A Prayer From An Atheist

Dear God, this is a prayer

from an atheist who wants to believe

in the higher power of humanity

and herself. She wrote this poem in a dream.

When she woke she could

only remember this beginning.

She went on with her day.

A morning walk with her dog.

Another day at the office.

Meetings, lunch, emails.

A rap session at a west side barber shop.

Talking to strangers, that’s her job.

Seeking absolution and to forget,

after work she went to the beach.

It was a glorious Friday night.

Her small black dog pranced around gleefully.

The cool sand felt goopy against her bare feet.

After sunset, a moment before dark, she captured

a glimmer of serenity in a photo she posted on Facebook,

a pic that belied the impatience she felt.

Next came red wine, organic burgers, sweet potato fries.

Sweet comfort of gossip and girlfriends.

Filled momentarily, her eyes drooped. Then she recalled

the unwritten poem from her 6:00 a.m. dream.

Her body chilled. And she left.

Lids drooping, an ache in her shoulders, she drove home.
Heat turned on full blast, too hot, she opened the window.

Like Goldilocks. She strained her brain for the sleep-inspired 
cadence that chose and choked her.

By the power divested from her,

fourteen hours later, this poem still escaped her.

Troy Davis: It Could Have Been Me

Earlier this month, I spent a Saturday evening with Darby Tillis, Delbert Tibbs, Ronnie Kitchen, Nathson Fields, Dicky Gaines, Mark Clemens, Marvin Reeves, Darrel Cannon, and Montell Johnson. In other circumstances, some might call these men thugs. I call them my heroes. Each of these men were wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death or life in prison without the possibility of parole. After years behind bars for crimes they did not commit, these men have every reason to be bitter and filled with hate. Instead, they press on as survivors of injustice, as men who refuse to accept the inhumanity of the new Jim Crow incarceral state of things.

We came together along with family members of torture survivors, others with loved ones who are incarcerated, community activists, and artists who wanted to remember and honor Troy Davis. A year ago today, Troy was executed by the state of Georgia. Just shy of his forty-third birthday, Troy had spent nearly half his life, that's twenty years, on death row when he was killed by lethal injection. He refused to place a last meal request, a morbid death row tradition in which death row prisoners are afforded a last wish meal of their desire before they are executed. And, he refused the institution's meal tray comprised of cheeseburgers, oven brown potatoes, baked beans, coleslaw, cookies and grape beverage, the details of this meal an odd focus of the mainstream media at the time of his execution.

On the eve of Troy's execution, as I gathered with hundreds of others at the Federal building here in Chicago hoping against hope for a last minute stay of execution, I remember wondering what Troy was doing and thinking at that exact moment, and how torturous the last minutes of his life must have been for him. At one point, when the execution was delayed for several hours, we thought Troy's life may have been spared. But this short reprieve was misleading. In the end, the State of Georgia chose to disregard overwhelming evidence of Troy's innocence and proceeded with their execution later that evening.

In the days following his execution, I was listless and hopeless. In Illinois, we had successfully abolished the death penalty that same year, but in Georgia the death penalty was alive and well and despite an international movement to save his life, Troy was dead. Although I had never met Troy in person, I talked to him, just once, on the phone. His sister, Martina Correia, was in town for a conference and a group of us were having dinner with her at my place. When Troy called, she put him on speaker phone and we all got to talk to him. It was a magical moment. My little sisters in the movement, FM Supreme and Deja Taylor were in the house, and they spit a piece for him. This inspired Troy to spit a poem he had written back to us. That night, we were filled with promise and possibility.

I'm grateful to Darby Tillis for insisting on an evening of remembrance in Troy's honor. "It could have been me," he said, and aptly named this tribute to Troy. Darby, who I like to call the caped crusader for justice (because he sometimes dons a black cape), also Illinois' first exonerated death row prisoner and a blues musician, performed new songs for Troy. The exonerated gave testimonials in Troy's name. And poets FM Supreme and Kevin Coval shared pieces they had written for Troy and his sister. Martina, Troy's most steadfast advocate, had been fighting a personal battle against breast cancer and died within several months of her brother's execution. On this evening of remembrance, we honored brother and sister, and in remembering their courage and resilience, together as a community, in this sad place we found joy and hope.

Today, on this one-year anniversary of Troy's execution, I choose to believe in humanity.

