Days of Distraction

by Alexandra Chang

  [Kin] speaks English with great fluency, and this, combined with her natural charm of manner, makes her a favorite with all who come in touch with her.

  —Boston Globe, 1904

  No matter how long we stay in this country, and no matter how “accent-free” our children learn to speak English, we are still regarded as foreigners, and as “foreigners” we are suspect as an enemy from overseas.

  —Helen Zia, 1984

  * * *

  What am I doing? I write over and over again in a notebook with the seven mechanical pencils I am reviewing, testing each for balance, comfort, build, and whether one of them is capable enough to come up with an answer.

  I consider telling J, but then I consider not. Instead I ask if he’s had a chance to read the articles I sent. No, not yet, he says. Lots to do in lab.

  Of course, some version of this has happened before. Too many times to count. And it is not its worst incarnation. But it is getting so old, so damn fucking old, it’s boring.

  My heart is tiring. As my mom would say.

  I dream of the San Francisco hills. I crawl on my hands and knees, clawing my way up.

  She wished to be a new woman.

  The genetic testing company sends me a reminder: they still need my spit. But the stuff, I know now, won’t provide any real results. J was wrong. I’ve done my research, so nobody can fool me. The company’s tests aren’t accurate. At least not when it comes to people like me. They don’t have the data to pinpoint anything beyond broad categories. While it’s possible to do a percentage breakdown of a person’s English versus Irish blood, the test’s site states that those in the East Asia category might identify as any of the following (no breakdowns possible): “Russian, Chinese, North Korean, South Korean, Mongolian, Vietnamese, Burmese (from Myanmar), Japanese, Taiwanese, Filipino, Indonesian, Thai, Laotian, Cambodian, Singaporean, Bruneian, Palauan.” What would be the point of taking a test that tells me nothing beyond what I already know and, worse, says, Hey, you’re all the same anyway.

  Invisibility can be protective and advantageous—like the animals that camouflage themselves to hunt or hide. When I was with that woman in the coffee shop, I wanted parts of me to be invisible to her. I wanted not to stand out. But on the other hand, back in San Francisco, I felt invisible to the editors, invisible in a way that suggested it did not matter how much I tried to stand out, I would not get their attention. Invisibility as harm, that of being overlooked and ignored. And now I’m thinking there is a third form of invisibility, of choice, of opting out, of going off into hiding, of separating off from the rest, so as not to exist.

  Feels like I have a thousand paper cuts at the back of my head.

  As long as the behavior or mode of thinking doesn’t bring you pain, then it isn’t a problem, says the self-help article. But if it does cause you pain, you should try to change it. It does not explain, though, how.

  “Here’s something to do: write a book based on my life,” says my dad.

  “I can’t write a book about you! It’s too hard, it’s too close.”

  “I already have a title for you.”

  “Daddy, the book will be impossible to write!”

  “It could be a very good book, considering my life.”

  “Fine. What’s the title?”

  “A Father without a Home.”

  “No! Don’t say that. It’s too sad!”

  His laughter fills my ear.

  Other snippets of my dad talking about who knows what:

  “Before I was born I knew I would be American. Remember, you’re American first.”

  “Am I cool or am I not? I’m cool in my own style. I’m one of a kind. It’s like when you walk into a boutique and there’s only one of a unique item.”

  “As far as I’m concerned all white people are thieves. There are some worse ones and some better ones, but they’re all liars and thieves.”

  “Money is good but health and tranquility is better.”

  An Asian American celebrity is getting dragged online for speaking out about the lack of Asian American representation in media and the damaging stereotypes Asian Americans face in America, while simultaneously dating a white man. A sampling of the comments against her:

  * * *

  well most of those white guys who obsess with AFs cannot get WFs that are equal in looks with them . . . Admit it, how many times have you seen a cute or attractive AF with a below average WM . . . and your mind is just blown . . . you assume he’s rich, but then you see them get inside a cheap hatch and then it hits you . . . its because he’s WHITE . . . pure and simple.

