Contributed by award-winning author, Ed Lin

[Note: Ed Lin generously conducted a writing workshop that would help launch our community Anthology book project. Thank you, Ed!]

I am willing to tell you about my writing process in the form of snippets if you promise me that you won’t adopt any of it wholesale. What works for me probably won’t for you, although I hope you find elements that are useful.

I can reduce my method to three phrases: 1) no rituals; 2) follow your distractions fully; and 3) let your kids play.

Well, when I was trying to seriously write my first book, I had set up all these rules for getting in the “writing zone.” I had to have a certain CD on, a certain snack at the ready and a two-bottle liter of Coke with a certain cup to drink it from.

I think I coped with that for a few months when I realized that I had set up a ritual for my writing. Some nights I would pass on writing because, oops, there were no more chocolate-coated Digestive cookies. No Coke in the house? Guess I can’t write.

Having a ritual wasn’t helping me to prep to write. It was an excuse *not* to write.

I ended up scrapping everything. No more excuses. I drank water and I wrote.

It’s hard for me to have a regular writing schedule because all too often, I don’t feel like writing when the free time I’ve set aside arrives.

I am not a masochist. I will not chain myself to the computer in order to punch out a preset minimum of words. I will not live that stereotype of the writer going to a cafe…only to log in to social media or write emails.

If you’re going to procrastinate, why do it in a half-assed sort of way? Go to the movie theater. Watch two films. Take yourself out for a full meal. Get ice cream after. See concerts.

I believe that the impulse to procrastinate comes from the creative process. That process can’t be completed if you keep forcing your brain back to the keyboard. Don’t be that parent trying to drag their kid back into the house. Let your kid run loose. Indulge your imagination.

What always happens — for me, anyway — is that I’ll be lost in a film and then realize something about what I am writing, what the next step should be or how to fix an element that wasn’t working. I’m newly motivated and I can’t get to my keyboard fast enough.

One of my favorite writers, Charles Willeford, believed in the art of apparently doing nothing in order to further his writing. I’m not going to put it in quotes because I don’t remember the exact wording, but he said something along the lines of: You’re really writing but your wife just sees you sitting there, drinking a beer.

The last thing I’ll say about my writing process in this space is that I never work on just one story or book. I always have at least two active files I work on. I am easily bored and nothing can do it like working on just one thing. I started what became my second book, This Is a Bust, even before I was done with my first, Waylaid. The latter had a first-person voice that was so, um, extroverted and driven, it left a vacuum in my mind that I had to fill with the extremely withdrawn and marginalized character of Robert Chow in Bust. Working on one primed me to work on the other.

I used to only write two books at the same time but lately, it’s been one book and a series of short stories on the side. Or short stories and a book on the side.

I became a father almost four years ago and since then I’ve been writing short stories and giving them boys’ names. I’m not sure why I’m writing short stories because I haven’t written many before. I don’t tell my kids how to play, I just let them.

Ed Lin, a native New Yorker of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards and is an all-around standup kinda guy. His latest book, Incensed, a Taipei-based mystery, was published by Soho Crime in October.

Support your independent bookstore by purchasing it here!

Here is a listing of Ed Lin’s books.

This month’s blog contributor is Dmae Roberts who wrote the story, My Brother–The Keeper, in our Anthology, Where Are You From?: An Anthology of Asian American Writing

For years I’ve whimsically called myself “Secret Asian Woman.” White people generally assume I’m white and have turned to me with a “wink-wink, nudge-nudge” look when they’ve made a comment or joke about Asians. Other Asians have expressed astonishment when I’ve revealed my bi-racial identity.

As Secret Asian Woman, my mission has been to call out racism that’s usually directed at other people. I’ve spent my adult years looking for a name to answer the question: what are you? I’ve usually had to check the “other” box when identifying my race. It’s only been in the last decade that there has been a mixed-race, multiracial or bi-racial category.

I was born in Taiwan and lived in Japan until I was eight-years-old. When my family moved to Oregon, we lived pretty much in isolation regarding other APIs. Before social media, mixed-race people couldn’t find each other as easily as we can now. I find hope in all the mixtures of millennial Americans who accept each other’s races without having to define it into a “check other” box. Social media allows people to call out racism more easily and to find community and kinship as multiple races.

In 1989, I came out from “undercover” as a secret Asian when I created my radio documentary Mei Mei, A Daughter’s Song. Since then I’ve written personal radio pieces, stage plays and essays delving into my identity and family history. During the three-year period of my mom’s illness, I started several chapters of a memoir while taking care of her. After she passed away, writing about the grieving process got too painful so I paused for a couple of years. Instead I excerpted short essays from the larger memoir that were published in anthologies, magazines and my Asian Reporter column. One piece was My Brother—The Keeper, which was published in Where Are You From?

