Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang

by David Henry Hwang

MARK: I didn’t mean to offend you.

  TERRI: No, you just couldn’t help it. C’mon—suck it. Like the lily-white baby boy you are.

  (Mark fellates on her heel.)

  That statistic about black women never getting married? What’d you do—study up for today’s session? You thought you could get the best of me—admit it, naughty man, or I’ll have to spank your little butt purple.

  MARK: I didn’t study—honest!

  TERRI: You hold to that story? Then Mama has no choice but to give you what you want—roll over!

  (Mark rolls onto his stomach.)

  You actually thought you could get ahead of me on current events!

  (Terri whips Mark’s rear during the next few lines.)

  MARK: No, I mean—that statistic—it was just—

  TERRI: Just what?

  MARK: Just street knowledge!

  TERRI: Street knowledge? Where do you hang out—the Census Bureau? Liar!

  (Terri pokes at Mark’s body with the butt of her whip.)

  Don’t you know you’ll never defeat me? This is your game—to play all the races—but me—I’ve already become all races. You came to the wrong place, sucker. Inside this costume live the intimate experiences of ethnic groups that haven’t even been born. (Pause) Get up. I’m left sickened by that little attempt to assert your will. We’ll have to come up with something really good for such an infraction.

  MARK: Can I—can I become Chinese again?

  TERRI: What is your problem? It’s not our practice to take requests from the customers.

  MARK: I—don’t want you to make things easy on me. I want to go back to what you call a position of weakness. I want you to pull the ropes tight!

  TERRI (Laughs): It’s a terrible problem with masochists, really. You don’t know whether being cruel is actually the ultimate kindness. You wanna be the lowest of the low? Then beg for it.

  (Mark remains in a supplicant position for the following ritual as Terri casually tidies the room.)

  MARK: I desire to be the lowest of men.

  TERRI: Why?

  MARK: Because my existence is an embarrassment to all women.

  TERRI: And why is that?

  MARK: Because my mind is dirty, filled with hateful thoughts against them. Threats my weakling body can never make good on—but I give away my intentions at every turn—my lustful gaze can’t help but give offense.

  TERRI: Is that why you desire punishment?

  MARK: Yes. I desire punishment.

  TERRI: But you’ll never dominate your mistress, will you? (Pause) Will you?! (She cracks her whip) All right. Have it your way. I think there’s an idea brewing in that tiny brain of yours. You saw me stumble earlier tonight—then, you felt a thrill of exhilaration—however short-lived—with your forty-percent statistic. All of a sudden, your hopes are raised, aren’t they? God, it pisses me off more than anything to see hope in a man’s eyes. It’s always the final step before rape. (Pause) It’s time to nip hope in the bud. You’ll be your Chinese man, and me—I’ll be an Asian woman, too. (Pause) Have you been staring at me across the office—Mark Wong?

  MARK: Who? Me?

  TERRI: I don’t see anyone else in the room.

  MARK: I have to admit—

  TERRI: What?

  MARK: You are . . . very attractive.

  TERRI: It’s good to admit these things. Don’t you feel a lot better already? You’ve been staring at me, haven’t you?

  MARK: Maybe . . .

  TERRI: No, you don’t mean “maybe.”

  MARK: My eyes can’t help but notice . . .

  TERRI: You mean, “Yes, sir, that’s my baby.” The only other Asian-American in this office.

  MARK: It does seem like we might have something in common.

  TERRI: Like what?

  MARK: Like—where’d your parents come from?

  TERRI: Mom’s from Chicago, Dad’s from Stockton.

  MARK: Oh.

  TERRI: You didn’t expect me to say “Hong Kong” or “Hiroshima,” did you?

  MARK: No, I mean—

  TERRI: Because that would be a stereotype. Why—are you a foreigner?

  MARK: No.

  TERRI: I didn’t necessarily think so—

  MARK: I was born right here in Los Angeles!

  TERRI: But when you ask a question like that, I’m not sure.

  MARK: Queen of Angels Hospital!

  TERRI: Mmmm. What else do you imagine we might have in common?