 

Dreaming of Sushi

Jiro Ono dreams of making sushi. But he doesn't just dream about it. He does it -- for the last sixty years of his life, seven days a week with the exception of national holidays. Making sushi. It's his ecstasy, his obsession, his raison d'etre. The movie about him, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, makes you want to eat sushi. Not just any sushi, but the mouthwatering delectable bites of sushi meticulously prepared by Jiro and his team. The art of making sushi is both laborious and beautiful. I was mesmerized by images of hands massaging an octopus for fifty minutes, the pressure cooking of rice with a lid so heavy it takes two hands to carry, and the slicing of raw fish in exacting proportions. All this and so much more to create a masterpiece mouthful of sushi. After seeing this movie last night, I want to go to Japan just to eat at one of the ten seats in Jiro's restaurant.

But the movie isn't just about sushi. It's about making and choosing a life. It's about survival. It's about the art of every day. Jiro's parents abandoned him when he was nine. The movie doesn't tell us what he did to survive, but we know that somehow through his own relentlessness, he did. When he was nineteen, he got a job at a sushi restaurant, and he never stopped, although he managed to get married and have two sons. We don't see Jiro's home life and we never meet his wife. He tells us he wasn't much of a father when his sons were growing up. 

When his sons graduated from high school, they wanted to go to college, but Jiro urged them to help him at his restaurant instead. They followed in his footsteps, and he says that he was hard on them during their apprenticeships. It takes ten years to become a chef at his restaurant. Before prepping any food let alone touching a piece of fish, an apprentice must first learn how to properly wring a boiling hot hand towel, an effort that usually takes several weeks at least. Both his sons endured, and now his younger son owns his own sushi restaurant while his elder son, Yoshikazu, still works under him, in line to take over his world-class restaurant when he can no longer work. It's not clear what Jiro's demons are, only that his passion for sushi is what defines him. 

I'm always curious about what makes people who we are: what moves us, what paralyzes us, what inspires us. I want to know why we make the choices we do, what compels us to change (or stay the same), what gives us strength, what connects us. In one of the few scenes outside the restaurant, Jiro visits his parents' grave site with Yoshikazu. After a brief moment of silence with their heads bowed down, Jiro says "I don't know why I'm here. My parents didn't take care of me." I'm paraphrasing here, but his words stayed with me. Jiro doesn't live in the past, but he hasn't forgotten it either. 

For Jiro, sushi is a way of life. His fastidiousness in all things sushi -- his unyielding (even ruthless) quest for perfection -- is how he makes his life matter. It gives him something to hold on to and pass on. It's not for the fame or the glory or the money, he tells us this himself. What I learned from Jiro is that passion is about process, practice, and the act of creation. I think it's also about love. His devotion to his discipline is how he loves this world even its hard places. It's what nourishes him. It's how he nourishes others. It's what makes him extraordinary. It's also what makes him human. 

A Man on State Street

I can’t stop thinking about him, this man I saw on State Street. I almost didn’t notice him as I hurried by with envelope in hand, anxious to get to the post office to mail my request for a tax extension by tax day deadline.

He was Asian like me, older than me, sitting on the corner, wearing a blue windbreaker, holding the neck of an instrument - black and worn - with just a few strings. It looked like a violin (an instrument I own and once played regularly) without its typical wooden body or what’s technically called a bout. His ghost-like eyes peered out at passersby, but I don’t know if he saw any of us, as he held his bow moving it wearily back and forth across the strings.

The glorious sound of what sounded like an ancient lullaby beckoned me, and I paused momentarily. I looked down at a worn duffle bag on the ground where the music seemed to be emanating. I couldn’t tell if the bag was hiding a boom box or an amp. Was he really playing or was he faking it and why did I care? I suddenly felt embarrassed for him, and I quickly walked on, away from this stranger (or this brother) of mine who might be as old as my father if my father were still alive.

The other night over pate and wine, I talked with a friend about being intentional about shaping the culture we want, what it means to contend with an Asian American identity, and how writers of color might assert themselves more aggressively in the literary cultural scene. He offered his thoughts on a synthesis of politics and culture that’s been lost in the current state of Asian America. I agreed that a reclaiming of a rich radical tradition among Asian Americans was necessary. This conversation, and the possibilities it alluded to, excited me.

But where does this man, who I noticed only fleetingly, who plays or pretends to play a stringed instrument on State Street fit in? What's his story and what are his dreams? I hope I see him again. I hope that I'll stop to listen to him. And even though talking to strangers can be hard for me -- I hate to admit it because I organize public conversations for a living -- maybe, I'll ask him his name and have a conversation with him. 

A thought (or two) about the Hunger Games

I was planning to see Hunger Games when it first came out, but life intervened. I finally saw a matinee show last Saturday, and I have a few thoughts. For me, the Hunger Games resonates with these times because it is about hope in the face of hopelessness and humanity in the face of barbarism. It's about a 1% that lives in opulence and luxury while the 99% are forced to compete with each other for their very survival as they struggle to subsist and live with dignity. 