I pitched my memoir to agents and publishers at a couple of writing conferences, but they all seemed confused and resistant to my story because it was so intertwined with my family stories. Agents especially would ask, “Is it your story or your mom’s or brother’s story?” And while they responded to my mom’s WWII dramatic story of being sold into servitude in Taiwan when she was a child, they thought my personal story didn’t have the same drama. It didn’t seem enough to write an honest exploration into identity and family history.

So last year I received a grant from the Regional Arts and Culture Council to hire editors and formatters to independently publish The Letting Go Trilogies: Stories of a Mixed-Race Family. The stories are sets of three essays that were written over a decade about mixed-race identity and my family’s experiences. I also include the stories I wrote when my mom was ill. It’s all about letting go of the pain, grief, anger and regret I’ve experienced in Oregon. It’s also about forgiving one’s self in order to move forward and heal. My book has become a way to start conversation about what it’s like to be mixed-race in a mostly white area. It’s empowering for me, and, I believe, for people who read it.

All my life I’ve had difficult conversations with people about race when I lived in Eugene and then Portland. In the next year, I’ll be having new kinds of conversations as part of the Oregon Humanities Conversation Project. My topic is entitled: What Are You? Mixed-Race and Interracial Families in Oregon’s Past and Future. I’ll be going to different towns and cities in Oregon, leading conversations about mixed-race. I’m looking forward to having these conversations. Mixed-race is the fastest growing demographic. Finally, more people like me. Perhaps I’ll get to talk with you either at a book reading or a conversation project event. I hope so. Secret Asian Woman is not so secret anymore.

The Letting Go Trilogies is available via CreateSpace. (See also my detailed bio.) It is available in both book and Kindle formats on Amazon. It’s also available directly from me on my website. My other projects are available at MediaRites.

Contributed by one of our Anthology authors, Ben Efsaneyim

[Note: in the Anthology, Ben wrote What a Difference a Word Makes and we inadvertently misspelled Ben’s last name as Efsanem. Ah, what a difference two letters can make! Sorry, Ben, and thank you for writing your novel so we now have this opportunity to correct our error.]

Nothing into Something: The Legend of Fu

It is a bizarre paradox to consider that nothing – i.e. the absence of a thing or anything – could serve as an inspiration for a novel. Yet, as I began to learn more about the story of the first Chinese migration to America, I came to realize that the rich history of these primary waves of migrants has lacked an American cultural narrative. As I delved deeper into this history, I came to realize that there was a very good reason why America has chosen to forget.

As soon as the first Chinese immigrants began to arrive on the West Coast in the mid-nineteenth century, hostility towards their presence began to emerge. Over the ensuing decades, a campaign of hatred was waged against them that can easily be described as an ethnic cleansing. More than seven decades of an Asian migrant group’s history has effectively been erased. This absence of a cultural narrative is what prompted me to write The Legend Of Fu.

Our culture abounds with stories of Wild West heroes engaged in dramatic duels with gun-slinging outlaws, hardy pioneers who braved attacks from Natives to build new lives, and grizzly beast-men, both terrifying and adored for their ruddy tenacity in the wild, wild wilderness. By contrast, the bravery, tenacity, hardiness, and heroism of Chinese migrants beset by violence, as well as social and political exclusion, are missing from cultural narratives describing the period. The Legend Of Fu interweaves factual incidences of mob violence and anti-Chinese racism to show how the power of racial stereotyping defines an ethnic minority so that society’s engagement with them is based solely on these racist beliefs.

The demonization of Asian men constitutes the other major theme in the book. The novel re-frames the idea of the Asian arch-villain. The main protagonist, Fu, is fundamentally an arch-villain in the eyes of society but an arch-philanthropist in truth. He is an “anti-Fu Manchu” if you will, albeit set in story with the awkward reality of anti-Chinese racism added to the mix. In the stock stereotype, such Asian villains possess a dastardly supernatural power that aids them in their efforts to undermine Western civilization, all conducted from an underground secret lair in the exotic hell-hole of Chinatown. But such stereotyping does not allow for the possibility (and in the story, the reality) that Fu’s mystical connection can actually be a force for good.

Colleen, the other main character in the novel, is a white woman whose secrets from her past drive the action in the story. Through her character, I sought to glimpse the psyche of the white mainstream that persecuted the Chinese and to suggest that racial stereotypes are merely the worst aspects that a society refuses to see in itself and instead projects onto the Other.

