and interpersonal problems, solve situational conflicts, and make decisions in a complex, multicultural society.

Counselors are bound by strict guidelines regarding confidentiality of information that is shared by clients. Client records are kept in locked files, and a counselor must have clients’ written consent to exchange information with an outside party (even family members). The only exceptions to confidentiality are threat or harm to self or others and a court-ordered subpoena. This assurance of confidentiality is meaningful for Korean Americans who are wary of the stigma related to seeking psychological help.

Benefits of Counseling Verbal discourse is a chief tool used in counseling as counselors and clients work to reduce symptoms.

Research shows that self-disclosing a problem has

distress would likely yield more positive benefits due to the repeated release of stress.

Summary A review of the literature reveals that Korean Americans face vulnerabilities that place them at risk for various emotional and psychological difficulties which warrant counseling services. At the core of Korean Americans’ tendency to underutilize mental health services is the lack of knowledge regarding their susceptibility to certain risk factors and paucity of information on available coping resources.

Counseling, with its non-stigmatizing, confidential nature and focus on everyday life situations, is a viable coping resource that can be utilized by Korean Americans in decreasing the effects of psychological and emotional stressors. Through regular disclosing of problematic issues in the presence of a trained and objective counselor, one can prevent the progression of a serious, prolonged illness.

15

drIVEN

by Elisabeth A. Seng

AFTER EATING NOTHING BUT BURGERS and fries for the past seventy-two hours, her stomach growled audibly at the glossy photos of crème brulee and prosciutto, so silky on the tongue, so inedibly tempting on paper.

She stared out the window.

The rumpled magazine migrated to her lap, then the floor.

Nothing but grey roads ribboned away from the highway, out across the great green expanse, crossing, meeting, falling off the edge of the horizon. No cows, no houses in view. The few trees silhouetted far from the highway crawled across her field of vision, giving little indication of any real movement. She squinted at them. What was the relative scale here? Her gaze wandered to the side mirror, which should have read “Objects on Great Plains are more distant than they appear.”

“You know, Wyoming has more sheep than it does people.”

She turned towards her brother. His eyes flickered back to the road.

“We’re not in Wyoming yet.”

“Kansas is just a taste of what’s ahead.” A hint of smile in his voice.

She yawned. “I bet, if we tie a rope to the wheel and put a brick on the gas, you could nap for a while.”

“I bet.” His right hand stayed on the wheel, his left hand rubbed his forehead, eyes, cheeks.

Silos, then a sign whizzed by. Rest Stop, 3 miles.

“Hungry?” He shifted in his seat.

Her stomach turned at the thought of more hot grease.

“No, but I could stretch my legs.”

Thirteen minutes later found them back on the road: John with a burger and fries, Kelly with a small bag of potato chips. With mouth full, both hands on

the burger and only elbows on the steering wheel, John somehow motioned to her.

“Yes?” “Radio?” he mumbled around the beef patty.

She grinned and flicked on the satellite radio, grateful that they had similar taste in music. On the New Wave channel, Nena crooned about ninety-nine red balloons.

“Not one real musical instrument,” John said.

They flew down the road, chasing the midafternoon sun. Seventy miles later, the flatness was broken by small hills rolling past the windows, as though the land had somehow developed a pulse. Still, there was green all around, mostly corn fields now, except for an indistinct grey mass that looked like distant storm clouds on the western horizon ahead.

“I’m so glad you suggested taking this trip before school starts up in the fall.” She flexed her toes. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“We’ve been climbing.

These begin the foothills to the Rockies,” John said.

She shifted in her seat.

Her left foot prickled, her lower back was beginning to throb. Balling up her sweatshirt, she stuffed it behind the ache and leaned back into it.

“How’re you holding up?” He was looking over at her.

“I’m okay.”

What she needed was a massage. And a hot bath.

“By then, Mom should be through with her chemo, huh?”

Quiet. Except for Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

Then, “I’ve been thinking of moving out here.”

“I thought you loved the east coast.”

He nodded. “But when I’m out here, I feel less

there was Something about pushing a body through changing surroundings that enveloped them both in a bubble.

16

of guilt mixed with the joy of new freedom.

She put her seat back and turned towards the window, snuggling chin into shoulder. “I just want something different.”

John nodded silently. He looked over at her, her back curving against the passenger’s seat, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, eyelids at half mast.

“Have a good nap,” she heard him say softly.

From the speakers, Dire Straits whispered about money for nothing.

We’re almost at your house. She rubbed her eyes.

The arrow flashed green and he accelerated, pressing her back into her seat. She blinked and flexed stiff muscles, musing. There was something about a moving car. Something about pushing a body through changing surroundings that enveloped them both in a bubble. Their own private space.

She yawned and smoothed her prom dress, caressing the deep blue velvet. Then, without pausing to think, she leaned across the center console and kissed his cheek. He gasped and lurched away, the car swerved into the other lane, horns blared everywhere and he fought the wheel until the car steadied again.

He stared at her in wide-eyed snatches, caught between the road and her eyes.

A tangible heat crept slowly up her neck, flushing her cheeks and ears until she was sure they must be glowing. Then she grinned at him. She stretched voluptuously and turned to face out the other window.

RODGER HARTLEY

confined.” He narrowed his eyes at the arrow-straight road. “My field of vision isn’t limited by hills or hazy humidity. I know exactly what’s coming, to the horizon in every direction.”

“You sound just like Mom.” Kelly said, ducking her head under the curve of the windshield and peering up. “I like the clouds the best.” Layers of high feathery clouds contrasted with a lower tire-track pattern of puffs against the deep blue. “Why didn’t we ever move out here?”

“Dad was involved in his job.” She didn’t notice his jaw muscles flex as he clenched his teeth.

“What about you?”

“Too busy with school. I didn’t want to leave my friends. I like familiar places.” He sighed.

She shook her head. “I’m excited about going to school in California.”

“All those crazy kids in Berkeley? C’mon.”

“I love the ocean.”

“Then why didn’t you apply to any colleges at home?” An eyebrow rose.

Kelly paused. “It’s a different coast. And a good school.”

“And far from the parents.”

“How come you went to college so close to home?” she asked.

“Mom needed me there.” His mouth tightened.

She thought of all her college applications, how carefully she had weighed the thousands of miles that would be between her and her family. A familiar pang

17

Moments dripped by as familiar landmarks flowed past; she could not see beyond her pounding heart.

She could feel the prickling of his confused excitement next to her, and knew from the rhythm of rights and lefts that the drive would soon end.

Wow. His voice trembled and cracked, and he cleared his throat. The car slowed and pulled into the driveway, and then they were very still. His hand rose to her cheek.

Warm red darkness.

A throaty rumbling vibration.

She felt herself pushed forward.

The tone of vibration dropped an octave, and she opened her eyes.

“How was your nap?” John flicked on the turn signal and changed lanes.

She inhaled, and the fireflies outside her window came into focus as city traffic and street lights.

Twilight’s last dusty hues were fading from distant clouds and sky.

“Mmph.” She arched her back, stretching her arms over her head. “Good. Dreamt about prom.”

John chuckled. “I remember when you came home, how you floated through the door. Nice guy.”

They pulled into a motel parking lot, the sign buzzing “Vacancy.”

She snorted. “Too bad Mom didn’t think so. I can’t believe she—” Her arms crossed emphatically.

With a flick of his wrist, the ignition shut off.

“Regardless what Mom said, I don’t think he was a predator. He looked sincere to me.”

They took turns showering. John took the bed by the door, Kelly got the one by the air conditioning.

Flipping through the channels, John caught snatches of old movies, settling on Fred Astaire in The Gay Divorcee. Kelly didn’t watch; she was lying on her stomach, writing in her journal. Around eleven o’clock, he turned off the set and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Know what I think?” he asked, flopping onto his stomach next to her. “I think we should date who we like best. For us, not for anyone else.”