  MARK: Well, do you ever . . . feel like people are pigeonholing you? Like they assume things?

  TERRI: What kinds of things?

  MARK: Like you’re probably a whiz at math and science? Or else a Vietcong?

  TERRI: No! I was editor of the paper in high school, and the literary journal in college.

  MARK: Look, maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot here.

  TERRI: Actually, there is one group of people that does categorize me, now that you mention it.

  MARK: So you do understand.

  TERRI: Asian men. (Pause) Asian men who just assume because we shared space in a genetic pond millions of years ago that I’m suddenly their property when I walk into a room. Or an office. (Pause) Now get this straight. I’m not interested in you, OK? In fact, I’m generally not attracted to Asian men. I don’t have anything against them personally, I just don’t date them as a species.

  MARK: Don’t you think that’s a little prejudiced? That you’re not interested in me because of my race? And it’s even your own? I met this black girl a few minutes ago—she seemed to support her brothers.

  TERRI: Well, her brothers are probably a lot cuter than mine. Look, it’s a free country. Why don’t you do the same? Date a Caucasian woman.

  MARK: I tried that too . . . a couple of women back.

  TERRI: I’ll tell you why you don’t. Because you Asian men are all alike—you’re looking for someone who reminds you of your mothers. Who’ll smile at the lousiest jokes and spoon rice into your bowl while you just sit and grunt. Well, I’m not about to date any man who reminds me even slightly of my father.

  MARK: But a blond rejected me because I didn’t remind her of her father.

  TERRI: Of course you didn’t! You’re Asian!

  MARK: And now, you won’t date me because I do remind you of yours?

  TERRI: Of course you do! You’re Asian!

  (Pause.)

  MARK: How—how can I win here?

  TERRI: It’s simple. You can’t. Have you ever heard of historical karma? That’s the notion that cultures have pasts that eventually catch up with them. For instance, white Americans were evil enough to bring Africans here in chains—now, they should pay for that legacy. Similarly, Asian men have oppressed their women for centuries. Now, they’re paying for their crime by being passed over for dates in favor of white men. It’s a beautiful way to look at history, when you think about it.

  MARK: Why should my love life suffer for crimes I didn’t even commit? I’m an American!

  TERRI: C’mon—you don’t expect me to buck the wheel of destiny, do you? This is the 1990s—every successful Asian woman walks in on the arm of a white man.

  MARK: But—but what about Italian men? Or Latinos? Do you like them?

  TERRI: I find them attractive enough, yes.

  MARK: Well, what about their cultures? Aren’t they sexist?

  TERRI: Why do you stereotype people like that? If pressed, I would characterize them as macho.

  MARK: Macho? And Asian men aren’t?

  TERRI: No—you’re just sexist.

  MARK: What’s the difference?

  TERRI: The—I dunno. Macho is . . . sexier, that’s all. You’ve never been known as the most assertive of men.

  MARK: How can we be not assertive enough and too oppressive all at the same time?

  TERRI: It’s one of the miracles of your psychology. Is it any wonder no one wants to date you?

  MARK: Aaargh! You can’t reject me on such faulty reasoning! />
  TERRI: I can reject you for any reason I want. That’s one of the things which makes courtship so exciting. (Pause) It seems obvious now, the way you feel about me, doesn’t it?

  MARK: It does not!

  TERRI: C’mon—whether black, blond or Asian—I think the answer is the same. You . . . what?

  MARK: I . . . find you attractive . . .

  TERRI: Give it up! You feel something—something that’s driving you crazy.

  MARK: All right! You win! I love you!

  TERRI: Really? You do? Why, young man—I had no idea! (Pause) I’m sorry . . . but I could never return your affections, you being so very unlovable and all. In fact, your feelings offend me. And so I have no choice but to punish you.

  MARK: I understand. You win again. (He heads for the shackles on the wall)

  TERRI: Say it again. Like you mean it.

  MARK: You win! I admit it!

  TERRI: Not that—the other part!

  MARK: You mean, “I love you”? Mistress Terri, I love you.

