Hapa in Hawaii: Kumu Kahua Theatre

So here's the moment of truth - which guy in the above photo is the CVT? Maybe the one in the middle, getting held back - he is pretty fiery.* Or maybe he's the one grimacing as he tries to hold the main guy back - the CVT tries to quash conflict. The guy in the way back is too old to be the CVT. But it could be any of the other ones. From what you can see, any of these guys could be hapa (mixed Asian/white).

So which one is me?

None of them, actually. This is a PR photo for a theatre production in Honolulu. However, what is important is that, knowing what you all know about my physical appearance - any of these guys could be me.

Let's say that again - any of the actors in the play pictured could be me, in terms of phenotype. How often have I ever been able to say that about any live performance art (music, theatre, sport, or otherwise)? Never.

Until last Saturday night.

To kick off my little "Hapa in Honolulu" series, I'm going to start at the end. My last night. And my best night.

To end my trip to Oahu, I decided I wanted to soak up the "blending-in" good feelings as heavily as possible. So I found this local theatre company, Kumu Kahua Theatre (KKT), that focuses on plays about Hawaiian people, written by Hawaiians, casting Hawaiian actors. From my research, it became clear that this was not going to be like every other theatre experience from my past - watching a mostly-white cast confront mostly-white issues for a mostly-white audience - and me standing out alone in the middle. No - this time, I might actually blend in.

And the second I walked up to the theatre to get my ticket, I knew I wasn't going to be disappointed. The audience was waiting outside for the doors to open, and I couldn't help but get giddy as I looked at them. It was a collection of Asian, mixed-Asian, mixed-other, and Hawaiian folks waiting. I slid in and nobody really noticed, while a couple random theatre-goers stood out like sore thumbs, visually - the handful of white folks.

It was a complete 180 on any other audience experience I've had in the States (except maybe in the Bay, but even there, white is the noticeable majority). I wanted to run around hugging people. I couldn't stop smiling. All these people kind of looked like me! Amazing.

So the doors opened up, and I walked in. One of the troupe members was showing people the way, and he could have passed for my brother - very clearly hapa. A bit Asian, a little white, maybe something else. I greeted him enthusiastically (and probably freaked him out a bit - I might have been a bit too eager about it all) and entered the theatre.

I was one of the first people in, so there were plenty of seating options and - for the first time - I actually chose to be in the front row. This matters because - in a small local theatre like this - being in the front row would put me almost literally in the play, in full view. Since I usually feel out of place at things like this, I generally choose to hide in the back, in the darkness.

But not this time. This time - I was going to be right up there, making sure I had the maximum amount of similar faces surrounding me.

The rest of the crowd rolled in, and two older ladies chose to sit in the seat next to me. There were other seats available - they could have sat with a "buffer" seat between us like what always happens anywhere else I've been (literally - always - if there is an option to not sit next to me, that's what happens).** The family on my left was an Asian family (Japanese). The ladies on my right, probably Hawaiian. I wasn't isolated in my private little space with buffer seats around me, obviously alone. No - this time, I had people choosing to sit next to me. And even better - a random observer would never have known I was alone, because it was just as plausible that I was with either of the groups sitting around me - as I could have passed as a relative of either group without anybody questioning it.

I was home. I was comfortable. It was like being back in the f-ing womb. I honestly don't know if I've ever felt like that before. I was part of the audience on a level that I had never experienced before. I felt so welcome. Like I actually belonged. It very nearly brought tears to my eyes.

And then the show started - and it only got better. Because the staff was made up entirely of folks like the crowd around me - Asian, Hawaiian, or mixed. The lone exception was one white actor playing the secondary role as one of the main character's boyfriend - the butt of "family" jokes about how bad he stood out, how "different" he was. A complete role reversal - and I loved it.*** I got to laugh along with the crowd. I was part of the joke.

And the thing is - had it been the worst play in the world, I wouldn't really have cared. I was there for the company and the experience. The play and the acting was secondary to my motives.