The book is a fast-paced action thriller, set in 19th century San Francisco’s Chinatown, that follows the fortunes of Fu as he survives the brutality of a coolie ship, escapes to Mexico, and finally makes his way to America with his childhood friend, Gan. As a successful merchant and philanthropist, he inadvertently rescues Colleen from a brothel and immediately finds himself in the middle of an escalating intrigue. When a thousands-strong mob descends on Chinatown, Fu, Colleen, and his companions work feverishly to solve a mystery that could stave off their destruction. Amidst the real-time plot, the undercurrent of anti-Chinese racism and its resulting violence pervades the lives of the characters. Background stories are told in flashback, contextualizing the actions, thoughts and motivations of the main characters.

I pulled no punches with the depictions of the brutal persecution inflicted by white mobs, nor with the language used to dehumanize the Chinese. This was not done for shock value but simply as a genuine recounting of the events that inspired the novel.

History and historical experience are the foundations of identity. The Asian American narrative from this period is absent, meaning that all the heroic “founding fathers” of Asian America whose tenacity and bravery forged the basis of subsequent Asian migrations have not been given a voice in the tapestry of the American narrative.

In writing his book, I hope to achieve a realistic and accurate retelling of historical facts in a dramatized setting, devoid of the need to compromise truth.

For a more detailed book interview

The Legend of Fu is available for purchase

Rave reviews from readers

Bio: Ben is a writer who has lived in Istanbul, Turkey, with his wife and son since 2007. He has a Fine Arts background and studies and writes about Asian-American issues. He blogs, is passionate about playing the guitar, and draws and paints for pleasure. He is overly modest about his extensive knowledge of wines and regularly thrills his family with his cooking. The Legend of Fu is his first novel.

Contributed by Special Guest Writer, Anne Hawkins

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love to read. In elementary school, I read books about girls who always managed to get themselves in trouble – books like Ramona and Pippi Longstockings. Though I never gave it much thought, it made sense that I was drawn to books about characters who reminded me of me. As I grew older, my almost frenetic reading pace mirrored the urgency I felt to better figure out who I was and my place in the world.

I imagine like anyone, I struggled to develop my identity – but with constant reminders that no matter how I viewed myself, others felt that I did not quite belong. My Japanese grandmother never wasted an opportunity to tell me that I looked like my white father, while I was asked on an almost daily basis by the white people I grew up around, “What are you?”

I never knew what to say in either situation. I was sure if I kept reading I would find someone who would say it for me. Before high school, the only book I recall reading by an Asian-American writer was Farewell to Manzanar. That book, along with Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, had a profound impact on my political views, but I hardly identified with the life circumstances of the main characters.

In high school I stumbled upon Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club. The Chinese-American daughters in the book navigated two cultures, two languages, and two sets of often conflicting expectations. They weren’t me, but they were the closest I’d felt to characters who lived the tensions I had such difficulty articulating. Suddenly, I knew there was more out there that would get me closer to what I was looking for. And so I kept reading – and started asking for recommendations.

Someone recommended Kaui Hart Hemmings’ The Descendants to me because my family is from Hawaii and it’s set in Hawaii; I enjoyed it. Someone recommended a Kazuo Ishiguro book to me because he’s from Japan (though raised in Britain) – I went on to love all his novels. My aunt got a little closer and recommended Barry Eisler’s John Rain series to me, which features a half-Japanese assassin. I certainly don’t identify with the assassin life, but Rain struggles with his mixed-race identity, even undergoing plastic surgery to make himself look more Japanese. Then, in anticipation of this blog piece, a friend recommended Patricia Park’s novel Re Jane which features a young half-Korean woman who returns to Korea to better understand her own identity. I had high hopes for this book – finally, the half-Asian fictional soul-mate I’d been in search of all my reading life. But alas, Jane was nothing like me. She never knew her father, and her mother passed away when she was quite young. She was raised in a predominantly Korean-American neighborhood – lost in many ways that had nothing to do with her mixed-race background. Lacking a connection to Jane, I felt more disconnected than I’d felt since I was a kid – which is not a reflection on the quality of the book, only on my unrealistic expectations. When I finished the book, I turned back to The Joy Luck Club.

