Many Japanese expats here in the States often speak of the “suffocating” feeling of being in Japan, but I’ve never heard it from a non-Japanese. This feeling has nothing to do with the fact that Japan is a small country or that you have to live in a tiny closet apartment. Rather, it is to do with the culture, such as social expectations, notions of shame, conformity, and honor. I would imagine that, for a foreigner to feel this sense of suffocation, he/she would have to have a deep understanding of the social fabric of Japan. The following is an interesting essay on this subject written by an American artist in Virginia, USA.

http://www.traces.ws/writings/gambatte.htm

Greetings, dear Reader. Some may wander through the Zen garden and rake sand to find inner tranquility and others may meditate under the weeping willow by the creek full of cavorting fat carp fish. But I wax philosophic on the following photograph:

Who is who? For the discerning popular culturalist, s/he would correctly identify Lisa Ling, ex-co-host of The View on ABC as the one on the left; and Lucy Liu, the infamous actress known for portraying Ling, Dragon Lady extraordinaire, on Ally McBeal as the one on the right.

Perhaps Ms. Wu has sleep in her eyes, but for a great while, I was under the impression that these two women were the same person. They both seem to be popular with American mainstream culture and with mens magazines. A rather curious coincidence indeed that recalls an old Chinese folklore called aping a beauty.

Folklore notes a famous beauty named Xi Shi whose beauty was unrivaled in all of old China. Unluckily for Xi Shi, she also suffered horribly from an ailment of the heart and was often seen clutching her chest and wincing in pain with pinched brows. A neighborhood girl who did not know Xi Shis health condition misconstrued her wincing face and clutching bosoms for gestures worthy of imitating. So she began to walk about the village aping the beauty to ridicule and unfortunate results.

Now, I wonder, who is aping whom?

Til next time,
Ms. Wu

Fellow Readers, greetings. When someone poses the question Where are you from? how do you answer? I for one always answer Shanghai followed with China for the rare few who are so smitten with my beauty that I must further reinforce a world geography lesson for the dirty and naughty schoolboy in all men.

However I have as of late observed that this question, harmless enough in a multicultural grab bag like this fine city, can create great duress and offense to certain people of the Asian appearance and persuasion. When a NALP (Non-Asian Looking Person) asks where I am from, I presume that the question is in fact an implicit inquiry of my ethnicity. The subtle stress on the words are and you in the question suggest that they are by no means interested in a domestic locale such as Brooklyn, and they certainly would be enormously disappointed should this pair of rose petal lips answer with a ghastly, Ohio. I have never assumed the worst in the NALP for noticing my physical difference (after all how could he not notice?), nor have I assumed that this NALP is discriminating and treating me with political in-correctness. For the life of me, I couldnt conjure another way of inquiring anothers ethnicity. One cant very well say, Your eyes sho look funny. Where are you folk from anyway? Or Whats that language you be speakin theres? Would the incensed Asian Looking Person (pun intended) be less indignant if the NALP had explicitly asked, What country are you from?

One particular encounter I will recount demonstrates the complexity and subtle political play involved in our innocuous question. An Asian looking man and I were having a lovely conversation and sharing typical immigrant stories of growing up as one of the few Asian families living in our town. You gentle, sophisticated Readers may find nothing remarkable or worth noting about this, but I must remind you, in the olden days before feng shui and Pearl River Imports became popular, wearing a Chinese-styled dress to school did not elicit compliments and positive attention. Since I could not tell whether my companion was of the Chinese, Korean, or Japanese descendent, I asked him the question.

Brooklyn, he answered matter-of-factly.
I meant where were you born? I persisted.
Brooklyn, he said again unblinking.
What ethnicity are you? I finally inquired. Correctly this time.
He was Chinese.

Aye, and there is the rub. National versus ethnic identity has created the ideology of being a dash-American. No one else in other countries identify himself as an Chinese-English, Chinese-French, or a Chinese-Kiwi. A Chinese-American, Japanese-American, or the all-encompassing Asian-American exists only in America where it suggests: A) I am not FOB (fresh off the boat), B) Dont ask me questions about feng shui or what my Chinese name is, or C) Watch what you say around me.

Although I do think that having a strong sense of ones national identity is important, I do not think that this sense can be defined through nomenclature nor through employing a language of denial. Belonging, entitlement, and the right-to-be-here are ideologies that can not be shaped by attaching a dash after ones ethnic root. Does anyone really care what comes after dash? I do not.

But it appears to matter a great deal to many. Then again, these are probably the people who think Amy Tan is the best thing to happen to Chinese-Americans.

Til Next Time,
Ms. Wu

Greetings, World. I must apologize again for my tardiness in showering you with my words. I know I send shivers down your spine and ripples of wanton desire through your rippled loins. Yes, that is the way of the Wu.