But the play was good. I mean, really well done. There was some impressive acting, humor interspersed with more serious material that actually made you think, and the lighting and sound was professional and smooth. All far beyond what I have come to expect from most "local theatre" I've seen (not to say that I go often, for obvious reasons, but still). Maybe I thought the play was so good because it resonated with me in a way that no other play ever could. But, mostly, I think it was just because it was good. ****

The play was "Whatever happened to John Boy Kihano?" by Susan Soon He Stanton (not the one pictured, actually). In brief (because I don't want to ruin it), the story was about a Hawaiian family and how they deal with the disappearance of the youngest child. It deftly touched on race, class, abuse, tradition, and culture without feeling contrived. Without hammering any of them. In fact, it handled all those as aspects of family, with the focus remaining on family - raising questions without righteousness or a need to "tell" us what to think about it. Making a note of it all, honoring it all, without moral lessons or the trite overindulgence of mainstream art. Native Hawaiian spirituality and culture was part of the story without spite, theft, or noble savagery.

A white playwrite could never have written this. Could never have done it with such respect and raw reality. Neither could a white director have put it together. And neither should they - there is plenty of great art to be made without trampling non-white culture (if only more artists understood that). And there are plenty of great non-white artists to make this kind and more (if only the world understood that).

And so the play wrapped me up and took me along. It harmonized with my own experiences and sang with me. Watching a play written by somebody that looks like me, about a family that looks like me with experiences that echo mine (in certain ways), portrayed by actors that looked like me, while sitting in an audience that looked more like family than my actual family does.

So when the performance finally ended, I wasn't ready. I wanted to hold onto that feeling, knowing it wasn't one I was going to repeat for a very long time, maybe ever. But it was over. There was nothing I could do.

And so I walked out, enveloped in a bubble of personal silence. The warm night air wrapped me in comfort and an uncontrollable sense of rightness as I walked down the street. I walked for five or six blocks through a completely abandoned downtown Honolulu with the darkness resting on my shoulders like my childhood blanket. It was too perfect - that experience had been all for me, something I needed so badly, and I didn't see a single other soul in the street as I walked - nobody to distract me from my moment. Nothing to keep me from contemplating the feelings and thoughts rushing through me - things that no blog entry could ever explain sufficiently.

When I finally made it to my car, I realized I had parked almost directly in front of the old palace. It was lit up majestically from the outside - and completely dark inside. Because nobody lived there, anymore. And my thoughts returned to what had made that night's experience possible - the sad history that created modern-day Hawaii. And so I will write on that next.

But - until then - just like on that last night, I will shake that off for a bit and remain wrapped in the pure bliss of acceptance and belonging I was blessed with on my last night in Honolulu. Because that moment was all mine, and nothing can make me let it go. And - exactly because it's something that has happened so seldom in my life - I will always appreciate it on a level that so few others can attain.

* Actually, I'm totally serious when I say the dude in the middle kind of looks like my brother . . .

** Maybe it was because - for the first time - I was smiling and glowing with positive energy before the show, instead of silently counting the people of color in the room.

*** Not fully a role-reversal, because his character actually got fleshed out past being a stereotype, more than usually happens for the funny "foreign" roles played by PoC in mainstream theatre and film.

**** So to all those who claim that there just aren't enough high-caliber non-white actors, directors, playwrites, etc. out there - you're so full of sh--.

On a Mongrel's New Year

I seem to have a new Chinese New Year tradition here in Portland - eating dinner alone and thinking about my lack of Chinese-ness.

Because the thing is, after all the ish I talk about being "Asian" and my Chinese roots and all that, I still don't have a single Chinese friend here in Portland. Seriously. In spite of my spoken-word odes to my Chinese ancestors, I only have my mom's generation left, and no Chinese family close enough to visit for dinner. Even though I'm on the planning committee for an Asian Youth Conference, I ate my noodles alone in a Chinese restaurant tonight.

I walked in the door, and the lady gave me a "Happy New Year," and it felt good. I sat down, and she came back to give me a fork (although all the rest of the place-settings were there: plate, teacup, napkin, and chopsticks), and that didn't feel so good. When she saw my red Chinese shirt (my mom got it for me when she returned my grandmother's ashes to China) under my jacket, she said, "Oh! You are celebrating the New Year! Thank you!" in the same way you would thank a little kid for trying to write you out a check with crayons on construction paper.