One of the characters in The Joy Luck Club comments: “I wanted my children to have the best combination: American circumstances and Chinese character. How could I know these things do not mix?” I see that conflict in me – but I also see my life experience in its entirety as profoundly American – mixing races and cultures may not be as cut-and-dried as Tan’s character wanted, but it’s an experience no better or worse than any other. And this is why nowadays when I do feel like answering the question, I say that I am mixed-race. I don’t pick one because I’m not one. I don’t say “half-Asian” because I feel like that ignores that I am also “half-white,” with all the privileges that identity may afford me. I am finally able to see this identity as liberating. We’re all more than our race or ethnicity – even if, like me, it may inform and shape so much. We’re all trying to figure out who we are. But, so many people need us to be one thing that they think makes us easier to understand. To be mixed may raise questions, but it suddenly somehow explains why I am made up of conflicting beliefs and interests. It makes it okay that they didn’t know what I was because, after all, mixing things up is just complicated. For all those years I spent defined by what I was not, it’s suddenly perfectly fine to just be who I am. And someday (especially now with the help of the internet), I’ll find that book with a character who truly understands me.

Bio: Anne Hawkins is a criminal defense attorney in San Francisco, California. She is the daughter of a third-generation Japanese-American mother and a fifth-generation Irish-English-American father. She lives in the Bay Area with her husband and three children. This year, she was thrilled when her son’s preschool teacher read Grace Lin’s Where the Mountain Meets the Moon to his class. Her favorite authors include Amy Tan, Kazuo Ishiguro, Haruki Murakami, and Gail Tsukiyama. Recommendations welcome: annehawk@yahoo.com.

Contributed by Special Guest Author, Pearl Rockett

I grew up in Upcountry Maui on a huge ranch. The Ulupalakua Ranch provided homes to all the families working there. The families living there were mainly cowboys and ranch hands. My father worked as a store clerk and Mom was a maid for the Baldwins, owners of the Ranch. Families were mainly people of Hawaiian ancestry, though some were Japanese like my family. I had the best times playing with all the children but developed the closest relationships to those who lived nearest to my home.

There was a forest behind our home, filled with tall and very old Eucalyptus trees. The forest was so filled with trees and wild plants that one could not see through it to its end. Kaniu, Powell and I made a “house” under huge tree trunks that had fallen from wind or age. We would play “pretend school” where one was a teacher and the others, students … or mamangoto where we would cook using tree branches, leaves and old bark from the trees. The forest also was our hideout when we played cowboys and Indians.

I grew up with families who were respectful of each other, caring, loving, and warm and kind. To this day, I feel very close to these children who are now adults and have moved out of Ulupalakua and have families of their own. My mother, brother, and I are always invited to gatherings or luaus that these former Ulupalakua families have. We have a strong bond of Aloha. It would be inconceivable for us to not attend the funerals of our Ulupalakua friends, because they mean so much to us.

My idyllic childhood ended when I had to attend high school. Transportation to a high school was a big problem, because my mother didn’t drive and Dad had to work. My parents found a family who would let me live with them, so I moved from rural Ulupalakua to the “city” of Wailuku so I could walk to Baldwin High School. In exchange for room and board, I worked as a live-in maid/babysitter in this Wailuku home. It was very difficult to transition from a country girl to a city girl. I had to iron the family’s clothing, especially the white shirts, till midnight every Friday and Saturday nights. I cleaned the home, babysat a 1-yr-old boy, and had to deal with his two very overwhelming brothers who were about 11- and 13-years-old.

The baby was sweet and smiled at me the first time I met him. I had never babysat before but learned very quickly! The younger brother would torture me by hitting me when I wasn’t looking, taunting me to no end. One evening when I went back to my room and opened the door, a spider was dangling right in front of my eyes! Another night, I walked into a string that was taped across my doorway in a zigzag manner. You should have heard the laughter. Sometimes they would hide in the bathroom, throw things at me, and shoot me with their water pistols. Boys! The older one was kinder and usually was cordial towards me but did conspire with his younger brother. He was into girls and didn’t have as much time to be mischievous. The boys in Ulupalakua were never so naughty. I remember crying in the shower every night for several months just because of the strangeness of my new way of life.

Despite this, I adapted to the ways of this family and accepted their mannerisms and attitudes. I admired the mother for her love of books. She had a bookshelf from floor to ceiling, her own personal library, and she would read to her boys all the time. She loved poetry and introduced me to the poet Shelley. At dinner, she would read stories to the boys and me. By the time I got to my room in the evenings, it was 8pm and hardly time to do ALL my homework. Many times I fell asleep on my books. It was during this time that I read Gone with the Wind. I loved that book. I owe all the books I’ve enjoyed to the mother who inspired me to read.