The way of Moi has been terribly occupied in consulting for a major international cosmetics company. These poor souls with big, round eyes who want to tap into the Asian market have not a clue on the mysteries of the Oriental Eye.

The single eyelid.

Accursed to some and quite lovely to others such as Moi, the epicanthic fold has always been a point of contention and debate among Asian women. Defined in the dictionary as “a vertical fold of skin from the upper eyelid that covers the inner corner of the eye,” this piece of skin is more popularly known in Asian communities as the “single eyelid” as opposed to the “double eyelid” common in Caucasian features.

Blepharoplasty, a surgical procedure in which “single eyelid” women can have their eyes “fixed” to have a “double eyelid” look, is common in Asian countries along with other forms of tormenting rituals such as eyebrow and eyeliner tattooing. Many of my Shanghai flowers back in the days pinched and saved their earnings just to have the surgery. It would make my eyes look more beautiful, they’d say. My eyes will look bigger. I will look more like Hollywood movie star. And if one could not afford blepharoplasty, one can simply purchase little crescent-moon shaped “eye tapes” from the cosmetic store. This creates a temporary crease on one’s eyes but it is also known to cause blistering. Alternatively, one can emulate the ways of Connie Chung and apply an impressive amount of blue eyeshadow on one’s eyelids and hope ones eyes look doubly big.

Many a times I have lost my patience during conversations with Asian women who contemplate having their eyes fixed. On one level, I empathize with them. Applying eye makeup is much easier on double eyelids. Curling one’s eyelashes also creates a more dramatic flare on double eyelids. But on another level, the fake double eyelid makes one appear either terribly sad or extremely sleepy. And frankly, it’s simply unnecessary. I like to use Adobe Photoshop, the founder of imageering, as an example. The Oriental Eye is becoming quite fashionable and so intriguing that Adobe has changed their trademark non-Asian eye to a progressively more Asian-looking eye.

My single eyelids have never been a burden. They match my dark, shapely eyebrows. They match my jaunty cheekbones. They match my voluptuous nectar-filled lips. And many a man have fallen prey under their intense hooded lure (some ancient spells made from deer penis helps as well). All in all, Ms. Wu asks you, why tamper with perfection? Lastly, I leave you with these words. The mysteries of the Oriental Eye lies beneath its almondine shadows, and its beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.

Until next time I bid you zai-jian,
Ms. Wu

What I’m about to tell you may be very specific to New York, but there has been a trend among Chinese and Korean restaurateurs to open Japanese restaurants without paying any respect to the art of Japanese cuisine. This is obviously done solely to take advantage of the bigger profit margin associated with Japanese cuisine. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against Chinese or Korean people. And, I respect their cuisines just as much as I respect Japanese cuisine. I’m also aware of the frustration Koreans have about the Japanese people making Kimchi that does not meet the Korean standard. My problem is that I just don’t like people who disrespect the cultures of others, and do nothing but to exploit them.

Read the full article at DYSKE.COM

Greetings, fellow readers.

I have long heard of the durian fruit. Omnipresent in all Asian supermarkets and in street vendor carts in Chinatown, it’s spiky surface and rough brown skin stand out quite jarringly next to the succulent sweet shape of peaches, lychees, and mangos. Not to be mistaken with the “Ugly Fruit” that one sometimes sees in supermarkets, the durian fruit’s reputation proceeds its taste. So fetid it is that in some countries it is banned from public places and transportation vehicles.

Often likened to the stench of sewers or an oven gas-leak, the taste of the durian fruit has also been likened to the taste of a woman’s “lotus flower.” I have met a quite few men who have confessed their initial shock from the head-reeling foul-smell of a ripe durian exposed wide open in front of them. But almost all the men developed a monomaniacal craze for that “special durian taste.” I just can’t get enough of it, one said to me in confidence. It’s just like WOMAN, the other said with emphasis. And as these men described the taste of the durian to me, a mist would glaze over their eyes so full of lust and wanton as if the mere thought of the durian itself is titillation enough.

I myself have never tasted a durian, but I have used it as a way of measuring a man’s worthiness of my lotus blossom. One can tell many a thing from how a gentleman caller consumes the fruit. Some gently nibble and lick like a tender pup who is not worthy of a second glace. Others may prod a bit with their mouths without passion. And there are those who truly devour the durian like a wily adventurer parched from his long travels in the unforgiving Mongolian desert. Those are the ones to keep around.

Til next time learn about the durian,
Ms. Wu

Today, I brood.