And, again, as with last year, I find myself quietly thinking about my Chinese-ness. How much I can claim - and how much I have no right to. Are my attempts to connect to aspects of Chinese traditions (our celebrations of Chinese New Year didn't go much past red envelopes and dinner with the grandparents when I was a kid) that I did not fully grow up with a matter of respect, or a bastardization and/or insult? I don't know. And each year I am faced with this same set of questions.

I ask myself why I don't have Chinese community or friends here. Certainly, Portland isn't the best place to find Chinese people (or any non-white people, in general), but that's not it because I have friends of other colors. So maybe it's that there are no Chinese folks where I work, which is a definite factor. Or that when I've tried to take part in what should be Chinese group activities, I've fallen short (I signed up for a Tai Chi class - my grandmother taught Tai Chi, and I wanted to honor her after she died - where I was the only Chinese-blooded participant, teacher included).*

But what I keep coming back to is the fact that I'm not really Chinese. Those Chinese "gangsta" youth I mentioned in my last post were calling me out as a "sell-out," remember ? I'm just a mongrel that doesn't look Chinese enough for people not to be confused when they see me wearing Chinese shirts. And that's what I'm always going to be.

And so I remind myself on this day that it's up to me to create my own traditions. I am the pooling together of many different cultures, and so there is nothing wrong in my personal "traditions" being as mixed and partial as the racial identifiers in my physical appearance. To me, Chinese New Year is as much about how I grew up and honoring my ancestors (which I do) as it is about figuring out what fits.

And so, for me, the CVT's Chinese New Year traditions look like this:

- I try to do some sort of house-cleaning (or self-cleaning) before the New Year for good luck and new beginnings (it's not the most thorough, though).
- The morning of, I wake up, go to my grandparents' (on both sides) little "altar" and bow three times to all four of them (they are all dead, now).
- I dress in as much red as possible (definitely wearing my red short-sleeve Chinese shirt), down to my red shoelaces.**
- I make a point of writing "Happy New Year!" (instead of "Happy Chinese New Year") on my board at school, so my kids ask me about it in every class, and I take some time to talk about it (which usually ends up with a short description of how I grew up, since, undoubtedly, a few are like "You're Chinese!?")
- I try to bring in some jellyfish and chicken's feet for the kids to try (chicken's feet because that's all my grandmother, aunts, and mother would eat when we went to Chinatown for dim sum; jellyfish because that was one of my favorites as a kid, and my students think it's so 'gross').
- I go by myself to the little Chinese restaurant near where I used to live (it's not the best, but it's hurting, financially, so I try to go there as frequently as I can) and eat some uncut noodles (for long life) and Chinese vegetables with rice, alone.
- I think about how this last year has gone, how far I've come, and where I need to get headed.
- And I spend serious time pondering my identity and all it means to me; and what I need to do to get a better grip on it.
- And, for the last two years, I've written a blog post about it.
- Finally, I'll light some red candles at night, bow to my grandparents some more, and enjoy flame-lit darkness.

Overall, I don't think it's such a bad set of traditions. I might add on a bit as I get older (I plan on going to live in China a while, maybe as soon as this coming Fall, so that should change my views a bit), but this is what works for me, right now. And that's all there is to it.

They say that what happens on the first day is a preview of the coming year, so if quiet reflection, good food, and some personal writing are what's in store for me, I won't complain. They also say that every dog has his day - and it's no different for this one. I may not do it up fully "Chinese," but that wouldn't be appropriate if I did, and so I'll just be content to do it up my own style during my Mongrel Chinese New Year.

And so I wish all my readers a Happy New Year (whenever yours began), and may you all have long lives, luck, and prosperity in the future.

And if any of y'all want to send me some hong bao full of cash, I'd have no problem adding that to my list of traditions above . . .


* Oddly enough, outside of Chinese restaurants, the most Asian folks (of any ethnicity) I've seen were at a b-boy battle I went to last Saturday night, but that's a conversation for another day.