She blinked. He leaned over and gently butted her shoulder with his own.

“She just wants to protect us from making her mistakes.”

Nodding, she quietly laid her head against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Early that morning, Kelly’s protests meant breakfast in a pancake house. Now they were on the road, an hour outside of Denver. The snowy peaks of the massive Rockies grew distinct from the

18

clouds. Nothing could be judged by distance here, the mountains just kept growing larger. Her senses extended outside the walls of the car, exploring the rocky terrain and stretching to match the mountains’ height.

“We just crossed into Mountain Time,” John said.

The sun bloomed above. All around them, the sky was a brilliant blue dome, perfectly clear.

“Can we put the windows down?” Kelly said.

The windows rolled down, the sunroof opened.

The air was so dry and fresh, she could almost feel it sparkling—so different from the muggy sauna summers at home. She glanced at John. His hair ruffled crazily in the wind, and he was grinning. A sign came up in the distance: Speed Limit 75. The car accelerated.

John shouted to her above the wind. “Music?”

She nodded, tying back her hair. The New Wave Channel was playing the Bangles. He turned it up loud and they raced the wind over the prairies. Resting her arm on the window frame, she cupped her hand and let it catch the wind, her forearm rising and lowering like a kite. The mountains grew. Sleepy cows and neat green rows of crops appeared as they approached Denver.

Her heart was buoyant. This was not the usual family trip. If her parents had come, she knew what would have happened: Dad would hunch over the steering wheel, Mom would pore over piles of maps and guide books, and Kelly and John would sit in the back, just as they had since they were very young.

Many summers ago, they had been driving through Wisconsin to visit relatives in Minnesota. Kelly was immersed in reading, John was trying to sleep, Dad was playing country music at full blast, and her mother was visibly annoyed.

“Dear,” Mom had said lightly.

Her father grimaced and turned down the music.

“What?”

“There’s a rest stop in twenty miles. I could use a break,” she said.

“I have to go,” Kelly piped from the back.

“Fine. We’ll stop then.” He turned the music back up.

Several minutes later, Mom shouted over the music, “Two miles, get your shoes on, kids.” Dad nodded.

More minutes passed. Dad changed the station to news and weather.

The “Rest Area—>” sign flew by as the car accelerated.

Mom began clearing her throat, repeatedly.

Time trickled by.

“Dear?” Mom said, too lightly. Kelly hid behind her book, trying to wish away the feeling of fullness in

her bladder.

He sighed loudly and turned the radio off. “What?

What do you want?”

“Was there some reason you didn’t stop?” Mom said in measured tones.

Silence.

“At the rest area. We passed it fifteen minutes ago,” she said.

Kelly saw John open his eyes and look at her, then shut them tight again.

“I still have to go and so does Kelly.”

“I didn’t know we passed it already,” he said. “Why didn’t you remind me when we got close?”

“I did. I always do. You nodded. Then you gunned the car past the exit.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Look,” Mom said, “I don’t want to argue. Your child and your wife need to use a bathroom.”

“Fine. We’ll pull over.”

He belched and began to decelerate as he shifted lanes.

The car slowed as he nudged it off the lane and onto the shoulder of the open highway.

“Right here?” she said.

“Can’t we find an actual toilet?”

They rolled to a stop.

“Here you go. Hurry up.”

A well-mowed grassy field, that was all. Cars zoomed by.

“Um,” Kelly said.

father hates stopping.” She sat back and paged through a guidebook. “Next rest area, thirty miles,” she announced in a strained voice, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Now, speeding along Interstate 70, she and John could go anywhere they wanted. The Rockies rose high above them, the plains colliding with the mountains’ base. Looking out the back window, she could see Denver, the flat land and its crisscrossing roads like a map.

Kelly thought about distance, about her mother.

On the radio, Modern English promised to stop the world.

“John,” she shouted. He turned the radio down.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He rolled up the windows part way, leaving the sunroof open.

“Did you enjoy college?” She looked at the road ahead as she spoke.

“College is a wonderful time to explore, discover who you are and what you want your future to be. I met a lot of great people.”

“But how was it at home?”

“It was hard sometimes.” He picked a pair of sunglasses off the dashboard and put them on. “But I’ve got my whole life ahead, waiting for me. She doesn’t.”

Kelly thought for a moment. “But you’ve been through with college for a couple years. Why are you still living with Mom and Dad?” John took a deep breath, and let it out. His eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses, but the corners of his mouth drooped. “Mom’s been having a rough time of it. She needs someone to support her through to the end.”

She remembered April, right before graduation.

Her mother was trying to update her will, get her affairs in order. She was too weak to drive around on her own. Dad stayed at work later and took several business trips, so it was John who took days off from work and helped her talk with lawyers, sort through legal papers, pay her bills.

“Why is she still with him?” Her voice shook.

“He never beat us. He still comes home every night.” Familiar phrases. The steering wheel squeaked beneath his grip.

“why is she still with him? ” “he never beat us..”

“What now?” her father yelled.

Her mother shook, her fists clenched. “No toilet paper? No trees to hide in?”

“People have done this for hundreds of years,” he growled.

“So your wife and daughter get to display their backsides at the side of the road for all passers-by to see?”

Silence again. Kelly watched John’s jaw muscles flex.

“Kelly, do you need to go?” Dad said.

Pinned under her father’s glare in the rearview mirror, she shrank in her seat. “I can wait,” she said in a small voice. Silently, she vowed never to marry a man like him.

“Okay. Let’s keep moving then,” he said, shifting out of park.

The car leapt forward and they were on the highway again. Mom gritted her teeth and leaned towards Kelly, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper.

“I told you to go at the last stop. You know how your

19

“Is that enough?” she said.

“It won’t always be like this,” he said quietly.

Silence. The windows squeaked as he closed them up, left the sunroof cracked.

“John?”

“Yes?” “Did Dad ever cheat on Mom?” “What? Why?” “Haven’t you ever wondered?” She stared down at her sandals.

John turned his head to her. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

He nibbled on his lower lip, thinking. Finally, he spoke.

“He’s been faithful to her throughout your life.”

Kelly did not realize she had been holding her breath, and now it exploded out of her. “You mean he—” “He’s been faithful as long as you’ve lived.” His tone was final.

She vowed again never to marry a man like her father.

The car was very quiet.

She closed her eyes and drifted into a warm September afternoon.

Sunlight filtered through the branches and a crisp breeze ruffled her hair. School had just let out for the day. Backpacks were tossed into the trunk and small bodies slid across worn nagahide seats of an old woody station wagon. Come sit up front with me, her mother had said, giving her a hug and a smile.

Everyone buckled up? A chirping chorus of yesses. Chatter about classes and homework. A stop at the grocery store to pick up some canned vegetables for dinner. On the way home, she noticed her mother’s knuckles suddenly white on the wheel, her lack of response to questions, knock-knock jokes.

Are you okay? What’s happening?

The car whizzed around a corner and narrowly missed a tree.

The brakes just went out. Everyone hold on tight.

Her mother swerved hard. They rode a narrow, winding ribbon of asphalt through the woods, heading downhill and nothing was slowing them down, car horns blared, the back seat exploded in screams, branches whistled shrilly by, Kelly was pushed against the door, half-strangled by the seatbelt, gasping.

Up another hill they coasted, and the car lost momentum.

Everybody okay? Gasping, nodding. Little ones crying.

They crested the hill and entered an intersection

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at the top. Her mother turned on emergency flashers and engaged the parking brake. Squeals and smoke trailed behind the car, but they were still moving just a little faster than the bicyclists on the sidewalk, who eyed them with suspicion.