I was a huge fan of the books. Enthralled, I couldn't but my Kindle down, and I read the trilogy over the Christmas holiday (one per day over three days). Book one is better than the movie, hands down. But I was drawn in by the movie too, even though it was less action-packed than I thought it would be. Usually, I'm so impatient to get to the end (I like to know what happens in movies before I see them). Perhaps, because I already knew the ending, I could just sit back and soak it all in. 

The very premise of the movie is based on the fierce love that Katniss Everdeen demonstrates when she volunteers to take the place of her little sister in the Hunger Games. To be honest, I didn't picture Katniss to be so lily white when I read the book, but I was won over by Jennifer Lawrence's phenomenal acting. As Katniss fights for her own life, debased and forced to kill, she responds to impossible situations with acts of love. When our heroine mourns the death of her newfound ally Rue, a young black girl who unexpectedly saves her life, her grief and pain are palpable. 

But Katniss is not a martyr; she is a survivor. Although she acts with compassion, she acts shrewdly too. Together, she and Peeta, the boy from District 12, put on a show of star struck lovers to win a popularity contest with the Hunger Games audience. Big Brother is always watching in the Hunger Games arena, and Katniss and Peeta give the audience something to watch. As the two young lovers care for each other, it’s hard to know what’s for show and what’s not. Can true love be born out of tragedy, desperation and need? 


As Peeta says on the eve of the Games: "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not....I keep wishing I could think of a way to...show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in the Games." Perhaps, love is the very act of rebellion that Peeta is seeking. By saving each other, Katniss and Peeta ultimately save themselves. 

No doubt, the Hunger Games can be seen as an allegory for today, the 1% percent versus the 99%, as I mentioned previously. But more than that, this surprising and fantastical and familiar story acknowledges the vulgar acts of violence that surround us; and, in spite of this (or perhaps because of this) asks us to always seek our own humanity. 

I've got Trayvon Martin on my mind

Dear Trayvon,

What was it like for you in those last moments of your life? One moment you were carefree, or so you thought, the next, shot dead. Sometimes things stay the same, then suddenly they change.

I took a picture of myself with a hoodie on, and posted it on Facebook to stand in solidarity with your family and with all the Trayvon Martin's of the world. A million others have done the same, a symbolic gesture to remember you, to honor you, to mourn for you. And millions are marching for you too. Like Ella Baker said: "Until the killing of Black men -- Black mother's sons -- becomes as important as the killing of a white mother's son, we who believe in freedom cannot rest." With Obama in the White House, we know that some Black men have white mothers or another colored mother who worry for their sons too. You are my brother in the family of the human race.

I want to bring you back to life and watch a movie with you. Were you planning to go see Hunger Games this weekend? Would you have watched excitedly as you munched on Skittles and gulped iced tea?

I want to bring you back to life and go to a basketball game with you. I haven't seen a game in forever, yet I got swept up in Linsanity, thrilled to see an Asian brother throwing down on the NBA b-ball court. I want to know, were you a fan of Jeremy Lin?

I want to bring you back to life and introduce you to my sister. Would you be a Little Brother to her, watch out for her, a grown woman who lives in assisted living, who needs help brushing her teeth, who craves attention, who may not have heard of you because she doesn't watch the news. Would you watch Three Stooges and laugh out loud with her?

I offer you these memories that never were. I offer you my love. I offer you a commitment to see justice done.

In sorrow and solidarity,
From a sister who wanted to know you

This is not a love song

(It's a kiss, a brush of the knee, an utterance)


My list of what

I want in a man is
incomplete.

One who has a heart

beat

Who can do the Michael Jackson 

moonwalk

Who can spit

saliva or
poetry

Who wakes and aches but
not like my father

Who quieted his pain in
his oak drawer
chock filled with samples of
codeine

Who didn't think anyone knew
But I did. 

Who sweats

Who tastes

Who swallows 

me

Who carelessly

carefully caresses 

me

Who slurps red wine from
my navel

eyes closed

Whose delicate wreckage

endangers 

me.

Whose lashes
catch drops of
cool rain

Whose bare shoulders
defenseless 

absorb rays of
sun to beckon 

me.

Who craves salty popcorn and
cherry Icees

Whose nest is
his respite

Who believes in ghosts

the Loch Ness monster or
Cinderella.

Whose words are
a cadence, a scale, 

a flowering. 

Who walks or
runs or
screams
in whispers for 

humanity. 

If dogs could talk

what would they say to me

If cars could drive on their own

where would they go

If I could fly

would I soar?