** I made sure to explain the "good luck" of wearing red to my kids at school, since the majority are gang-affected.

*** And, just for clarity, I happen to be a monkey, not a dog, but the picture's about referencing my title . . .

On Escaping Race

Three of the last five weekdays I was off of work due to snow days. I had to ditch my car in another part of the city yesterday and take the bus home because the roads were too icy. I've been in my house A LOT this past week.

So you'd think that would have made it more likely for me to write a bunch of blog posts. You'd think that. But, instead, I wrote less than I have in any other week, even though I was LESS busy. Interesting.

So why was that? Mostly . . . because I've been trying to escape from race a little bit this week (or thoughts about race, more accurately). I put up my book on revisionist history, grabbed a fantasy novel (the one pictured on this post), curled up on the couch, under a blanket by the fire - and tried to ESCAPE.

Because all the drama of the preceding week had me a bit burnt. All this back-and-forth, all the comments basically implying (or saying flat-out) that I was just "looking" for something to get offended about, etc. It put a sour taste in my mouth and made me want to just escape it all for a while. And so I did my best.

I slipped into a fantasy novel. And that's always been my most effective means of escape through my whole life. The majority of my adult life, I have been thoroughly immersed in non-fiction - history, psychology, sociology-type stuff. But when push comes to shove, and I just want to hide out for a bit? I go back to my bookstore and find a thick-ass fantasy book to read.

Of course, when trying to avoid thoughts of race, fantasy isn't always the best place to go. Because most fantasy out there is clearly written for white folks. In all the descriptions of characters, it's always the attributes of white people - the pale skin, the golden hair, the piercing blue eyes . . . The "darkest" characters are generally the villains. Not exactly heart-warming and inspirational to a person of color.

As a result, I've found myself drawn to the edgier novels - ones in which there are no clear black/white goodguys and badguys. And ones that tend to fall on a more epic, global scope - and thus including characters of different racial backgrounds. The most successful on that level so far (as far as white authors) that I have found has been Steven Erikson's "Malazan Book of the Fallen" series. A number of characters of color, a lot of gray areas - well-written. It's definitely not perfect, but as far as these kinds of things go . . .

But no matter how "good" they get, I still have to put a part of myself aside when reading even these "escapist" novels to not allow race to sully my enjoyment. My mind still jumps at times when there are problematic descriptions, or when I still haven't heard dark skin described positively 400 pages in. Mostly, I am good at "getting over it" and enjoying for other reasons . . .

But it doesn't go away. Because I can't ever fully "turn off" my racial mind. I went and saw "The Day the Earth Stood Still" (have I mentioned Keanu Reeves is actually a quarter Chinese) expecting exactly what I got - not the greatest movie, a bit ridiculous, but relatively entertaining. And yet, my racial mind kept firing off "why do the middle-class white folks get to represent all of humanity - and subsequently save it?" "Why does the one character of color have to be a black kid with no parents who keeps wanting to "kill them all" like his father?" And then I'll be like, "Shut the f--- up, mind - just watch the freaking movie!"

It's like watching a stupid action film with an over-critical friend who keeps going, "Yeah RIGHT that could happen!" It's annoying. And obnoxious. But I can't make it stop. And that friend is good to me and helpful and necessary on so many other levels, so I can't just cut it off. Because I've learned that "ignoring" race does just as much good as "ignoring" the bully who steals my lunch money every day - maybe it doesn't get me as many black eyes, but it sure as Hell doesn't keep me from going without lunch, and it only sets me up to be a sucker for the next bully at my next school and so on for the rest of my life.*

And that's how escaping race goes. During a week of intentionally avoiding race-oriented blogs and discussion, mostly staying inside - it doesn't just go away. I'm not going out of my way to look for it. In fact, I was intentionally avoiding it, and yet I can't. It doesn't work like that for me. Or - likely - for anybody else that isn't white in this country. No matter what, race tracks me down and slaps me a few times a day. It's like a woman trying to stay in and avoid gender - she can't. Not totally. Because it's a fact of life that doesn't just go away because you want it to.