The road ahead was a long series of narrow winding wooded lanes, all down hill.

Kelly, remember the Flintstones?

She looked at her mother, who was looking wideeyed at the road ahead.

I’m going to open the door and stop the car with my feet. Can you help me?

She nodded, one shaking hand on the door lever.

Hold tight—now!

They opened the doors and car horns blared everywhere. She gingerly set her shoe against dark asphalt. Her heel skipped, then skidded roughly. The car’s front end began to tip downward with the hill’s slope. She sat back in the seat and pressed harder, straightening her leg in front of her. Her mother’s face was grim. They were stopping…

Her eyes refocused, seeing large hills all around them. Ponderous pines and red rocky ridges loomed ahead. She inhaled deeply; the air tasted crisper.

“Hey John? Remember the Volvo?”

John snorted. “Safest cars in the world, eh? How could I forget that deathtrap?” he laughed.

“I was so scared.”

“Thank God no one was hurt, huh?”

The car wound around another high crest, opening to magnificent craggy mountains and a deep forested valley below. Although it was midsummer, she could just make out a hint of white on one of the far peaks.

John’s cell phone rang. “Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

“Hi!” Kelly waved at the phone.

“We’re doing fine. Yes, healthy food.” Kelly made a face at him; he grinned. “Denver, right.” He paused.

“Through Rocky Mountain National Park, then a jaunt in Wyoming, Utah for mesas, a stop in Vegas.”

He rolled his eyes and nodded. “Okay, I promise we won’t stay overnight. Then San Francisco to put a big toe in the Pacific.”

Kelly looked at him.

“We’ll head down to San Diego and come back the southern route. You like it?” He yawned. “Love you too.” Beep.

“San Francisco?” The original plan had been San Diego.

“I hear it’s a beautiful city. I might move there.”

The sound of her smile filled the car.

RODGER HARTLEY

With a glimmer I set off, set foot upon what I knew not— a smile sufficed.

In the night of the forest, the trees I thought of, tall amongst others.

Life must stall—senile, the music bred impatience.

The smoke curled, and with it curled my heart—dies (d)

Ps.

RUPA DASGUPTA

just once, I pled ...a smile, a glimmer, a lie— the smoke curled.

Rustle, it rustled the black pearls still occur, je ne sais jamais, je sens...

The darkness comes forth livid and lonely through the streaks of white, light lamp eyes.

Let me go, or hold me close, I have not much to say: bless you—love you— damn you.

—Rahul Jindal

The

Beginning of the

End RUPA DASGUPTA

He says he wants to be famous or infamous and would give all of his hypothetical lottery winnings to his mother and brother.

His father is dying but he barely knows him. He would kill his ex-stepfather if he ever saw him again. He gets so wrapped up in himself, he forgets about the entire world. Then he does something so unselfish and surprising, you want to give him a medal for being alive. He’s addictive and obsessive. He used to get drunk on bum wine with the other gutter anarcho-punks and cause general ruckus, thinking he was messing with the corrupt system. Now he continues to refuse to give patronage to Starbucks because they’re evil but will stop at Wal-Mart to buy tampons for his girlfriend, realizes his hypocrisy and doesn’t really care. He moved away from everything he knew, the good, the shit, and started over. Fell in love with a girl and became domestic, doing the dishes after dinner and falling asleep with her in his arms, while reality television droned on in the background. Still, every once in a while, the urge to create chaos takes hold. He doesn’t don a black bandana and join the mob—he shanks his girlfriend in the grocery store.

He can’t pinpoint where the desire to do everything to the fullest went, but he only misses it a few times a year: when the forces of globalization come together and he sees his old friends breaking windows on CNN.

by Erin McCabe

23

Unlocking the Past: A Commentary on the Asian-American Minor

by Fei Yang

HISTORY IS BIASED, SHAPED, RECORDED, and pieced together, sometimes haphazardly, to produce an image that can be incomplete and distorted.

Some scholars may argue that there are objective facts and that reason can be a standard guide with which to discover the truth. Nevertheless, everyone will agree that as fallible beings, this population has not lived up to and will probably never live up to this unbiased method of learning about the past. Yet there is value in pursuing events, especially in trying to understand a culture and a nation, and in offering lessons and advice for future growth and potential.

At the University of Virginia, one of the missing historical elements was an Asian American Studies Program, which would focus on the historical and contemporary experience of Asians in America and would allow further exploration of the past, the community, and the culture that comprise the lives of Asian Americans. Such a program would highlight past and continuing transnational/homeland developments in America, emphasizing their past and present impact upon Asian Americans. This hole in the education offered at such a prestigious university is unnecessary and shameful. It is hoped that such a program would help debunk many of the Asian stereotypes perpetuated by mass media, among others.

The world is constantly becoming more interracial and interdependent. In such an evolving society, a key tool to functioning and succeeding in society is social competence with all different types of people, a competence that cannot be achieved if stereotypes are embedded in one’s mindset. An Asian American field of study would promote awareness and could help break such stereotypes.

Although some say that race-specific programs separate different racial groups even further by

24

specifically pointing out differences, it should be noted that segregated racial groups exist de facto and are defined by erroneous stereotypes that pervade American society. Race is a dynamic concept, and Asian American studies should not be buried within the context of American history because of ill-founded concerns that downplay the significance of focusing on this uniquely constructed culture.

The program’s potential effectiveness has been questioned based on the claim that it would predominantly draw Asians and Asian Americans, thus defeating any broader diversification of social mindsets by ‘preaching to the converted.’ First, that is a generic assumption. Even so, whomever may come will be educated and their minds broadened. Change starts with individuals, and those individuals will have the tools to make a difference through everyday contacts, associations, and their behavior at the University.

Though the United States officially dedicates one month to celebrating Asians and Asian Americans, the focus is limited in contrast to actual departments, such as American Studies or African American and African Studies. A year-round program gives a much more indepth background and view. Even though thirty-five Asian American groups already exist on Grounds, these groups do not focus on the Asian American experience in history. Often, they are more or less social groups, providing a setting for interaction among people of the same race. They have cultural aspects to them, but do not do justice to the development of Asians through significant past events.

Some people may not push for Asian American studies because they think certain stereotypes are actually good. For example, the “model minority” image portrays Asians as hard-working high achievers, especially in technical fields. This description seems

to give the race a “positive” reputation. On the contrary, if students are not provided the opportunity to learn the “truth” about what really happened in history, and if the University does not promote awareness, then we are perpetuating a stereotype that is harmful and repressive. Not all Asians want to be doctors or mathematicians.

The narrow view of a certain culture increases bias for those who do not fit the mold. Such a phenomenon should not happen in America, where the rights of freedom and equal opportunity are of the utmost importance.

Regarding the problem of funding, please consider that conditions will never be completely auspicious; there is little chance that UVa will ever surpass budget pressure.

Therefore the best time for action is now. Life always presents challenges, shortages, and conflicts. Waiting for the ideal state of affairs would equate to dismissing the task altogether.

Such a program has already been proposed for 10 consecutive years, and if not tackled now, it will never be realized. Successful programs depend on the student body and passionate leaders to organize and bring them to life. With the spirit of a student body behind it, there is no better time to promote change and to construct the missing puzzle piece for a more comprehensive and complete picture of our world, our culture, our future.

Note: During the progress of this article, a group of highly motivated individuals intensely promoted and pushed the University to institute an Asian Pacific American Studies Minor for Fall 2005.

The rich taste of accomplishment saturated the air with the new minor’s kickoff orientation and information session on February 10, 2005.

ALL ART RUPA DASGUPTA

25

SARA YENKE

Your knees buckle Beneath you— Despite an oxen effort Your granite throat rattles A craggy sigh as you shift your thigh, Bruising Connective beams of tissue— Like a lit cigarette, Drilled into The tender part Of the forearm.