I always admired how the mother carried herself; she most definitely grew up with the “silver spoon in her mouth.” Still, she was kind and caring towards me. She also liked to laugh and was a cheerful person with a wonderful sense of humor. She never criticized me and would often ask me to ask my teacher about some science question. She played bridge with her lady friends, and I always liked those days because I could eat the leftover mint and jellied candies. I remember being hungry all the time.

I was impressed with the “power” of the elite, as the Baldwins were. One evening a plane flew over their home and its loud engine frightened the family enough so that the younger boy dived under the table. The father immediately called the FAA and asked them to change the route of the plane. In my own home, we were taught to gaman and tough it out. It was an awakening for me to see how different this family’s culture was from mine.

I regret not having fun high school experiences. I couldn’t go to the dances, participate in plays, clubs, Rally Week, etc. Always had to get home to babysit. But, I believe I have survived this far because I had to grow up fast. My reflections of those days are mostly good memories, and I do have a soft spot for the boys. That kolohe younger brother became a Hawaii State Representative. The “baby” is working on a tour boat. The mother lives in Oregon with her oldest son. Recently, two of the mother’s friends passed away … brought back memories for me. In fact, the daughter-in-law of one of her friends plays on my tennis team. Small world.

To this day, I avoid ironing clothes and cleaning the house. I hate cleaning refrigerators!

I am now 69 years old with three adult children. I lost my husband 16 years ago and have adjusted to my solitary life in Wailuku. I visit my grandchildren on Oahu. I am retired and am having the best times of my life. Tennis keeps me socially-connected and physically-active. I still love to read and enjoy going to symphonic concerts. I also enjoy quiet times. I am at peace.

Bio: Pearl Rockett was born in Kula, Maui to parents of Japanese descent. She graduated from Maui Community College and worked most of her life for the State of Hawaii’s Department of Health, Wailuku, Maui. As an active retiree, she plays tennis four times a week and is her team’s captain. Her team plays in island-wide tournaments and sometimes even wins! As a volunteer for Na Hoaloha agency, she helps home-bound seniors who are still ambulatory by providing transportation to doctor appointments, shopping, community events, hair appointments, etc. She also dances hula, plays the ukulele, paints on canvas and silk scarves, swims, reads, travels, and parties.

Contributed by Special Guest Blogger/Speaker, Jason Shen

Some may ask, what’s the big deal in asking, “Where are you from?” It’s just four innocent words, right? People might ask this question in a spirit of genuine inquiry — as you get to know someone, you want to learn where they grew up, what their home environment was like, what their parents do, etc. But to many Asian Americans, this seemingly innocuous question (WAYF) can feel unfriendly, even alienating.

My study found that three quarters of Asian American men can recall being asked WAYF six or more times, specifically where the asker is looking to determine the other’s country of origin.

For Asian women, the issue is even worse, as it often gets wrapped around ideas of being “exotic,” “submissive” or other objectifying stereotypes. There’s a reason this “What Kind of Asian Are You?” comedy sketch, featuring a White guy trying to hit on an Asian woman, has nearly 9M views on YouTube.

What WAYF Sounds Like
Stranger: “Hey, where are you guys from?”
Me: “Well, I live here and my parents and sister are visiting from Boston.”
Long pause.
Stranger: “I mean what nationality are you?”
Me: “Well, I basically grew up in the United States and we’re all American citizens. So … we’re American.”
If the stranger persists, I will state that I was born in Suzhou, China and moved to the U.S. when I was young, to which the stranger usually offers nothing meaningful in response.

My sister was born here. I have lived in America for 27 years, am a U.S. citizen, was part of the United States Junior National Team for men’s gymnastics, was even recruited by the White House to serve the American people as a Presidential Innovation Fellow, and yet when someone looks at me, they presume I am from “somewhere else.”

It is easy to dismiss this story as “just something that happens” or say that “there will always be rude people out there,” but just because there will always be people who litter doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continually encourage people to dispose of their trash properly.

Edit 3/18: My coworker Joan pointed me to her friend’s amazing/horrifying Tumblr “Where is Your Face From” which chronicles more of these kinds of stories.

The Problem with “Where Are You From?”
1) The Implied Message
When someone asks you where you are from, the implication is that you are not from here. But where is here? Here could be interpreted in two ways: the physical region (e.g. New York City), or the psychological region the asker believes him or herself to occupy (e.g. “being American”). While some well-intentioned people mean the former, Asian Americans have experienced the latter often enough that it becomes internalized as the message.