And that's what all these "color-blind," anti-Affirmative Action folks clearly don't understand - race doesn't exist because I see it. Problems of race don't exist because I'm looking for them and calling attention to them. If I shut my mouth and don't say anything, race and race problems will only go away for those few white people who have the privilege of ignoring it, while things get worse, overall.

If returning to my childhood, curling up in a ball by myself and hiding from the outside world while reading a fantasy novel can't make race disappear - then nothing can. So how 'bout we all just accept that fact, stop lying to ourselves and others, and do something about it?

* Hmmm . . . it's also a very white, middle-class cultural thing for adults to tell kids to "ignore" people they have problems with or who are messing with them, or to "ignore" insults because "sticks and stones will break my bones . . ." Could that have any relation to the tendency of that same demographic to want people to "ignore" race?

** I know I've come a long way when I'm writing a whole post around reading a fantasy book. My brother gave me so much shit about that when I was a kid, that I've been ashamed of my enjoyment of fantasy books for most of my life - hiding the fact that I read them. I've even been known to keep a back-up fake "book I'm reading" at my side, so if anybody came in, I could switch out and hide the fantasy novel and pretend I was reading something else. Sounds like a precursor to a post on social stigma.

On Guess Who?

Opponenet: "Is your mystery person black?"

Me: Shit!!! "Yes."

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I had Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house, and while I was there, her daughter pulled out the classic game "Guess Who?" and challenged me to a round.*

The second I saw the box and the name, I was thinking to myself, "Holy sh--. Guess Who!! I remember that game! I used to play that all the time as a kid." The thoughts that quickly followed covered my memories of the ridiculously small number of people of color in the game (all black), and the fact that there had only been one woman of color in the whole game. I recalled the feeling of knowing I had all but lost when I drew that card with the black female face on it. And I was interested in seeing how the PC police had updated the game since my childhood.

The answer? NOT AT ALL. I mean - honestly- not one bit. Although the style of cartoon was a bit different, the numbers were the same: 24 faces; 5 faces of color (all black); 5 female; one black female. Sure, there were a couple black-haired folks that could possibly represent other races, but they certainly seem white. Either way, the messages remain the same: It is a negative thing (i.e. you're going to lose) if your person is black because - 1) White male people are the norm. 2) There are some black people, but they are rare. 3) Black women are extremely rare (and unacceptable). 4) Those are the only two races in the world that matter (even if one of those races hardly matters) - white and black. Forget Asian, Latin@, Arab, Native Indian, Pacific Islander, or any other such "abnormal" races. 80% white. 80% male. Nothing else matters.

It kind of blew my mind. And it hurt. Fresh from my "encounter" with the young Asian kid from the YouTube video I put up on Wednesday, I couldn't help but be reminded of one other arena in my youth where I wasn't "normal" enough to count or be counted. One more straw reminding me of my outsider stance in this country. A freaking kids' game!!! Just like all the other manufactured kids' games I played throughout my youth - not a single one had an Asian kid, that's for sure (most didn't even have a single non-white kid).

Otherization. Constant messaging throughout every mass-marketed second of my childhood. And from these two recent examples (Guess Who? and the YouTube kid) - none of it has changed. Sure, we elected a black president - that's beyond huge - but where the Hell will my kids go to feel like part of it all?

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Opponent: "Is your mystery person Asian (or Arab or Latin@ or Native Indian or Pacific Islander or mixed)?"

Me: "Yes."

Opponent: "That's not possible - you must be cheating."

* For those that missed the "Guess Who?" boat, the rules are simple: each player has a board filled up with a bunch of cartoon faces (the same for each player) on plastic tiles that can be lifted or put down. You each draw a card with one of those faces on it, and then you proceed to try to guess your opponent's face by taking turns asking 20-Questions-type questions, flipping face-down any face that doesn't fit the characteristics of your opponent ("Does your mystery person have a mustache?" No. Flip down all people with a mustache).

** When looking for images for this post, I actually found images of a current version of the game where EVERY face is white - only one slightly-tan face in sight. And people say we're "post-racial." How I'd like to cave their f-ing heads in . . .