Observing Atlas

Your feet grind into gum-stained Concrete— Splitting your heel at its Foundational seams As your load shifts, And shards of debris Scatter at your feet.

Your heart beats like a thumping Drum roll— Speeding up at the Crescendo, To the melting point Where cymbals, snares, and high hats Overlap and hybridize.

26

And then, in a smoky, tender moment You break, Your wracking sobs combining with latent hate As the towers fall.

—Kevin Wong

Lower Manhattan in

Daddy A thick patch of dark hair Rests above each brown eye, The crown of his head is now bare, Skin shining where hair used to lie.

Although his hairline has crawled back, The color has been slow to fade.

Few silver strands in a sea of black, His hair is still his childhood shade.

He used to tower over my eyes, I’d strain my neck to see Daddy’s face; He’d easily smother my cries— His arms buried me in embrace.

I stand up straight, he does the same, He lowers his eyes to lock mine.

I wrap my arms around his frame, My hands overlap at his spine.

Bending his knees, he’d stoop And kiss my upturned nose, Then, he would kneel down and loop My shoelaces into bows.

Gazing in a mirror at my teeth, I see my Daddy’s large-toothed grin.

My eyes fall on my cleft beneath— One that also indents his chin.

I’ll hold out my hand to caress My baby’s fuzzy golden hair, I’ll gently tug her pink sundress, And she’ll sit up like a plump pear.

I’ll scoop her in my arms and then Prop her up on one of my hips.

In her, I’ll see my Daddy again, A curve spreading across pink lips.

—Ashley Simpson

SOOJUNG SHIN

27

The Inarticulate Speech of the Heart

by Shi-Shi Wang THE AMERICANS CALL THIS AN ISLAND since it stands in the center of the kitchen. She watches her father sifting and stirring by the stove; only this marble island separates the two of them. He chops clumps of potatoes into thin strips and tosses them into the frying pan. He must enjoy watching the chemical reaction of vegetables—how the colors change from light to dark, how raw ingredients pop into place over the hot wire of moving electrons. He is cooking tonight because his wife has fallen asleep in the living room, her face pressed against the ivory cushion that will surely leave red checkered marks on her cheek when she eventually lifts her head. He is cooking without an apron and does not want to wake her.

28

RUPA DASGUPTA

“Mary’s parents say ‘good evening’ to each other,” she begins, spreading her elbows further apart on the marble so that her neck leans more and more outward.

Her nose almost touches the glass vase but the iris flowers tilting over the edge prevents direct contact.

She plays with the purple petals that have fallen and lie listless and curled at the edges under the vase.

“It’s important. It’s significant. It means…something,” she adds with a hurried glance at the top of her mother’s head poking up from the sofa—her glimmering black hay-stack hair static and in tangles—like the shadows of a beautiful tropical plant. The house is full of potted plants—it is perhaps the only present her mother ever receives with true delight; African violets in the summer, yellow tulips in the spring.

Her father responds with a definitive look in her direction, “We not American.” He is satisfied with this answer. He turns back around and concentrates on the simmering vegetables in the frying pan. Occasionally he pokes the celery-potato concoction with the thicker end of his chopsticks.

“But…but why can’t we say things like…” she feels her stomach tighten, “…like Mary’s parents always say ‘I love you’ when she leaves the house for school and when she makes good grades or right after she comes home at night…” Her father pours dinner into two plates that curve from the rim. It’s a wonder the sauce stays put. She tries again, “Why don’t we at least say ‘bon appetite’?”

“We not French.” He leans over to hide his amusement and takes out finished dishes from the oven below the stove. *** One week before it was time to leave Beijing, she wet the bed and bit her lower lip as she slept fitfully at first, then deeply. On the third night her mother found her entangled in the mosquito net that hung above the bed. Her chubby arms, brown from too much playing in the sun, slouched over the wooden curve of the bed post like a pair of corduroy pants. What an unruly sight—a body somewhere underneath the net and feet kicking pillows in the air and heaps of blankets in her sleep. As she dreamt, her mother packed both of their belongings into two new suitcases she had bought at the Kunlon shopping center. She woke up the next morning and peeked into her dresser to find only a polkadotted play-dress and underwear lying there next to each other. Everything else was zipped up inside two suitcases; not to be opened again until they were halfway around the world. *** Their first American house has the new house smell she loves. The wooden floor boards smell of polish and not yet of feet. She watches the sunset glide effortlessly onto the floorboards and swallow everything else in its way—including her mother and the couch she favors so much. The kitchen is not cut off from the living room, so that the stir-fry steam flows freely to the other side, and she can see her mother’s eyes begin to flutter and her body begin to stir. The rich scent and the inevitable rays of the sunset have woken her at last.

They stand next to each other, her mother and she, perusing through the weekly grocery ads in the free newspaper that comes once every Sunday. Her mother looks up only to check on dinner’s progress. She uses

Everything else was zipped up inisde two suitcases, not to be opened again until they were halfway around the world. her hands to waft the smell her way. She eyes the unused apron hanging on the knob of the top kitchen drawer. But her mother is still too tired to rescue the broccoli and water chestnut dish herself.

“Not enough salt, Wang Ning.” She has never heard her mother call him Wang Ning. So for a moment she forgets the present topic and concentrates on this newfound display of affection. Criticism, someone once told her, is the sincerest form of love. She moves closer, eager to see something else go on between them.

Something less calculated and more common. She ends up opening the wrong drawer—the one with all the leftover napkins and straws from fast food restaurants instead of the one with the real silverware and wooden chopsticks. *** During their travels, the tiny wheels of the suitcases skittered across a collection of Beijing’s most crowded avenues and boulevards, dodging streetlamps and other passenger’s heels. Each stage of the journey felt more urgent than the next. Her mother carried both suitcases up every flight of stairs, every elevated terminal, and every conveyer belt. She pushed the beasts by grabbing hold of the straps and dragging them across the floor like a matador would hold the horns of his bull in a headlock. So they arrived, hair tussled and tired.

At the terminal, she recognized her father only by piecing small arrays of images together; first his thick hair that swirled up at the back like a rooster’s crown and then his unusually high nose by oriental standards.

When he swept her up in his arms, she touched his earlobes and remembered rubbing them between her fingers as the only way to fall asleep. It was a childhood habit—biting her lips and rubbing her father’s earlobes

29

as he pretended to sleep besides her.

“How much was the cost?” her mother wondered out loud as she examined the strange texture of her husband’s new leather coat, suspiciously poking her thin finger through the middle button hole. He quickly adjusted the collars of his new bomber jacket.

“I got on sale at market,” her father replied proudly, slipping glances down towards where his daughter stood, her short and chubby arms wrapped around her mother’s right leg. “We go together next week.” Then it happened. At age seven and a half, she witnessed her mother plant a demure, understated, tasteful kiss on her father’s cheek. Or maybe it had landed on the side of his mouth. It had been years and her mother was a little out of practice. But it did happen. *** “Wait—so why isn’t it important? Saying ‘I love you’ like the Americans do. Why isn’t it important?”

She angrily stabs at rice clumps with the onlyfork she could find among the random assortment of silverware all thrown in together in one drawer. Her parents give each other a secret little look, their eyes laughing and she does not find any of this quite as entertaining as they do. She rebels by turning on the television with live coverage of an actor’s wedding.

“We wanted a private ceremony. Very intimate, very classy,” the bride gushes, her eyes glimmering purposefully into the camera.

“Ha—she on TV and she say ‘private’?” her father gets up and helps himself to a second portion of rice.

He points to the bride darting across the television screen in a clingy ivory dress dancing away in a ring

She bolted downstairs, heading straight for the kitchen cabinet.