  TERRI: No! More believable! The last thing anyone wants is an apathetic slave!

  MARK: But I do love you! More than any woman—

  TERRI: Or man?

  MARK: Or anything—any creature—any impulse . . . in my own body—more than any part of my body . . . that’s how much I love you.

  (Pause.)

  TERRI: You’re still not doing it right, damn it!

  MARK: I’m screaming it like I always do—I was almost getting poetic there . . .

  TERRI: Shut up! It’s just not good enough. You’re not good enough. I won’t be left unsatisfied. Come here.

  MARK: But—

  TERRI : You wanna know a secret? It doesn’t matter what you say—there’s one thing that always makes your words ring false—one thing that lets me know you’re itching to oppress me.

  MARK: Wha—what do you mean?

  TERRI: I don’t think you want to hear it. But maybe . . . maybe I want to tell you anyway.

  MARK: Tell me! I can take the punishment.

  TERRI: What sickens me most . . . is that you feel compelled to play these kinds of parlor games with me.

  MARK: What—what the hell are you—?!

  TERRI: I mean, how can you even talk about love? When you can’t approach me like a normal human being? When you have to hide behind masks and take on these ridiculous roles?

  MARK: You’re patronizing me! Don’t! Get those ropes on me!

  TERRI: Patronizing? No, I’ve been patronizing you. Today, I can’t even keep up the charade! I mean, your entire approach here—it lets me know—

  MARK: I don’t have to stand for this!

  TERRI: That you’re afraid of any woman unless you’re sure you’ve got her under control!

  MARK: This is totally against all the rules of the house!

  TERRI: Rules, schmules! The rules say I’m supposed to grind you under my heel! They leave the details to me—sadism is an art, not a science. So—beg for more! Beg me to tell you about yourself!

  (Panicked, Mark heads for the wall and tries to shackle himself.)

  MARK: No! If I’m—if I’m defeated, I must accept my punishment fair and square.

  TERRI: You’re square all right. Get your arms out of there! Stand like a man! Beg me to tell you who you are.

  MARK: If I obey, will you reward me by denying my request?

  TERRI: Who knows? Out of generosity, I might suddenly decide to grant it.

  MARK: If you’re determined to tell me either way, why should I bother to beg?

  TERRI: For your own enjoyment.

  MARK: I refuse! You’ve never done something like this before!

  TERRI: That’s why I’m so good at my job. I don’t allow cruelty to drift into routine. Now, beg!

  MARK: Please, Mistress Terri . . . will you . . . will you tell me who I really am?

  TERRI: You want to know—you wanna know bad, don’t you?

  MARK: No!

  TERRI: In the language of sadomasochism, “no” almost always means “yes.”

  MARK: No, no, no!

  TERRI: You are an eager one, aren’t you?

  MARK: I just don’t like you making assumptions about me! Do you think I’m some kind of emotional weakling, coming in here because I can’t face the real world of women?

  TERRI: That would be a fairly good description of all our clients.

  MARK: Maybe I’m a lot more clever than you think! Do you ever go out there? Do you know the opportunities for pain and humiliation that lurk outside these walls?

  TERRI: Well, I . . . I do buy groceries, you know.

  MARK: The rules out there are set up so we’re all bound to lose.

  TERRI: And the rules in here are so much better?

  MARK: The rules here . . . protect me from harm. Out there—I walk around with my face exposed. In here, when I’m rejected, beaten down, humiliated—it’s not me. I have no identifying features, and so . . . I’m no longer human. (Pause) And that’s why I’m not pathetic to come here. Because someday, I’m going to beat you. And on that day, my skin will have become so thick, I’ll be impenetrable to harm. I won’t need a mask to keep my face hidden. I’ll have lost myself in the armor. (He places his wrists into the wall shackles) OK—I bent to your will. You defeated me again. So strap me up. Punish me.

  TERRI: But why . . . why all these fantasies about race?

  MARK: Please, enough!

  TERRI: I mean, what race are you, anyway?

