I Think Only Our Kisses Really Translated
- I Think Only Our Kisses Really Translated
- In Honolulu, I do a book reading at Barnes & Noble. Seven people are in the audience and I've brought five of them with me. The bookstore staff says this is quite normal, and blames the lack of audience on a negative local perception of Asians from the continental U.S. They tell me if I were Asian from Asia, or Caucasian from the mainland - then I'd get an audience. • At 24, I enter from my first Asian American film festival and get rejected. The programmer feels I don't have the right to speak the way I do in my film since I'm not "really" Chinese. An insider suggests that if I want to get in next year's festival, I should use my Chinese name - "You've got to realize on paper you look completely white." • In Kuala Lumpur, I'm booked to perform my solo spoken word show at a nightclub. A standing-room-only audience watches me for five minutes before losing interest, quizzically wandering back to the bar to carry on their conversations and dart games. I panic, jettison my entire script, and begin telling every dirty joke I can remember. The audience rushes back, newly enthusiastic. Afterwards, people ask for my autograph and I politely decline. • The next morning, a man drives six hours to hear me speak on independent Asian American filmmaking. He tells me of his dream to write screenplays, handing me several postcards he'd like me to personally deliver to Steven Spielberg and Arnold Schwarzenegger. • I first visit China when I'm sixteen and it's no Joy Luck Club. I don't like the food, I can't speak the language, and people stare at me. There is no homecoming epiphany. • I return to China in my mid-30's to speak at the Beijing Film Academy and people still stare, fascinated at watching me eat in a restaurant or cross the street. Speaking to several hundred students, I find explaining the western concept of performance and spoken word quite difficult, as does my translator. One student finally asks me if spoken word is "like rap?" When I acknowledge a certain relation between the two, the audience comes to life, begging me to "rap" for them. I drop into an urban shtick honed on years of MTV and the students go crazy. I am not a rapper but I am fundamentally American. With the right vernacular, I could be repeating "peas and carrots" over and over and still bring the house down. • I'm on the phone with an editor for this journal, discussing how my piece does or does not fit into the concept of transnationalism. Instead of answering her questions, I continually requestion the word "transnationalism" itself, along with "diasporic," "canon," and several other words I don't use regularly. I share my contention that using such language evidences academic elitism (a big fear of mine having both grown up in a university environment and being a professor now). I talk about my fears of making inaccessible artwork, of hearing myself complain about a younger generation - a generation that doesn't want to read, that celebrates stupidity - without realizing I'm the one that's changing, that I now find myself preferring the company of like-minded thinkers. The editor tells me other contributors don't talk to her like this. • In kindergarten, I'm beaten up on the first day of school for being a "Chinaman." • On October 22nd, I submit this piece and close the file. • Artwork/Writing/Performance: Kip Fulbeck 2005 [End Page 344]
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I try and be as honest as possible in introductions. I figure it's like a relationship ... why get into some situation pretending you're not who you are? As quickly as possible - a few sentences or a minute if I'm speaking - I try to peel away any veneer of elitism while at the same time assert that I am A) very cool, B) very smart, and C) worth listening too. Tough one to pull off sometimes.
Steve's wife Leslie ran the image under deadline, and...