There it was, on a post-it note barely the size of her palm: “Do Not Eat!”

30

of red orchards. “Marry today, divorce tomorrow,” he shakes his head and takes his seat across the marble island. This time she can see through the vase and notice the sudden rush of blood to her father’s cheeks as they counteract with the purple hues of the iris bouquet. *** Yesterday, she woke up to a sample of diet pills carefully arranged next to her morning tea cup.

As soon as she heard the garage door close, she looked out from her bedroom window across the snow and array of white houses. Her parent’s blue hatchback Honda pulled out of the wave-shaped driveway like a lone hunchback whale diving out of water. She bolted downstairs, heading straight for the kitchen cabinet.

There it was, on a post-it note barely the size of her palm: “Do Not Eat!” She could have cried, with her head sticking into the cabinet like that of Marie Antoinette’s before it was cut off with a clean sweep of the French guillotine. Could she have stretched one finger out and taken the Twinkie bars slumped over by the cereal boxes? Those cream-filled sugar worms squished so grotesquely on top of square packages of Ramen noodles will be the death of her in more ways than one. Her mother would know if she cheated again.

Tomorrow—more post-it notes, neon and miniature, each with second warnings printed on them…something along the line of “Yesterday six pop-tarts, today only five!”

Should she have to sit with thunder thighs through another night of their karaoke and poker parties—the men patting their beer bellies and roaring with laughter after each gambler crawls under the table; the women singing duets and getting all tangled up in the microphones extension cords—she would refuse all their company.

She retreated from the cupboard and pinched the layer of fat around her waist. Her back pressed against the marble island, and so she turned to see a platter of fruit arranged neatly in the center—free for the taking. Post-it-note-free. She laughed out load even though no one was there. She picked up the telephone hanging vertical and elegant from the kitchen wall and began to dial her father’s office number. She planned on leaving a message: Ha-ha! I get your hints! Clever!

Clever! But when the tone sounded, she quickly put the receiver down. Then she grabbed hold of a granny smith apple and felt it pound in her palm. ***

Her mother shoots rabbits with chemicals and releases hundreds of malaria-infested mosquitoes into the cages of hamsters as part of her work as a research specialist. One morning she asked to borrow her mother’s lab coat; she needed a Hallow een costume.

She was the lighthouse to their stranded ship; her bright yellow ribbons sashayed in the wind like rotating flash signals.

The next night she woke and crept downstairs to refill her glass of water. The kitchen light was on. A tiny figure was leaning against the sink, her shoulders and arms heaving up and down like a black-feathered crane catching fish in the early morning swamps.

When her mother turned around, a guilty look flashed across her face.

“I forget to wash this. You need for tomorrow?”

There it was—the white lab coat dripping tap water into the sink. Soap stuck onto her mother’s forearms and her sleeves were giving way and threatened to slip down. She rolled her mother’s sleeves up one by one.

She did not sleep that night. *** Her father had taken her out on the boat he had borrowed from the lab. They floated on out of the harbor and drifted along the freshwater shore, watching beach goers transform into bobbing heads in the water.

Where they still in China she could have reached out with one hand and grab hold of water lily petals so big they’d fill up half the sky. Her father handed her a loaf of bread that had gone green and moldy at the edges.

She threw a few crumbs out and laughed at the delightful sight of nearby ducks fighting over her charity— their quacking and flapping of wings, their splashing mess sending miniature tsunami waves across the lake.

Her mother watched on from the shore. She was the lighthouse to their stranded ship; her bright yellow ribbons sashayed wildly in the wind like rotating flash

signals.

“Tell me another one,” she pleads.

He smiles at the idea and ventures on. “I ride my bike to market because your mother send me for cucumbers. You ride on my bicycle beam and I worry you fall,” he sets his chopstick down and scratches his forehead to draw up more context, more detail. “We live on campus; I am doing graduate research with Professor Yi. “I turn my back for one moment to pay the grocery man, and then you not there anymore...” She can picture him frantically jump back on his bicycle—circling around the market square, past fish on ice, past flower stands, past green beans drying in the sun. She must have darted past the human traffic easily—like a fish swimming between other schools of fish and blending in rather than blocking any one’s right of entrance.

She had made her way out of the gates surrounding the market and turned back to the main street that would eventually lead to campus apartments.

“I can not find you,” her father continues, nodding at the memory, “five times I circle the market. I don’t know how many times I ask people—have you seen a little girl with hair cut short like a boy? How far you could go?” he shakes his head and begins to smile.

“Then I saw you with old woman. She see you run by yourself, so she ask what is your name and where you go, and then she walk with you to police station.”

“Was I crying?” she asks, imagining herself being carried away by an ancient soul with pointed straw hat and wooden cane on her way to morning tai chi in the park. Her father does not answer and stuffs leftover spinach into his mouth. He really does eat too fast.

She starts to laugh as she sees her mother’s disapproving glances—she leaves the newspaper clippings sitting on the counter and reaches out and grabs hold of her father’s arm. He looks up from the bowl of rice long enough to notice and start coughing and choking. He spits out little flakes of rice and his eyes are closed. She lets out another laugh.

There it was. Always she wanted to say the words.

“Hey,” she cries out, leaning her head towards both of her parents sitting next to each other like poetry and wine, like dear old friends, like Virginia and Leonard.

“Yes?” But she panics and stands up straight, fumbling with the bar stools besides the marble island. “I—I’m going to wash the dishes tonight.” They nod approvingly and hand her empty bowls ready to be stacked on top of each other in the sink. And for once, she receives the porcelain without protest.

31

When you first met me You mistook me for something else I think perhaps that card I carried The Moon or even the moment the light hits the water in gold leaf and oils You mistook me

Shiva

for

that frail silver rim the silence night gives Before dawn, in quiet purples and blues, or Hard etched worries, in the skies above Paris, ………………..the only things marring its views ----and maybe--I think It was also there that night the night you spent buried in my hair to the scent of your young fears and expectations of the night’s awkward voices and pressings as-----in a moment of immense clarity--I cut your song’s throat (out of fear of my own [in the static] punching through) white noise of blood rushing that little too fast ---not to nauseate and in the humming we made besides —Kristen Luigart

RAHUL JINDAL

to a

In your dark eyes hides a mystery, The restlessness of an ancient nomad Who rode the steppe fearlessly long ago.

I gaze deeper and see the joy of a child, Excited and ready in the new day’s dawn.

Your steady feet carry you south, Into the mountains where you can breathe.

Take the pure air in and feel the soft earth; Feel the hope rising inside you, Gather your strength for the road ahead.

Reach out your soft hands, Give of your love to the lost and confused.

Your beauty will be made complete, Your melodious heart now shall be An instrument of your people’s salvation.

—William Barratt RUI GONG

Kazakh

Beauty

33

Meet the

, O Tones

A LOOK AT UVA’S ASIAN A CAPPELLA GROUP

by Pauline Wu

d

e

ALL PHOTOS THOMAS HO

I WAS INITIALLY SKEPTICAL ABOUT THE Although I was born in the United States, I persist in idea of an Asian a cappella group. To me, it seemed like being a FOB* wannabe, and most of the music I listen another outcropping of self-segregation, another form to is Asian pop. This genre is not one that typical UVa. of cultural expression gotten out of hand. As a first a cappella groups will sing, as much as I love UVa. a year, I was struck by the separation of different racial cappella. Last spring, having listened to the O’Tones for groups on-Grounds. At a university with probably some time, I found myself auditioning and eventually more than its joining the fair share of "[O'Tones] introduces a new culture and a new group.O ’ To n e s diversity woes kind of music to the UVA a cappella world." and racial was founded in tension, did Fall 2000 by the Asian international population really need its own personal a cappella student Michelle Chen. Chen didn’t know what a group? cappella was until she came to UVa., and once here, However, over time I realized that the O’Tones she wondered why there wasn’t an Asian group singing filled a niche that none of the other a cappella groups Asian music. After testing the waters to see if there could fill. I had followed UVa. a cappella avidly was interest for such a group, Chen took matters into ever since hearing the Hullabahoos as a prospective, her own hands and started her own group. “[O’Tones] but standard a cappella fare didn’t include anything introduces a new culture and a new kind of music to that I would have found in my own music collection. the UVa. a cappella world,” says Chen. “Because of the

34

* “FOB” stands for “Fresh Off the Boat,” and is a term commonly used in Asian American circles to refer to first generation Asians who have recently moved to America.

group I found out that a lot of non-Asians enjoy Asian music, and that some are even curious to learn about our culture by joining the group.”