  * * *

  * * *

  I have no interest in supporting Asian American women who just want to climb up the white social hierarchy (oftentimes at the expense of Asian American men).

  * * *

  * * *

  I can’t be who I want to be in the western world’s view because of her! They will always view me as that stereotypical asian women who loves white . . . because of her. When will these brainless women learn that you can’t speak for asians but sleep white? They need to accept that their choice of partner is the root of the problem and learn to stfu!

  * * *

  * * *

  Problem is that our community is taken over by amy tan type of asian female “activists.”

  * * *

  * * *

  You think there aren’t a lot of asian americans thinking what you are thinking? Our voices are just suppressed by accusations of “misogynistic asian man” when we point this out.

  * * *

  * * *

  WMAW couples dont get to represent “asian struggles,” and they dont get to be at the forefront. WMAW couples represent one of the, if not the most, toxic manisfestation of white worship within asian community. She can defend herself all she wants about how “we are different,” that doesnt matter. She doesnt have the credibility to speak for asian americans, period.

  * * *

  I am sick reading the comments. Not because I agree with them, but because I hear where they are coming from, I can see how they got there, the hurt and shame and anger behind the words, the histories weighing them down. The questions are ones I’ve asked myself. Is it a betrayal? A betrayal to whom? And what is being erased in these comments?

  It’s as if being white is the one thing that defines me, J said. But not all of us are lucky enough to get to choose how the world defines us.

  We get into another fight, J and I. About what, who knows. The dog. Who’s doing what. One of those fights where you look at the other person, a person you’ve known so well for so long (or so you thought), and go, aloud and inside, Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? So much so that the contours of their face begin to shift, like there are shapes and lines you’ve never seen before, and the face becomes a landscape of the unfamiliar. One of those fights. It takes a while to restore us back to one another.

  Jasmine texts: Did you like the photos I took for the pencil roundup?

  I didn’t realize the story had gone live. I go online to look, and in rereading the first paragraph of the introduction, I begin to hate myself. Phrases like “geek cred” and “knurled metal,” references to Ticonderoga and “grades of lead”—it’s all a reminder of how little I know about what I do, how much I pretend and fake it, how much is edited in, not me.

  The photos, however, are great. The pencils lie posed in different types of office plants—full leaves, pink flowers, thick succulents—with a harsh, direct light that gives them a somehow cool look, like skinny little rock stars. Jasmine is good at her job.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard from her since I told her I needed distance, but the other times I didn’t respond. Disappointment, discomfort, resentment. The excuses don’t make sense. But now all I want is to talk to her. I call. The phone rings for so long I think it will go to her voicemail, but right when I’m thinking we’re no longer friends, I’ve been too distant, now she’s going to avoid me forev
er, she picks up. Her voice is upbeat. I tell her what I think of the photos and she laughs. She says she has good news: She got a promotion. She’s now the senior photo editor. I congratulate her.

  “Sorry, I know you don’t like talking about the office,” she says.

  “No, it’s fine. This is about you, and you deserve it.”

  “Where have you been, anyway? How are you doing?”

  I tell her everything. The disputes between J and me. My fears. My secrets. Even the boring shit. I tell her how I’ve been thinking more and more about what she said about dating white men.

  “What did I say?”

  “‘Fuck dating white guys.’”

  “Oh god, I wasn’t talking about you,” she says. “That was me.”

  “Well, it applies to me, doesn’t it?”

  “I mean, not really. You guys have been together, what, since high school?”

  “No,” I say. “We’ve only been together since college. We knew each other in high school.”

  “Whatever, same difference. You were always like, ‘He’s so sweet, I love him so much, I’m so lucky, blah blah blah,’ when you were here.” She tilts her voice up in a gross imitation, I realize, of me.

  “That’s not what I sounded like,” I say.