Some people might justify this microaggression on the fact that Asian people are a relatively “new” minority and it’s true that 74% of Asians in America were born abroad. But that does not justify the presumption that someone who is Asian is “from” somewhere else. Perhaps they were born somewhere else, but many grew up in the United States and consider themselves part of American culture just like anyone else and to imply otherwise is unfriendly and even alienating. In addition, there are still 4.5M+ Asians living in the United States who were born in this country and should have their “I’m from Dallas/Michigan/the West Coast” response be completely accepted.

2) The Frequency
Receiving an implied message on a monthly, weekly, and for some people, daily basis, can really compound the alienation. Individually, micro-aggressions seem almost harmless, but in aggregate they can make you feel pretty bad.

3) The Timing
The negative effect of WAYF is exacerbated when the question is asked very early in an interaction. This leads to a feeling of objectification where it becomes clear the asker isn’t interested in them as a person, but how they can be categorized by a label. A person’s ethnic background is a personal topic and just being curious about it does not give one license to ask it in the first 15 minutes of a conversation, just as being curious about a scar on someone’s face does not give one license to ask about it right away.

4) The Responses to Your Question
WAYF is often followed up with more racial stereotyping. If you indicate somewhere in the United States (e.g. “I’m from LA.”), the polite folks will accept the answer and smile, the ruder ones will then ask, “But where were you born?” or “Where are your parents from?” etc until they finally get you to respond with your ethnic background.

Common responses include “compliments” like “You barely have an accent” or “I love _____ food!” which do little to further the conversation. I understand that these responses are often an attempt to relate to the other person but often feel forced and rely on stereotypes, increasing the sense of alienation. It promotes the feeling that there is so little that this person feels in common with me that they need to resort to my ethnic background to forge any kind of connection.

Suggestions for Improving on WAYF
1) Try rephrasing the question
If you want to get to know someone, why not try a question that is less threatening and gives the other person more of a chance to own their own narrative? These following questions allow the other person to share information that they feel would better help you understand them, which presumably is what you’re really after.

• Have you always lived around here?
• Where’s home for you?
• Where did you grow up?

2) Remember that something you ask once is something they hear often
Imagine you were born with a head of green hair. Of course people would be curious and you’d probably get many comments and questions about your hair — how did your hair get green? What’s it like having green hair? And while every person’s curiosity is genuine and not malicious, the sheer volume of questions is still a constant reminder that you look different from everyone else and there’s something off about you.

3) Try a different line of conversation altogether
I don’t think it’s controversial to say that most people, Asian or otherwise, want to be defined by what they’re doing and thinking and where they’re going, not where their “people” are from. Ask them their opinion on a recent news story or about any good books they’ve read recently or how they like to spend their time outside of work. Hell, even asking about their job, while trite, is at least a decision they had some choice in making. No one gets to decide which ethnic group they were born into.

So, please, think twice the next time you want to ask the question “Where are you from?”

Bio: Jason Shen is a product manager at Etsy, a global marketplace for unique and creative goods. He previously served as a Presidential Innovation Fellow and founded a venture-backed ridesharing startup. He leads the Asian American Man study, which was covered recently by National Journal, and writes at his blog The Art of Ass-Kicking. He holds a B.S. and M.S. from Stanford University and his work has appeared in the New York Times, Vanity Fair, and Marketplace. Jason was born in China, grew up in the suburbs of Boston, spent nearly a decade in Silicon Valley, and now lives in Brooklyn.

Contributed by Special Guest Author, Ed Lin

You may or may not know this, but I will never be the President of the United States of America.

I never made the right connections at college. I never worked the right summer jobs or ingratiated myself with the right people. I never showed that I cared.

The main reason why my site is “www.edlinforpresident.com” is that “www.edlin.com” was taken by a woman whose last name is my entire name. Also, I like the upbeat, optimistic “for president” angle. It’s perennially optimistic, as am I.

I actually did run for student council and club positions, including president, but the only position I ever won was president of the high-school German club, and that was only because voting was compulsory (it was German, after all) and my opponent was the top student and widely despised for being so. There were no debates, speeches or campaigns. It was just, check this or that. Well, if anything, it was a win for my college application.

As ridiculous as that election was, the contest we are witnessing now stretches the limits of hyperbole to describe. On top of all the trumpeting, this is the cycle that saw an Asian Pacific American at the debates. Undercard, yeah, but some of his highlights still made the news.

Unlike me, Bobby Jindal has an impressive resume, the kind the CEO of the United States should have. Led the Republicans group at Brown, check. Harvard Medical School and Yale Law School acceptances, check. Baptized as a Catholic, check. Interned with a U.S. Representative, check. Climbing up through “the system,” serving in Louisiana’s state government, becoming a U.S. Representative and then capturing Louisiana’s governorship, boom.