Words are not Enough

This post has nothing to do with Cho Seung-Hui, but it might give all you non-Asian folks a slight idea of what kind of frustrations could cause a Korean kid in this country to lash out in such a terrible way.

This video makes the point more strongly than anything an adult could ever write. I wanted to cry and take this kid under my wing, tell him what's up and show him something different . . . wondering if it really is any different, as an adult (because I definitely could have made a pretty similar video when I was a kid).

THIS is how this country teaches Asian kids to think of themselves:

http://www.slanteyefortheroundeye.com/2008/11/video-ups-and-downs-of-being-asian.html

On Being "Other"

I enjoy going to the movies. Any movie, really. Stupid action flicks, comedies, dramas, fantasy - whatever. I just enjoy going to the movies. But there's always a price I pay.

For instance, the other night, I decided I wanted to go see a movie in the theatre. I didn't know what I wanted to see, but I noticed that "Burn After Reading" (the new Coen brothers movie) was showing at the little neighborhood theatre down the street from me. So I went. Alone.

And so I got there, bought my ticket, got some popcorn, and found a seat. I was a little bit early and - this being a little "historic" theatre - there weren't any ads or anything else playing before the show time, so I had a chance to munch my popcorn and look around the theatre. And - lo and behold - I was literally the only non-white person in the room.

The only one. Nobody else. A full theatre. And I was the only non-white person. And it's not that there were some "probably-white" folks thrown into the mix. No - everybody was as white as white can be. Everybody. Except me.

And then the previews started. And one of them was a preview for a movie coming out (poorly) lampooning Michael Moore called "An American Carol" (let's just say they made a slavery joke and two Arab jokes in one minute-long preview) that got a couple laughs.

I brushed it off. I hadn't come to see that - I already know that people like that exist, that people find that kind of thing funny. Moving on.

So the real movie started, and I got pulled in, and off I went. But while I was getting into the movie, I couldn't help but count that there were only four people of color in the whole film (with speaking parts - none of them more than two lines), and I'm pretty sure that included the extras. But I knew that was going to happen - it always happens like that - so I moved past it. I brushed it off and kept watching the movie.

And - overall - I enjoyed it. I thought it was pretty funny. Nothing in the movie was overtly racist or pissed me off (one of the speaking characters of color was the Latino janitor . . . but they didn't really go there in a bad way, so I could shake it off). So when the movie ended, I felt more or less satisfied.

But then, as I got up to leave the theatre, I saw everyone else around me again. And I was reminded: oh yeah, EVERY single other human being in the place was white. Everybody. Except me.

And then I re-reflected on the characters in the movie - oh yeah, everyone that even slightly mattered was white. Not like me.

And then I started thinking about the fact that I was probably the only person at that showing that actually gave a sh-- about any of that. That noticed that. That looked out at that sea of white faces and felt uncomfortable in any way. Because - for all those people - what they looked at when they did so was "normal." It was like them. It was like what they were seeing on the big screen. It was like what they see all day every day. "Normal."

And so one more little chip settled onto my shoulder. One more added for another day when I couldn't avoid thinking about my other-ness in the particular world and city I live in. Just like every other day. One more chip piled onto the thousands already settled there. One more chip that my soul has to adjust to, get a little stronger to carry. Because that's how "normal" treats those that don't look like the "norm."

And that's the thing that keeps white folks from EVER being able to understand race. Because "that one time" doesn't do it. A whole year or two of voluntarily (and I stress, VOLUNTARILY) standing out in a foreign country doesn't do it. It's a lifetime. And the knowledge that it's going to last the REST of that lifetime, as well. There's no going home. There's no changing my mind. A plane ticket isn't going to do anything. There's no choice.

And yeah, yeah - I chose to see that movie, at that theatre, in this city. I chose all that. And I knew exactly what to expect. But that's not the point. It's that I have to very consciously think about those decisions and what that's going to mean for me, as an experience. That if I choose to go with "mainstream" - I'm going to get this experience. That I have to choose very specific movies and locations in which to watch those movies to get a taste of a different kind of "norm."