The O’Tones perform songs in Asian languages (mainly Chinese, Taiwanese, and Korean) as well as English. Members have come from all different races. The group holds a concert each semester, and performs at various other events during the semester. Performances have included the opening of Kaleidoscope (UVA’s Diversity Center); alpha Kappa Delta Phi’s annual Breast Cancer Awareness benefit concert; and various culture shows including the Chinese Student Association’s annual Chinafest and the Korean Student Association’s annual Expo.

The first song that the O’Tones performed was a Taiwanese folk song called “Flowers in a Rainy Night.” Since then, the group has sung songs by popular Asian artists such as Taiwanese singers David Tao and Elva Hsiao, and Korean groups S.E.S. and Cool, among others.

The O’Tones have also performed songs in English by artists ranging from Michelle Branch, Boyz II Men, to The Corrs.

Songs are arranged by members of the group, and to date the O’Tones have recorded two albums: “ISing on the Cake,” (2003) and “The Yellow Album” (2004).

As an atypical a cappella group, the O’Tones face issues that other groups don’t deal with. O’Tones webmaster Michael “Tike” Ton notes that “as a multicultural Asian a cappella group, we often sing songs in languages that many of our members don’t understand. However, this can be viewed as a benefit as well as a problem because our audience is also exposed to music from a diverse culture set.” The fact that the music takes precedence over particular song lyrics is evidenced by members having sung in languages that they weren’t personally fluent in. Ton, who is of Vietnamese origin, has sung solos in Taiwanese and Chinese. Comfort with crossing language barriers is a trait of the Asian pop genre, in which pop stars can easily attract followings in other countries despite their fans not being able to understand the songs. Such

comfort is not characteristic of the American music scene, but it is a challenge that the O’Tones strive to surmount.

Overcoming the language barrier to help people appreciate the music is difficult, but not impossible.

O’Tones Vice-President Linda Tang adds that she loves to hear enthusiastic responses to a song from people who don’t personally understand the language that the song was sung in. Tang says that such a reaction shows that “it’s not about the language used in the song, but it’s the music as a whole that has touched people’s hearts.”

Three years have passed since I first heard about O’Tones and wondered about the group’s legitimacy in the UVa. a cappella scene. Since then, various a cappella groups have been formed to address different musical genres, including Remix, UVa.’s hip-hop a cappella group and the Blue Notes, UVa.’s jazz a cappella group.

If other groups can form to fill holes in the a cappella repertoire, why should an Asian a cappella group be called self-segregating?

My expectations on becoming part of the O’Tones are hard to define in retrospect. I joined because I love to sing, and I love Asian pop music.

However, upon entering the group I found other reasons to stay. Not only has it been rewarding to help bring a different form of a cappella music to the UVa. music scene, but I’ve enjoyed strong friendships within the group that I know will last beyond my college years.

I had my reservations about adding to UVa.’s race problems, but I find that O’Tones does just the opposite. By taking one of UVa.’s favorite pastimes and combining it with students' cultural heritages, O’Tones creates common ground for all students. Although I am a 4th year and will be leaving the group soon, I hope that the O’Tones’ following will continue to grow. I strongly encourage members of the UVa. community, Asian and non-Asian, to be open-minded and try listening to a cappella that isn’t like anything they’ve heard before.

More information about the O’Tones can be found at the O’Tones website at: www.student.virginia.edu/~otones

The

view

from

Rome

RUI GONG

Castel Sant Angelo, 36

On the death of Jacques Derrida I deride the English language, Its implicit impotence within the realm of sentiment.

A “realm” suggests a land with distinct ends, boundaries – A purgatorial ceiling and floor that keep us from either extremem, A dictionarial cell with bars fashioned from the pages of thesauri, Endless attempts at more, additional, supplementary, further words Encased in Webster’s margins.

RUI GONG

The scope of words is finite, fixed, restricted, And even more synonyms implying “rigid boundaries”.

Human emotion has no realm, But is an inhuman unraveling of unfeasible statuses Spiraling down from heaven, a licorice rope dangling from the lips of god.

And when I am asked to write a love poem,

Describe my thoughts on “true love” in a Petrarchan sonnet,

I will respond by handing over a blank page, Cut through the middle to separate boundary from boundary, The birth and death of two dimensions sheared apart, Blades cutting, hacking, splitting the false fabric-walls of our world, Molded and draped to fit our idea of ‘happiness,’Modern No. 20 ‘love,’ ‘desire,’ ‘sorrow,’ in their imperfect forms.

Jacques Derrida lamented the ineptitude of words to convey emotions – The impotence of transubstantiating the profane to the sacred, Water to wine, Man to immortal, Icarus to the sun, Or a million affairs into Romeo and his Juliet.

Placing the inconceivable into form = disintegration Not only of the form itself, but every attempt to describe the true meaning, A vehicle too imperfect to reveal the infallible passenger inside, Jesus Christ in a 6-cylinder Mercedes Benz with all the windows up.

If ink and graphite should compose my blood and marrow, And my two-dimensional frame be scrawled upon this lined, flat earth, Then I can prove the existence of God, For I am a vessel of pure emotion.

And when the frail Styrofoam of my body disintegrates, My body will release the overpowering emotion it attempted to carry so long; My body will detonate, tear its frail form limb from limb, And the pure emotion within will escape this vessel and race Beyond time, black-hole-nail-clippings falling endlessly from the hands of God. —Brendan Fitzgerald

GILA

by Esther Lim

THERE’S ONE IN EVERY INDONESIAN village. Gila—the crazy one. Oftentimes he or she will wander freely throughout the town, eating out of garbage cans, urinating in public places, and sleeping in the middle of the road. On some days, he is quiet, on others, noisy; at times he may seem delighted and at others dejected about everything and nothing. They can be seen virtually anywhere: a yawning shoeshine boy rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in the cold light of dawn might trip over a sprawled form blended into the gray of the dusty pavement, or a farmer on his way home at dusk patiently leading his mud-splattered water buffaloes around an oblivious individual on the grassy trail.

We had one such gila in our part of town. I watched her wander down the street past the tall white gates that guarded our house, her once-black but now sun-scorched auburn hair matted and frizzy, and her cracked lips forming words only she could understand as part of a tuneless song emanating from her grimy throat. Her feet were always bare, dry and caked with dirt, and her dress was a dirty and faded orange which had once probably been red. I could never tell how old Gila was; she wasn’t old—but she wasn’t young either.

In my eyes she seemed ageless, defying the confines of time in her own special world.

Sometimes I’d be playing out on the front porch and catch a glimpse of her, making her way leisurely down the street. Hiding behind the untrimmed hedge and hoping to God that she hadn’t seen me, I watched

38

her pass by our gates and count the seconds before she was out of sight. Sometimes she stopped dead in her tracks to examine some invisible object stuck on our fence. It seemed this activity gave her pleasure, and she stood for minutes at a time staring vacantly at it. When at last she left her post to continue her meandering, I crept up to the spot where she had been thoroughly fixated, only to discover there was nothing there. What had she seen?

