War, Revolution. (& Manatees)

Part I: Revolution

Hello there, occasional reader. It's almost the end of November and I am now finding time to regurgitate a few thoughts that have been on my mind. I'm afraid I will never be that blogger because I cannot force myself to write something every day simply for the sake of writing and having followers. I would rather be obscure but produce good content, and while this may not gain me the most readers, I know I at least am being true to myself. I am, after all, my most important reader.

Yet sometimes I wonder if this attitude will make my fate similar to that of Llweyn Davis (from Coen brothers' movie Inside Lleweyn Davis), who has talent, but ultimately fails because of his inability to work with the system. However, the difference between me and him is that I am not an asshole. Hopefully my grace, some luck, and lots of persistence will attract the right crowd of people to expand my writing influence.

I have had some exposure to the current publishing industry and been involved in circles with access to supposed great literary connections during college, but I have not felt connected to those people or their philosophy. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I come from a different background. It's not that I am not willing to work with the system, it's that trying to mesh with the system will ultimately destroy the things that make me unique. My goals now are to not act rashly, and to slowly build my connections with like-minded, artists and writers I meet along the way, and to build a revolution that people won't know is happening until the throne has already be overthrown. When the revolution is over, writers of color can write and be successful even if they don't write about color. Until that day, the most powerful weapon I have is myself, which I am never going to compromise.  

 Part II: The Manatee, and the War

It so happens that a lot of the most profound revolutions occur during the most mundane circumstances. Leo Szilard conceived the nuclear chain reaction when crossing a sidewalk. The subReddit showerthoughts speaks for itself. As for me, I had a major revelation when watching, from the corner of my eye, a TV show about saving manatees.

I visited an old friend a couple weeks ago, and we went in the morning to have breakfast at a cafe before my bus left. Over my plate of mediocre scrambled eggs and toast, I watched a group of noble citizens rescue a manatee from its watery deathbed. The water was too cold, and the manatee was too helpless to save itself. The rescuers caught it with a net and hauled it overboard onto their tiny boat. All this was narrated by a deep male voice that spoke with subtle self-congratulation.

Watching this enraged me. I hated that humans would first ruin the manatee's habitat and then return later to save it. I kept in mind that different groups of people were responsible for harming and rescuing that manatee, but that quelled my anger only slightly. What disturbed me the most was that the the manatee had no choice in anything. It could not choose to die, it could not choose to live, and it could not choose how it was portrayed--stupid, cumbersome, and worst of all, thankful.

Something inside me clicked when I saw the manatee writhing on the boat. Up until then I had been reading Viet Thanh Nguyen's The Sympathizer, which had gathered in me a fair amount of anger and perspective about the Vietnam War. I had become heart-breakingly aware of how Vietnamese people, and Asians in general, have been misrepresented in the US. Seeing this manatee netted but supposedly free ignited the ultimate realization that  this manatee and I have much in common: Our habitats were destroyed beyond repair. We were saved by people who did not care for us in the first place, and then those people rewrote history to portray themselves as heroes, us as their rescued victims. 

The only reason I am living in the United States is because the war in Vietnam burned everything to the ground and left in its place a government regime that took even more away from its people. My grandfather had no choice but to flee by boat back in the 70s, and when he offered to sponsor us over to the US, we had no choice but to accept. Life in Vietnam would have been too unstable and dangerous, even if the economy was developing. ​

The difference between the Vietnamese and the manatee was that our homes were destroyed by fire, not ice water. My family and I are not the only manatees either. The Koreans are here because of the Korean War. The Chinese are here because of the cultural revolution. The more recent refugees from Bhutan, The Democratic Republic of Congo, Pakistan, Iran, Colombia, and so many other countries, are here, too because of war and conflict. Though we may not see in the US any soldiers or tanks, bombs or rifles, the fact that these immigrants exist is evidence enough that war is real and it is going on right now. After seeing the manatee, I saw with shocking clarity that I come from war. 

Part III: Revolution 

But ultimately, I am not a manatee. I am a human. I have the power to speak for myself and take charge of my own representation. Knowing that I come from a war generation (and also with Trump being president) makes my will to fight even stronger. There's a new documentary coming out about saving manatees. In this one, when they've hauled me onto the boat of American soil, and the camera zooms into my face hoping to get a pity shot, I can say instead words that will start a revolution: "I, too, am American."

Yes, American. Not Asian. Not Asian-American. Not Vietnamese, or Vietnamese-American, but plain old American. Growing up I always thought that American had to be white skin and football, white skin and beer, white skin and body hair, white skin and Jesus. Perhaps this is because I've started to believe what those around me think: that we don't belong, that because our eyes are slanted, because our eyes will never be blue, and our hair never blond, we will be at best only 3/5 American, even if we speak perfect English. 

I can only speak for the Vietnamese. I know that we are looked at with some form of "anthropological condescension," another great term used by Nguyen. The best compliments we get from our fellow Americans is that our pho is great and our women beautiful. We can't complain because we are part of the model minority and should be grateful for all the money we make. We are confined to the paradigm of the immigrant narrative, stories of success and overcoming hardship--we are not allowed to have unredemptive character flaws, to be simply human, or display beautiful Didion weaknesses. People view us with the lens of the silent, uncomplaining, hardworking, submissive, effeminate, obedient, stoic Asian (ever notice how Asian characters in Hollywood films never talk and do all the work?) (No wonder why asian women are the mostly likely to have depression!). We are the misrepresented manatees that must be thankful for this new and more privileged life in racist America. ​ 

But I believe that American can be yellow too. I am taking ownership of that word now because I know that to be American is to be an immigrant stepping on American soil to escape war and prosecution. To be American is to believe in freedom and also have roots from somewhere else. And so: I am an American with Vietnamese roots, just as an other American would have French, Scottish, Irish, or Germanic roots. These words will be my anthem when fighting. 

It so happens that in Vietnamese, the words for "to write" and "to kill" are so similar - "viết" and "giết." Revolution is in my blood, and revolution starts now.