THAT'S what race means in this country. It's carrying around this weight on a daily basis and constantly having to adjust and think about how and where and when you're going to walk around in the world. Having to "brush off" constant little reminders and insults and frustrations just to stay sane and smiling.

And when I think about all this, it occurs to me: for some people, that ISN'T the case. For some people, what they see on tv and in the media actually does somewhat resemble what they see in the mirror. For some people, the sea of white skin that poured through my evening wasn't even noticeable because that is what "normal" looks like. For some people, that ever-so-slight ache of loneliness doesn't hit them every time (or any time) that that kind of "normal" surrounds them.

And that's kind of crazy to me. Because, for me, the consciousness and ache and other-ness . . . THAT'S "normal" in this country. And I wouldn't want to be on the other side if it meant losing that awareness. But those few hours per month (or two, or three) when it all flips upside-down? DAMN, if I don't appreciate it . . .

On "Hellboy" as a Vehicle for Race Relations

I just got home from watching "Hellboy II: the Golden Army," and - oddly enough - I find myself thinking about race. I find myself thinking about this fantasy/scifi/action movie as an allegory for race relations in the United States. Do I think that was the intention? Not likely.* But does it work? Absolutely.

This may seem like a pretty strange post to have on this particular blog, but you'll see where I'm going with this soon enough.

For those out there with no idea what this movie is about, I will give as brief of a synopsis as I can (without ruining the film).

In a nutshell, "Hellboy" is the offspring of the devil. He was found as a baby by the U.S. army (to prevent Nazis from getting him) in World War II. Since that time, he has become a "good guy" and serves the FBI as a member of an elite (and non-human, or super-human) task force charged with saving humankind from all things alien or fantastical. On this task force are his girlfriend (a human woman who catches fire when angry) and "Abe," a sort of fish-man with psychic abilities.

Whoo! Wondering where race is going to come in yet? Soon. In "Hellboy II," the basic plot is that there was a battle thousands of years ago between humans and non-humans (elves, trolls, and beyond). It was brutal (human-caused), but it ended with a truce, where humans promised to take care of the natural earth as part of the deal.

Okay - truce violated, there's about to be another war by the - until now - pride-swallowing non-humans vs. the humans. Hellboy and his gang find themselves protecting the human side.

Right right. Now here comes the racial undertones (to me). Throughout the film, Hellboy and his friends keep finding themselves the subject of random hate and disrespect from the "normal" humans that they are trying to protect. At one point, Hellboy saves a baby and all sorts of random New Yorkers from a nature-god, only to have the people accuse him of trying to hurt the baby, the police try to arrest him, etc.

Later, when Hellboy is with his crew in the secret underworld of non-humans - where all sorts of strange creatures abound - he tells his girlfriend, "You would love it here - nobody stares at us at all, we just blend right in."

Now you see where I'm going with the race thing? Throughout, Hellboy is constantly reminded by the (ambiguously) bad guy that he's playing for the wrong side (the humans) - that they don't even like him. And the movie is gray enough that there's no point where - as an audience member - I found myself overwhelmingly rooting for the human side. In fact, the movie is set up in a way such that - basically - humans kind of deserve annihilation.

It was interesting, especially for an action movie - a sort of family movie, really - a genre that doesn't really specify in ambiguity and gray areas.

The scene with the baby made me think of how often non-white folks (black, especially) find themselves in a position where their good intentions are mistaken, in fear, by white folks. How easily cops will assume that they are the "bad guys." The regular references to how out of place the heroes feel amongst the people they are trying to help. How good it feels for them when they no longer stand out. And the whole concept of "race-traitors" - fighting for the side that would hold them down. And the flip - those on the non-majority side that feel cornered, with no other option but violence (or war) to set things straight.

Of course, I imagine few people came out of this fun, sometimes funny, action-adventure with racial struggle on their mind. The "hero-as-loner/outsider" subplot is not new to movies (or any other sort of story). But something about this one struck me differently than others. It just seems that superhero movies are such a great vehicle for addressing human intolerance for each other. How fear and the unknown turn to hatred so easily (and predictably). And it was nice to see that angle pursued in a blockbuster summer movie without it being tied up in a neat little bow at the end.