  MARK: You know, maybe we should just talk about your real life, how would you like that?

  (Pause.)

  TERRI: Is that what you want?

  MARK: No . . .

  TERRI: Is that a “no” no, or a “yes” no?

  MARK: Yes. No. Goddamn it, I paid for my punishment, just give it to me!

  (Terri tosses away her whip, begins to strap him up.)

  What are you doing?

  TERRI: Punishment is, by definition, something the victim does not appreciate. The fact that you express such a strong preference for the whip practically compels me not to use it. (Pause) I think I’d prefer . . . to kill you with kindness.

  (Terri begins kissing the length of Mark’s body.)

  MARK: Please! This isn’t . . . what I want!

  TERRI: Are you certain? Maybe . . . I feel something for you. After all, you’ve made me so very angry. Maybe . . . you’re a white man, I’m a white woman—there’s nothing mysterious—no racial considerations whatsoever.

  MARK: That’s . . . too easy! There’s no reason you wouldn’t love me under those conditions.

  TERRI: Are you crazy? I can think of a couple dozen off the top of my head. You don’t have to be an ethnic minority to have a sucky love life.

  MARK: But there’s no . . . natural barrier between us!

  TERRI: Baby, you haven’t dated many white women as a white man lately. I think it’s time to change all that. (Pause; she steps away) So—Mark . . . Walker. Mark Walker—how long has it been? Since anyone’s given you a rubdown like that?

  (Pause.)

  MARK: I usually . . . avoid these kinds of situations . . .

  TERRI: Why are you so afraid?

  MARK: My fright is reasonable. Given the conditions out there.

  TERRI: What conditions? Do you have, for instance, problems with . . . interracial love?

  MARK: Whatever gave you that idea?

  TERRI: Well, you . . . remind me of a man I see sometimes . . . who belongs to all races . . . and none at all. I’ve never met anyone like him before.

  MARK: I’m a white man! Why wouldn’t I have problems? The world is changing so fast around me—you can’t even tell whose country it is anymore. I can’t hardly open my mouth without wondering if I’m offending, if I’m secretly revealing to everyone but myself . . . some hatred, some hidden desire to strike back . . . breeding within my body. (Pause) If only there were some certainty—whatever it might be—OK, let the feminists rule the place! We’ll call it the United Sta
tes of Amazonia! Or the Japanese! Or the gays! If I could only figure out who’s in charge, then I’d know where I stand. But this constant flux—who can endure it? I’d rather crawl into a protected room where I know what to expect—painful though that place may be. (Pause) I mean . . . we’re heading towards the millennium. Last time, people ran fearing the end of the world. They hid their bodies from the storms that would inevitably follow. Casual gestures were taken as signs of betrayal and accusation. Most sensed that the righteous would somehow be separated from the wicked. But no one knew on which side of such a division they themselves might fall.

  (Silence.)

  TERRI: You want to hear about yourself. You’ve been begging for it so long—in so many ways.

  MARK: How do you know I just said anything truthful? What makes you so sure I’m really a white man?

  TERRI: Oh, I’m not. After all these months, I wouldn’t even care to guess. When you say you’re Egyptian, Italian, Spanish, Mayan—you seem to be the real thing. So what if we just say . . . (Pause; she releases him from the shackles) You’re a man, and you’re frightened, and you’ve been ill-used in love. You’ve come to doubt any trace of your own judgment. You cling to the hope that power over a woman will blunt her ability to harm you, while all the time you’re tormented by the growing fear that your hunger will never be satisfied with the milk of cruelty. (Pause) I know. I’ve been in your place.

  MARK: You . . . you’ve been a man? What are you saying?

  TERRI: You tell me. Fight back. Tell me about me. And make me love every second of it.

  MARK: All right. Yes.

  TERRI: Yes . . . WHO?

  MARK: Yes, Mistress Terri!

  TERRI: Yes—who?

  MARK: Yes . . . whoever you are . . . a woman who’s tried hard to hate men for what they’ve done to her but who . . . can’t quite convince herself.

  (Terri pushes Mark to the ground.)