Some kids, like me, were terrified of Gila’s unlikeness to other grown-ups, making sure never to be within ten feet of her and staying out of her sight. You never knew what went on inside her head, and there was no telling if or when her mild stupor might suddenly turn into erratic behavior. Others, the bolder ones, wouldn’t leave her alone; to them, she was the perfect target. They said the most awful things to her. Once, one of the boys who lived across the street called Gila “Anak Babi”—the offspring of a pig. It wasn’t until much later, as I watched another boy elicit a good slap and a string of angry rebukes from his grandmother for using the same phrase, that I realized what a taboo insult this was in a Muslim society where pigs are the ultimate unclean animals. But as for Gila, she smiled idiotically at the voices of children calling her names in a sing-song chorus, while the grown-ups ignored it all, never bothering to interfere.

One day, the sky was overcast, full of angrylooking clouds that threatened to spill over but never did. An occasional drop of rain hit my bare arms,

prompted by a slight rumble as if the clouds were conversing ominously with one another, trying to decide whether or not to flood the earth with their swellings.

"You stepped on the line!” I pointed at the white hopscotch line Ana’s foot had grazed moments ago, leaving a smudge which interrupted the squiggly chalk mark on the cement surface. Our shoes lay abandoned on the grass some few feet away.

“Did not!” she snapped back.

“Yes, you did! See?” “Okay, fine,” she sighed. “It’s your turn.” My neighbor and playmate from two houses down threw me the pebble and wiped her thin nose on the sleeve of her sundress. I caught the pebble with both hands and concentrated hard on square five, my next target, as my fingers stroked the smooth, flat surface of the small stone.

“Aah-choo!” Ana sneezed just as my arm swung forward, and the pebble, boosted by unwelcome momentum, landed hard on square seven, bouncing several times before coming to rest about a yard away from the carefully marked line.

“Hey!” I turned angrily at Ana. “That’s cheating!

You did that on purpose!”

Ana surveyed me coolly from her cross-legged perch by the banana tree, her dirt-encrusted fingers shredding an enormous leaf into thin hairs. Her skinny legs appeared extra long as they jutted out from under the stained and wrinkled frills of her dress, so far removed from the ironed hems of my own flowered cotton shorts that matched my top.

“It’s not like I touched you or anything, is it?” she said, tossing her short, straight hair back. She looked me square in the eyes until I let my defiance trickle back down. “Besides, I’m bored with this game. Let’s play something else.”

“Hey, can I play?” came a boy’s voice from behind the gates. An impish brown face was peering into our front yard, eyeing me with interest, and I remembered how Ana had once told me that boys liked me because I had lighter skin than other girls. I also knew this because Ana occasionally stole jealous looks at my arms and legs, lighter than hers despite the equal amount of hours spent together under the tropical sun.

“Go away, you nosy brat. Nobody asked you to bother us,” Ana said, and I raised my chin in support of her retort. “If you stick so much as a finger through that gate, I’m gonna beat you up so bad you’ll..."

We all stopped at a familiar sound that echoed down the street. The boy, neglecting his former

objective, turned and ran down the street toward the noise. Ana and I knew what was coming even before our straining eyes could spot anything as we stuck our faces out from behind the metals bars of the gate.

“Gila~ Gila~ Kamu bodoh!” the boys chanted, dancing around her while she strolled down the street between the rows of houses with dirty dark windows and closed doors. Crazy woman, you are stupid. She, on the other hand, was smiling ecstatically, unaware of what they were saying.

Suddenly wanting to go inside, I tugged at Ana’s arm. But Ana opened the gate, a reckless look settling over her features as she dragged me out into the street instead. I stood frozen in my spot while they gradually approached, the chant growing louder and louder in my ears. The sky was growing darker by the minute, and I thought of how my mother should be calling us in any moment now.

“Ana,” I looked weakly at her, but she looked amused. That is, until Gila abruptly seized one of the boys by the arm in her excitement. The boy began to cry out of fright, struggling to free himself. When Ana picked up the first pebble, I didn’t realize what she was doing until it flew out of her hand. It hit Gila squarely in the forehead and left a small red mark. We all stared for a moment, but it wasn’t long before all the boys were flinging pebbles at her as well.

Gila, letting go of the boy who had now peed his pants, continued to grin and playfully dodged the blows while the pelting continued. It was a game for her. I winced when I looked at her calloused, bare feet dancing among the potholes on the road as if they didn’t feel the jagged concrete beneath them.

Then I felt something hard and cold: a large pebble. Ana pressed it into my hand with a reassuring glint in her eyes. I looked up at her—there was no mistaking what she wanted me to do. The air was damp and chilly, and the skin of my neck prickled against the fabric of my shirt. My breath came in short gasps as I stared at Ana, knowing that our friendship somehow depended on this moment.

Without thinking, I drew back my arm and flung the pebble in Gila’s direction. As it hung suspended in midair, I felt my insides twist, wanting more than anything to undo what I had just done, my fingers reaching out to take back what they had released a split second ago. My mind screamed for the wind to make my pebble swerve out of the way.

But it was too late.

As I watched, the pebble continued on its way to

39

Gila’s cheek, landing with an ugly thud. When it fell away, we all paused and gasped in shock at the bright red smear that instantly took its place.

Gila stopped dead in her tracks and brought her hand slowly to her cheek. The smile on her lips faded away.

All of a sudden my chest seemed to cave in, the muscles squeezing tightly around my heart. I felt sick.

Gila’s eyes narrowed as she spotted the red warmth on her hand, then she abruptly opened her mouth to let out an awful screech.

The boys scrambled away in every direction. I didn’t realize I was the only one still standing there, paralyzed with fear, until I heard Ana’s shout from some distance away.

My eyes widened as Gila noticed me and began to draw closer. I wanted to scream, but my throat choked it off with a squeeze. All I could hear was the roaring of blood as it rushed between my ears in giant waves.

Or was it the violent surge of rain as it began to pour down in sheets from the sky?

When at last she was so close that she seemed to be towering over me, I turned and started to run although I felt pinned down by the gushing downpour.

But I didn’t get far. I tripped over a pebble.

Gasping for breath from the shock of the tumble, I looked down at my knee where a searing pain was beginning to spread. Blood, mingled with gravel,

own sticky cheek. The warmth of her skin was startling, her blood briefly spreading over my clammy fingers before the rain washed it off. We both drew away our hands and stared at the fading redness on them momentarily. When I looked up into her face her eyes were so sad—as if they were crying although only raindrops splattered down her cheeks.

Then, as if a massive wave had swept over me, I felt my chest beginning to heave convulsively. Giant sobs escaped me as I crouched into a ball, the rain drumming down against the back of my head. Without looking, I felt her arms embracing me as we rocked back and forth together on the broken concrete, rolls of thunder smashing against the black sky to drown out my sobs and her moaning.

I saw her again yesterday, the first time in almost ten years. She looked just the same—the tangled mass of hair, the unchanging easy gait as she walked down the street as if she owned it. But under the faded blue dress, she had a huge, distended belly. Its implications nauseated me. Only moments later did I realize that she had a bundle of random articles—bamboo mats,

My mind screamed for the wind to make my pebble swerve out of the way.

But it was too late. dirt, and now rainwater, was slowly oozing out. Tears stung my eyes and my clenched throat emitted a slight moan.

A hand gently brushed against my knee.

I drew back in horror when I saw that Gila was sitting crouched by me, staring intensely at my wound.