Despite all that, he fell far short in his Presidential run. Why? That affected Southern accent (that he didn’t have 20 years ago) for one thing. His race was another. The Left pummeled him for being the same shade of brown as the undocumented immigrants he railed against. The right wing judged him to be too geeky. Racists across the spectrum, of which there were many and who weren’t going to give him a chance, anyway, left comments such as “ISIS training camp” on a photo of a Jindal family hunting trip.

In addition, his second term as Louisiana’s governor was as hapless as the worst aspects of Jimmy Carter’s term. In fact, The Economist noted that Jindal’s approval rating in Louisiana had slipped to 32% last May – a breathtaking 10 percentage points lower than President Obama’s rating in that anti-Obama state.

What will it take to get an Asian Pacific American President? As far as circumstances are concerned, the economy will have to be booming, so sentiment and political rhetoric against job-stealin’ Asia subsides. As for the candidate in particular, she will have to be someone who has served the country (to remove any doubts about loyalty and patriotism) and who is charming even when delivering unpleasant truths. Tammy Duckworth combined with Aziz Ansari. Eric Shinseki melded with Russell Peters.

We’re talking about pretty much anybody but me. That’s all right. I’d rather be writing than President, anyway. I zone out during meetings. I don’t need your vote, but please remember, I do need your support. Read more books. Thank you.

Bio: Ed Lin, a native New Yorker of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards and is an all-around standup kinda guy. His latest book, Ghost Month, a Taipei-based mystery, was published by Soho Crime in July 2014.

Books

Contributed by Special Guest Storyteller/Author, Alton Takiyama-Chung

We are all storytellers. We communicate, remember things, and make sense of the world through narrative. When we speak of the kind of day we had or tell a joke, we are telling a story. We may have difficulty remember facts and dates, but likely we will have no trouble recalling our teacher telling us a story. In an argument or courtroom, the person who can weave a story which can best explain the facts in the most logical and elegant manner is usually the winner. We are all about story.

We often define ourselves by the stories we tell others and to ourselves. Through the Internet and TV, we are constantly being bombarded with stories that other people want us to take for our own. It is sometimes easy to forget our own stories and who we truly are.

In WWII, Japanese American soldiers in the 100^th Battalion/442^nd Regimental Combat Team who were mostly from the Internment Camps and Hawaii, were sent to fight in Europe and found themselves in situations where they had no idea how to behave. Some had gone to Japanese School in Hawaii before the War and had taken an Ethics class in which they were told stories of Japanese heroes and noble deeds. Not knowing what else to do, they patterned their behavior after these mythic heroes, gained the respect of friend and foe alike, and became the most decorated unit in US Military History. Stories are important because they tell us who we are.

There are a handful of Asian storytellers who perform nationally at large storytelling festivals and it is rare for any two of us to perform at the same festival at the same time. I tell stories from Asia, Hawaii, and from the Asian American Experience so that audiences may glimpse other cultures and hear other perspectives. It is an obligation, a duty, and a privilege.

I give voice to the stories of those who have no voice or who would rather not speak out. I am not Okinawan, but I was invited into the Okinawan community in Hawaii to collect their stories about what happened in Hawaii and Okinawa before, during, and after the Battle of Okinawa, the last great battle of WWII. I then told their stories back to them. Words have power and stories can heal.

 Family stories are particularly precious and easy to preserve. Turn on the video recorder on your cell phone, ask the elders in your family what it was like when they were growing up and record them telling their stories. They are a part of your story. You may not be interested in their stories, but your children or your children’s children might. When the old ones go, they take their stories with them.

What stories do you tell yourself? Are they true, authentic, honest? Are they a mask behind which you hide? Are they what you think others want to hear? Standing in your own truth is hard, but often it is the first step in becoming whole.

The stories we tell ourselves make us special. The stories others tell about us, make us human. Because we are human, we are all family. Tell your story, speak your truth, and be all of who you truly are.

Author Bio: Storyteller Alton Takiyama-Chung grew up with the stories, superstitions, and the magic of the Hawaiian Islands. This gives him a unique perspective to tell Asian folktales and ancient Hawaiian legends, historic stories of WWII Japanese Americans and the Hawaiian Monarchy, and personal Asian American stories. He was awarded the National Storytelling Network’s first J.J. Reneaux Emerging Artist Award in 2005. He has performed at the Bay Area Storytelling Festival, the Cayman Islands Gimme Story Storytelling Festival, Singapore’s Congress of Asian Storytellers, the Asian American Storytelling Festival, as the Teller-in-Residence at the International Storytelling Center, and as a New Voice Teller and Emcee at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, TN. He is also the former Chairman of the Board of Directors of the National Storytelling Network. He can be contacted at Alton@altonchung.com or through his website: www.altonchung.com.