Because, at the end of the film - let's just say it doesn't leave us with a final message of "the human side is right." We are very intentionally guided to feel for the "bad guy" at the end. And we are also left with a bad taste for the full humans on the heroes' "side."

And I appreciate that. Again - I don't know how many people will take what I did from this film - but I find it hopeful that a director (Guillermo del Toro, of "Pan's Labyrinth" fame) of clout in Hollywood was able to sneak this message into his film. Maybe it will latch on to its viewers' sub-consciousnesses and wreak some thoughtful havoc.

Now wouldn't that be something? The media brainwashing us to think more.

Here's to future big-budget movies taking their audiences into the gray area - and to the interesting changes that could come as a result.

* Off the top of my head, there is no obvious actor of color in the entire film, so maybe I give the director far too much credit.

A Mixed Experience

My mother is Chinese (born in China). My father is white (born in New Jersey). I am neither (born in California).

I don't look like my mother OR my father, and I don't share their racial experiences. When I would visit my grandmother (on my mother's side) in Oakland Chinatown, I felt very American and out of touch with Chinese culture. When I am with my father's side of the family, I feel my "other"-ness strongly and know that that is not my world, either.

When I went to high school (in the SF Bay Area), I was considered to be a "third-rate Asian sell-out" by the Chinese kids. When I went to college in the mid-west, people continuously asked me if I was an Engineering student.

I can't count how many times the first question a stranger asked me was "What ARE you?" (or a variation thereof). I've been told I have "a great look," as if my racial combination was a fashion statement.

I often wonder if my father has/had an Asian fetish. I wonder if I was into Asian women alone - would that constitute a "fetish"?

I grew up listening to indie rock in a largely white town, while my group of friends was a photo-op for diversity (we often crammed into the "most diverse backseat of a car in the world" - one mixed Filipino/white guy, one Jewish guy, a Mexican guy, a black guy, and an Indian guy; leaving out my white/Mexican girlfriend of the time).

Now I work in the whitest city in the U.S. (Portland, Oregon), listen mostly to hip-hop (and write and record my own) and constantly seek other non-white folks to bond with.

I've been ashamed of my Chinese-ness, preferring to call myself just "mixed" or else pretending to be Latino or other races attributed to me. Now I loudly, proudly claim my Chinese background and blow up stereotypes whenever the opportunity presents itself.

My ambiguity and experiences have given me a multi-faceted perspective on race in this country, while my ambiguity has caused people of all races to discount my experiences.

I have been told by white people that I am "practically white" and therefore cannot speak to being a "person of color." I have been told by Chinese folks that I am "definitely NOT Chinese." I have been told by black folks that there is "no way anybody could think you are anything BUT Chinese" (after I told them what my background was).

I have been in diversity trainings where my explanation of what it's like to be a person of color has been humored and ignored, only to watch every person in the room focus, ask questions, and otherwise validate the experience of a black person who said the EXACT SAME THING as me.

I have pondered long and hard how the racial identity of the mother of my future children would affect my ability to connect to them. I have also thought about how that mother's racial identity would either let down or make proud my grandparents.

I don't want my children to be whiter than me.

I have thought about how, when I finally travel to China, I might avoid problems by pretending that I'm Hawaiian, and not telling anyone about my mix.

I have never been in a room where more than half the people look like me. Only while visiting Hawaii did I feel like I actually looked like a "native." No place exists on this planet where I can even pass as the racial majority.

Strongly interested in racial politics, I have studied, read, and talked to people from racial backgrounds different from my own to learn about their racial experiences and to try to understand what it is, so as to avoid stereotype and prejudice pit-falls in my own life. And I have grown to realize that almost nobody else - of ANY race - is willing to return the favor. So I'm going to put it all in one, easy-to-access place.

I've lived in various U.S. cities and Tanzania. I've worked crap-jobs, in a psychology lab, and now I teach middle school math.

And now I'm writing a blog.