  “Um, yes,” she says. “Honestly, it was annoying, you know, as a single person in the city. Which, by the way, I still am in case you’re wondering.”

  I apologize. “That’s not what I sound like anymore.”

  “Whatever. It’s not like you were clueless back then. Is he kind of clueless from time to time? I bet so, yeah. But they all are. That’s, like, the least of it.”

  “But what if he isn’t trying enough? What if there’s a cultural and experiential gap that can’t be closed? What if there’s something wrong with me? Like all these Asian men complain about on Reddit and stuff.”

  “Oh my fucking god, no. Do not listen to those MRAsian trolls.”

  “But I feel like there’s something behind it. Obviously, the sexist shit is horrible. But like, haven’t you thought about it, too? Why did I end up with a white guy? Why do so many of us end up with white guys?”

  “Yeah, of course. One, there are fucking creepy-ass white guys with yellow fever. And there are some Asian women who don’t care about that. Two, there are more white guys around, what do you expect?”

  “Mmm,” I say.

  “Honestly, I think it’s good to be asking those kinds of questions. But you’re, like, asking them to the extreme. And it sounds like this has more to do with you having a hard time with the move and figuring out what you’re doing with yourself than it has to do with him. Sure, it’s valid—”

  “Or maybe I have a new mind-set.”

  “Sure, sure. Maybe your feelings and perspective are really changing. I guess I’m surprised. You two were like—again, annoyingly so—but the most solid couple I’d ever known.”

  “Can relationships rest on laurels?”

  “What I don’t want is for one thing I said when I was upset to change how you feel.”

  “It’s not just the thing you said,” I say. “It’s other stuff, too.”

  “Okay, well don’t factor in what I said.”

  “Are you saying this now because you’re in a good mood about your promotion?”

  “No! I mean, to be honest, I’m still staying away from white guys. But that’s me and my bad experiences. Hashtag boundaries. Hashtag self-care! But I’m staying away from psycho misogynists, too, whatever race. Only enlightened men for me. Which means maybe I’ll be single forever!”

  I laugh. Already I feel better. We talk about her for a while. She updates me on the office. She tells me her ex quit and is working at a startup, so much for creativity. This, we both find hilarious. She recounts her recent dates—none with enlightened men, according to her.

  “Also, hey,” she says. “I realize this is too little, too late, but I’ve been wanting to apologize for not backing you up with your letter idea. I was scared about losing my job and that was dumb.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not dumb. I was kind of losing my mind at work.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” she says.

  “I do need to do something, right?”

  “Do something that’s just for you and not him.”

  “Like a trip?”

  “Sure, a trip. Where to?”

  “China,” I say.

  “Oh, okay,” she says. “Connect with your roots and have a revelation kind of trip.”

  “Ha, no, not really,” I say. “To visit my dad.”

  I read some sections of what I’ve written to J.

  He says, “Whoa, you really make it sound like a terrible relationship.”

  “Do I? There are sweet parts, too, where things are nice between them,” I say.

  “The J person comes off pretty badly, though,” he says, with a hint of hurt.

  “But so does the narrator, right?”

  “Eh, less so,” he says, and smiles, a small, mischievous smile, like he knows something.

  “Oh, well! I’m still working on it. And besides, it’s not really about him or even the relationship. It’s about the narrator.”

  “Okay. But I want to go on the record saying that I don’t think we fight, like, ever. And I’m home and we hang out more than you let on.”

  “Mmmm,” I say. “Well, I’m not so sure about that.”

  This time it starts with the cat. I come home from the museum after a short Sunday shift and J is lying on the couch looking at his phone. A few minutes later I notice the cat hasn’t greeted me as usual. Have you seen the cat? I ask. He says he doesn’t remember. I call for the cat. I look in the basement, I go upstairs, look in the closets, in the bathtub, under the beds. I look in the kitchen. The window above the sink, the old one original to the house that pushes out and has no screen, the one I tell him to please not ever open because the cat could escape, is, well, open. I ask him why and for how long; it’s so cold, why is it open? He is still on the couch, and has been telling me not to worry, that the cat is probably fine, just hiding somewhere. Now he stands up and says he was cooking and burned the pan. The window has been open for maybe a couple of hours. I close the window and go around the house calling the cat one last time, until I accept that he’s gone.