Thank you to one of our Anthology’s authors, Simon Tam, for sharing the following blog post.

Portland Community College, Portland, Oregon, recently launched a new project that “seeks to inspire innovative and practical solutions to community issues and social problems that stem from racism.” It’s called Whiteness History Month. And it has received equal parts scorn as well as praise.

It should be noted that the endeavor itself isn’t “White History Month,” (which would imply the celebration and accomplishments of white individuals, but rather Whiteness, which directly refers to the social construction of white supremacist culture. Those four little letters provide an important distinction that has been lost as a number of online media outlets unleashed unabashed knee-jerk fury, accusing the school of “white shaming.”

The deep irony, of course, is that PCC (as well as many universities around the nation) have been discussing whiteness as an academic subject for years. The messaging from anti-racist speakers, the establishment of multicultural resource centers, the recruitment of diversity and inclusion staff hasn’t changed – and those efforts reflect the spirit of Whiteness History Month. Yet, the same angry mob has been relatively silent throughout those numerous activities.

Why does indignation only occur for a dedicated month when classes on white supremacy and critical race theory are held all year long? Those same angry individuals will tell you it is the content, despite the fact that the content and activities haven’t even been announced yet.

I think it’s important to take a step back and re-frame the conversation. When questioned, none of the angry callers will say their fury is rooted in the idea of a month. In fact, most are upset because they want to “take America back.” They genuinely believe our country has gotten too sensitive, that there is a culture of reverse-racism, and that racism remains only a problem because people keep talking about it instead of letting it die in the past. Some will even proclaim that they themselves are not racist, they just feel whites are constantly being guilt-tripped for events of the past.

Despite study after study after study after study after study after study, most whites don’t believe that racism is a major problem today. In fact, some white Americans believe that they face more racism than black Americans. It doesn’t matter what the facts are about racial discrimination, or that the notion of reverse racism is a myth, or that we’re seeing bigger disparities based on race than ever before, some people will ignore those facts because they don’t feel like they’re being heard.

In their minds, talking about racism perpetuates the problem. However, we would never try to solve hunger by refusing to talk about the issue. Cancer will not be cured through ignorance. Homelessness is not eradicated when we only focus conversations around homeowners. Like any other major social problem, we need to tackle this by acknowledging its existence, addressing the symptoms, and focusing on the root cause.

But complaining about a school that is holding Whiteness History Month? That’s just racism talking. The same racism, with the exact same messaging that got us into this mess to begin with. It’s time for racism to shut up and for someone else to step up and take the mic.

Author Bio: Simon Tam is an award-winning musician, author, entrepreneur, and social justice activist. He is best known for winning a law case which helped expand First Amendment rights for marginalized artists, activists, nonprofits, and small business owners.

Simon is the founder and bassist of The Slants, the world’s first and only all-Asian American dance rock band. His approach to activism through the arts has been highlighted in thousands of media features across 82 countries, including: BBC World News, NPR, TIME Magazine, NBC, and the New York Times.

Since 2000, he has been a performer, presenter, and keynote at events and organizations such as TEDx, SXSW, Comic-Con, The Department of Defense, Stanford University, Harvard University, and over 1,200 others across North America, Europe, and Asia. He has appeared on the TEDx stage 9 times.

Recently, Simon was named a “Portland Rising Star” from the Light a Fire Awards, received a “Distinguished Alum Award” from Marylhurst University, and was twice nominated for Portland Business Journal‘s “40 Under 40” List.

He is currently serving as a founding member on the board of directors for the Oregon Center for Human Rights, serves on the board of Know Your City, is a community representative on the Cultural Resource Centers Advisory Council for Portland State University, and is a member of the Policy and Equity Committee for the Jade District, The Office of Neighborhood Involvement Bureau Advisory Committee, and numerous committees for the Asian Pacific American Network of Oregon.

You can find Simon’s appearances, writing, and current projects at: www.simontam.org

The childhood memories of WWII’s Japanese Incarceration, painted by Chizuko Judy Sugita de Queiroz, are quite emotionally compelling.

Take the gallery tour of “Camp Days 1942 – 1945.” Read the stories that each painting tells (captions under each painting).

Prints are available for purchase.

About the artist:

“My work is concerned with perception, memory, inspiration, and interpretation, and also what I’m feeling about the time, the place, and the environment… painting is hard work and sheer joy.”