As a loyal patron of Ten Ren^* Teahouse in Chinatown for four years, last weekend I had purchased my usual 1 pound of tea for Old Master Chang. Old Master Chang was my mentor during the three years of my political exile. I was hiding in the mountains and earning food and boarding by sweeping floors and doing other menial work in the Taoist temples of a small village. I limited my contact with people and the outside world to a minimum. Deadly afraid I was of being discovered by the Red Guards. I was young, willful and desperate to belong to a political ideology. Old Master Chang understood the demons hunting my soul and taught me how to harness them. The time I spent with this sage is an epic in itself, but for now, I return to the malicious way Ten Ren treated La Me Me.

As soon as I arrived home, I realized that I had accidentally purchased Jasmine Tea instead of Dragon Well Tea. Old Master Chang would have been pleased regardless of which tea I sent him, but because it was important to me that he has the tea he likes, I went back to Ten Ren the following day to ask for an exchange.

An exchange, mind you. Not a refund. Not an upgrade to a more expensive tea. Just a simple exchange. The same saleswoman was there so I approached her.

“I bought the wrong tea yesterday,” I said to her in Mandarin. “I would like to exchange it for the right one. But if your store policy doesn’t allow exchanges, I understand and will get a new one.”

She took the bag of tea, placed it on the scale, and shook her head. “No. We wouldn’t have sold you this bag of tea. Look here,” she pointed to the digital read-out on the scale. “It says 0.9 pounds. We would never sell tea at this amount. We always sell by the pound.”

Surprised, I was. The thought of double-checking whether the salesperson was selling me short has never crossed my mind. When I buy my favorite cheese at Dean & Deluca, I don’t double-check the scale to ensure the weight of my purchase. These are things I take for granted in a culture based on consumerism. These are things one should be able to take for granted especially in a specialty store. Aghast at the sudden realization of who knows how often Ten Ren might have been short-selling me, I looked at the digital display. Indeed it read 0.9 pounds.

I can’t exchange this because look here,” she went on. “It’s all loose on top here. I would have packed the bag tight. And this tape here, anyone could do this.” She lifted the strip of yellow sealer tape with “Ten Ren” printed on it. Another saleswoman, an older one, came over to the counter now. After she inspected the bag of tea, she chimed in. “Ah, no, no. We wouldn’t sell like this. Not at 0.9 pounds. This is not us.”

I didn’t know whether I was feeling more shocked or disgusted at their suspicious behavior. Why would I steal 0.1 pound of tea? What would I do with it? Obviously the golden mantra of all good business “The Customer is Always Right” didn’t apply. Fortunately since I haven’t had my Sunday brunch yet, I was quite sober and was able to control my temper and composure.

“You are the one who sold it to me,” I said. “I come here all the time. Why would I want to cheat you of 0.1 pound of common tea?”

Thus ensued five to ten minutes of verbal volleying. Them saying they didn’t sell the bag to me, and me telling them they did. And all this time, my Kiwi Man quietly watched with hands crossed at his chest. I was on the verge of leaving the damn bag on the counter and go to a Japanese tea store where at least they have mastered the etiquette of business-making when they finally gave in. The older saleswoman was mumbling banal expressions of polite-talk that I listened to with a half-interested ear. Then she gestured to Kiwi Man and said to me, “Make sure you explain to him. Make sure he doesn’t have any misunderstanding.” What about my misunderstanding of the way they treat their customers? And what of the possibility that Ten Ren may be short-selling many of their unwary customers? Did my impression and understanding not count? They seemed more worried that Kiwi Man’s impression of them might be tainted rather than losing a long-time customer like myself.

As I left Ten Ren, I felt a sense of sadness mingled with pity. Part of me was embarrassed that it was true. The illness. The illness that plagues many Chinese companies who wish to break into the American market and business world. Old Master Chang told me of it when I decided to leave Shanghai for America. He had called it: Kissing the white man’s butt but kicking your own.

The present political climate as it is between China and Taiwan and China’s desire to be reckoned as a world power militarily and economically, this type of attitude is not beneficial to anyone. If there is any chance of world peace, global business and trading is the arena in which the idea of “peace” can be first practiced. To alienate certain customers and to acquiesce to others is a stupid way of doing business and a sorry way of treating people especially if one wishes to be recognized internationally. Businesses who want to break out of the glass ceiling should seriously reconsider who they are pulling a Subservient Coolie on. If there is anyone they should gain favor from other than Uncle Sam are hybrid persons who embody elements of both cultures, who can critique the good and bad of both, and who can sucessfully assist them in building a bridge between the East and West.

But alas. This tea house at least has permanently burned its bridge to any kind of heavenly benevelonce with me.
Until next time,
Ms. Wu
^*Ten Ren translates to “heavenly benevolence.”