The unfamiliar stench of her grime-coated skin enveloped me momentarily before losing itself amidst the scent of rain. With my sight blurred by tears and water, she looked to me like a hazy form, slipping in and out of vision between torrents of rain, almost like a ghost.

Gila came closer and put her hand gently on my bleeding knee, her darkness a stark contrast to my pale skin. Then, she took my hand and placed it on her

40

strips of ripped fabric, and bits of food— hidden inside her dress.

When she came closer, I saw that she was singing the familiar tuneless song with the same blissful expression on her face.

It took all the courage I had to hold my head up and look her in the face. As our eyes met briefly while she passed by, I could find no glint of recognition whatsoever. For a brief moment, a simultaneous sense of disappointment and relief swept over me.

But there was no way to ease the aching of my clenched chest when I spotted the small, red scar stretched over the weathered cheek when she offered a vacant smile.

RAHUL JINDAL

BA

IR A M CH RIS TIN A A

N

Angela Hou is a third year Biology and Psychologymajor,butstillanEnglishmajor at heart. :) She has greatly enjoyed working with Inkstone the past few years and looks forwardtoworkingonitagainnextyear.“For everything, I dedicate unto Your name.”

Caitlin Howarth is a second year kid in search of destiny and a good piece of brie.

She thanks everyone on the Inkstone staff for their talent, energy, and inexhaustible patience. They rock her socks.

Rosemary Liu is a first year who can’t think of an interesting blurb to write, so she’ll quote the great Arnold Schwarzeneggerwhenshesays“I’llbeback”towriteabetter one next year.

Binhong Lu says,“I was born approximately nine months aftermyparentsgotiton,probablysometimeaftertheygot married.Ninemonthsbeforethathappened,Itookaspace nolargerthantheperiodattheendofthissentence.Igoto UVa, along with all these other people, and I’m fairly sure there isn’t much more worth talking about, or that I’m not too lazy to talk about.”

AN

Karen Hu is a short bundle of energy and sometimes rage. She enjoys video games, MMORPGs, and reading. She is slightly crazy and a clean freak. She also likes fluffy kitties.

Rahul Jindal quotes T.S Eliot, “What have wegiven?Myfriend,bloodshakingmyheart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Whichanageofprudencecanneverretract By this, and this only, we have existed.”

Stephanie Kang, a 1st year year in the College, thinks the shrimpy computer in thebackshouldbethrownawaybecauseshe hasn’t seen anyone use it... EVER!... also runaway penguins are cute ^____^ Josephine Kim is a Ph.D. Candidate in the Elizabeth Chan is bidding adieu to Inkstone after 4 years of sweat, counselor education program. Her clinical metaphor and HTML. She will recall her fond experiences (with a tear) andresearchinterestsincludemulticultural every time she sees a rubber chicken or a prison. Thank you. and spiritual issues in counseling and supervision, childhood and adolescent ElizabethChiuhopesthatyoufindthislayoutblurb-errificandsoy-full. risk and prevention of psychopathology, development and adjustment in children RupaDasGuptaisafourthyearstudioartandpsychologymajorwhose andadolescents,andmentalhealthissuesof favorite mediums are red food coloring and red wine.

Korean Americans and their families.

John MacDonald has appreciated (enjoyed) the power invested in him by Inkstone. He will continue to use this force for good and not evil.

Erin Whitney McCabe worked as a door-to-door TupperwaresaleswomanintheAustralianoutbackuntilan unfortunateboomerangincidentbroughtherbacktothe States and UVa in particular, where she is a second-year Englishmajor.Erinenjoysback-alleyknifefights,capitalism, drag queens and political correctness.

Anna Christina Mirabal quotes John Lennon in saying, “All you need is love.” She also remembers the words of Isidore DucasseLautreamont:“Melancholy andsadnessarethestartofdoubt... doubtisthebeginningofdespair; despair is the cruel beginning of the differing degrees of wickedness.”

Sarah Nie has recently discovered the power of SoBe Adrenaline Rush drinks and would like to thank The Academy.....and Cheese.

Juliana Schroeder is a first yearwhoseeventualgoalisto beinvolvedwitheverysingle University activity so that she IN A MI willhavealegitimateexcusetoget RA BAL no sleep on a regular basis. Of course, Inkstone will always secretly (or not so secretly) hold the most tender spot in her heart.

T

IS HR

Staff

Elisabeth A. Seng (Class of 2004) is a Community Scholar at the University ofVirginia.While she waits for responses fromgraduate-levelcreativewritingprograms,sheenjoys

Ashley Simpson says, “As a first-year at theUniversity,Ichangemymindeveryday about what I want to study. I am from the lovely Northern Virginia, and I write for The Cavalier Daily.”

Shi-Shi Wang is a Missouri girl born in Wuhan, China and lived in Konstanz, Germany for five years. A Foreign Affairs majorandEnglishminorwholovesChanel and can afford vintage. Reads The Paris Review and Kate Chopin; worships Amy Tan and Michael Cunningham. Most importantly, is extremely grateful for all that she has.

Hyung-Jin Won wants to live in the mountains and own a vineyard much like his maternal grandfather did back in Korea. In no way will this venture be profitable, as he will spend much time drinkinginthesceneryanddrinkingwith the scenery.

Kevin Wong is a 4th year English major in the College. He plans on pursuing culture journalism and finishing his screenplay.Someofhisbestmemoriesare of Inkstone, and he has an amazing, supportive staff to thank for that.

Kudos!

PaulineWu is a fourth year whose worth lies in her identity as a child ofGod,andnotesthat,“...withGod, all things are possible.” (Matthew 19:26). She is ridiculously proud to have been a part of the Inkstone staff :-D

AC ANN

AnnFuisafirst-yearwhoreallydoesn’tknowwhatablurbconstitutesand Third year Esther Lim is a dazed and is hoping this will do. Perhaps she will learn by next year? confused product of three worlds which wrestleforpossessionoverthedeepestcoreof Preston Gisch says, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.” herbeing.Writingistheoutletthroughwhich shehopestosetthemstraight(andshowthem Emily Goldstein is a second-year English major. Though her poem is who’sboss).Otherwise,shehasahappyand entitled“Driving to Newark,”she did not actually scribble it out on the peaceful life. dashboardofhercarwhiledriving;sheisagood,focuseddriver.Justsoyou know. She is from New Jersey, and most likely, you’re not.

Nan S. Ling is a third year at the University, second year member of Inkstone staff, Sou-Yeon Han says, “Hi!” probably the only member who does not likemilkbubbletea,cheerleaderofInkstone RodgerHartleysadlyannouncesthathisbrilliantfanciescannotappear magazine,andveryproudtopromotealittle tonightduetoillness.TheroleoftheSublimewillbeplayedbysomepretty bit of intercultural awareness at UVa. Gooo uninspired photos.

Inkstone!!!

KristenLuigartsays,“Withroachburnsindesignerdresses, skinstretchedtightoverhighcheek-bones,andthousandsof tinydrynesslinesbeatingapathtothecornersofyoureyes.”

teaching, singing, swing dancing, puns, writing, and anime.

Contributors &

L

Unlike most,William Barratt can spell“Kazakhstan”in three languages andlocateitonamap.Thoughheattributesthepublicationofhispoemin Inkstonemoretoitsbrevitythantoitsquality,hethankstheLordandhis various English teachers for the ability to write good verse.

Fei Yang has so many thoughts in her head that it’s hard to draw one out,resultinginspeechthatiseither faster than Nascars or inarticulate confusion.Writingisablessing,thecalm eye of a hurricane in tumultuous days.

Shout out to all the awesome Inkstone peepsthatmadethededicationcompletely worthwhile.

Sara Yenke is too busy kerning and justifying text to write a blurb.

(Poor Shrimpy!)

RUPA DASGUPTA