  We go out and look for the cat, but after five minutes he says, “Cats are fine outside. He’ll just come back.”

  “Not our cat,” I say. “He never goes out. And we’re at the corner of four streets! Don’t you see all those missing cat posters everywhere? If you want to stop looking, then just go back inside and leave me alone. I’ll find him.”

  For many minutes, as I look desperately for the cat, whom I envision smashed flat on the side of the road, I blame J, I hate J. If the cat is dead, I will never forgive him. I will never speak to him again. And that will free me from this place. I can leave. I walk up and down and around the block shaking the bag of treats, clicking my tongue, calling for the cat. God, I hope this cat is not dead. Finally, he comes leaping and meowing out of somebody’s backyard. I carry him back home so tightly he squirms.

  “You found him, yay,” J says from the couch, with his shoes on.

  “No help from you.”

  “But see, he’s fine, like I—”

  “Don’t,” I say.

  And I go from there. How his being so laid-back is, in reality, careless and selfish. How he wouldn’t even help me look for the cat. How he never cleans the cat’s litter. Doesn’t take the dog out for long enough. How that stems from his having experienced no adversity in life—his whiteness, his maleness. Dishes, laundry, vacuuming, the dirtiness of the bathroom. The bills, all the bills. Does he know when they’re due? Does he even know how to pay them? And how late he comes home, how when he says twenty minutes, it stretches into two hours, like time doesn’t mean anything, and I end up sitting around like an idiot wondering why I’m even here. It’s oppressive, I say. It’s suffocati
ng. I didn’t come all this way to play housewife for him.

  He says he doesn’t expect that.

  He says he has school and work.

  He says he doesn’t want to be the reason I’m unhappy.

  He says he feels like I’m purposefully trying to create distance between us.

  I go upstairs and close myself in the office. To be honest, I really do feel as though I hate him, or whatever feeling it is, it is a terrible, mean, and ugly one. Yamei Kin’s portrait stares down at me.

  Our women are supposed to be docile and childlike. Yet there is the story with us of the three hen-pecked husbands. They gathered in council when the village wag cried out that the women were coming for them with broomsticks. Two ran. When they returned, learning that they had been fooled, they marveled over the bravery of the one who had remained. They found that he had died of fright.

  —Yamei Kin, 1905

  The tea bag: There is nothing like you, there was nothing like you, and there shall be nothing like you.

  An edit: There is nothing exactly like you, there was nothing exactly like you, and there shall be nothing exactly like you.

  Otherwise, it just isn’t exactly true.

  He really slams the door when he leaves in the morning.

  “I told my landlady about you,” says my dad, excited. “She’s having problems with her daughter, who is thirty-two. She has a daughter that is eleven. I mean the daughter of the landlady has a daughter, so this is the landlady’s granddaughter. The landlady’s daughter doesn’t do anything, just sleeps in and then goes out to her boyfriend’s bar, so the landlady and her husband take care of their granddaughter, who is also a little weird, like her mom. Maybe a disability. Something wrong with their brains. The landlady’s daughter’s boyfriend owns a bar that has no customers, so he lives with the landlady, too, and the two of them, the daughter and her boyfriend, now want to move out, but they have no money. She says her daughter is a bum, can’t even take care of herself. Her and her boyfriend, neither of them make money. The landlady doesn’t want them in her place, either, but she has no choice! I told her how good you are. You went to Berkeley. You live in your own house with your boyfriend. You have lots of jobs and take care of yourself. My landlady is looking forward to meeting you. She’s jealous, you know. Having a loser daughter is sad. She doesn’t even like to talk about her daughter. She wants to meet a good daughter.”