[dec 5] here's to the good days.

this, too,
will i get used to it all?
even the way i am now,
after it’s all passed,
will it be a memory?
- nell, “habitual irony”
이것도 언젠가
모두 익숙해질까 그렇게 될까
지금 이러는 것도
모두 지나고 나면 추억인 걸까
- 넬, “습관적 아이러니”
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today was one of the good days.

i didn’t wake up with a pit of nausea in my stomach, wanting to vomit and willing my heart to stop racing. i didn’t have an anxiety attack. i didn’t spend hours mired in depressed despair, my mind churning over stress and unease. it wasn’t a perfect day, and i still had anxiety constantly gnawing away at the peripheries of my brain, but, regardless, it was a good day.

one of the reasons i’m trying to post every day this week is that i want to get better at talking about these things. anxiety and depression are so difficult to talk about, partly because to do so is to get intensely personal, to make myself vulnerable in ways that scare me. it’s also difficult because it requires that i maybe lay out more details of my life than i may be willing — or maybe it’s that i’m not quite ready for that yet, am still unsure where to draw the lines between where to be transparent and where to maintain my privacy.

i’m still trying to negotiate these lines.

i do this, however, because i think it’s essential. there are topics i want to write about, and they include depression, suicidal thinking, body shaming. sometimes, i wonder if there’s a way to write about these topics without writing about myself, but i think that it’s necessary, in many ways, to talk about myself, about the ways that i’ve wrestled with these issues, with the damage that has shaped me and the path of my life — and this isn’t because i think i’m special but because i think i’m not.

there are so many people out in the world who also struggle with depression and suicidal thinking and also carry the scars from body shaming, and i think we need to break down the stigma around these issues and work towards healing, whether as wounded individuals or as a culture-at-large that perpetuates this damage. i think the first step we can take is for us to start talking about it because talking about it is a way to start creating connections that help us know we’re not alone, that we need not live in pain, with pain alone.

so i’m trying. and i will keep trying.

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one of the reasons i like to cook/bake is that it helps me work things out of my system, whether they be stress or anxiety or just general restlessness. (it also helps me procrastinate.) i’m not a particularly good cook — i can bake fairly well, and i have a general, basic understanding of how to make food, but that’s kind of it.

(though maybe that’s all anyone really needs on a day-to-day basis. i just wish i knew more, but i always wish i knew more of everything.)

i’ve been trying to get better at cooking, though, and to challenge myself more in terms of what i cook. i can be really lazy and eat nothing but hot dogs and eggs over rice for days, maybe throwing in some roasted brussel sprouts when my body starts revolting, so i’ve been trying to think more consciously about what i’m eating and, in connection, what i’m buying at trader joe’s and why.

i’ve also been trying to cook more because, again, it gets me out of my head — and, see, this is where daily/regular posting feels weird, especially because it’s not like i’m coming into this space with a specific book or theme i’m tackling in an essay-ish form of greater length. i feel like i’m writing a journal, and i don’t have anything against journaling — it’s just weird for me, especially here. i don’t know why.

moving away from my discomfort, though: i used instagram stories for the first time tonight, honestly because i needed to let my chicken brown and that meant letting it sit there and brown for eight or so minutes on each side. i also had to do it in two batches because my dutch oven is only so big, which meant a fair bit of downtime, even after i’d chopped up my leeks and green beans and done the dishes and made coffee and swiffered the floor.

i like social media, especially instagram, and i appreciate it, too. i’m super grateful for the community on instagram, for everyone who follows me there and/or visits this space and takes the time to read or comment or even just like — i promise that none of it goes unnoticed, even if i am stupidly slow at relying to comments.

for some, this might sound absurd because social media (and even blogging) might seem like a superfluous, kind of self-centered thing, but, if you know anything of loneliness and isolation because of who you are, if you have a brain that retreats into itself because of anxiety or depression or any other condition, if you have a body that leaves you in constant pain and exhausts you with the smallest of tasks, social media and the community on the internet really mean a lot.

like many things, social media is an easy thing to dismiss when you function “normally,” but, sometimes, to some of us, on our worst days, it’s kind of all we’ve got — that and books and, for me, food.


this is dad’s chicken + leeks from julia turshen’s small victories. she mentions that her dad sometimes throws in carrots and creamer potatoes, so i threw in some green beans because i felt like i should eat something green. i used leftover homemade chicken broth from the last time i made my bastardization of hainanese chicken rice, and i ate this over rice with a side of kkak-du-gi, and it was a very simple but very satisfying meal.

(this post was partly in commemoration of my first instagram stories — heh, not really, but this is not a form i’ll be adopting for this space. follow on instagram for more of this? idk.)

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[dec 5] here's a challenge.

ash twisted up all the courage inside herself and said, “i was waiting for you.” when the words came out of her they seemed to hang in a cloud of desire, and the texture of them surprised even ash. (lo, ch. xiii)
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here’s a week’s challenge:  to read and write and post every day. five days, five posts, it’d be nice if it could be five books, but, ha, that’s funny.

at some point in these five days, we’ll get into why this challenge comes here and now.


“it may not be your dream, stepsister, but do not scoff at those who do dream of it.” (clara, lo, ch. xiii)

last night, i read ash (little brown, 2009) by malinda lo, a YA retelling of the cinderella story, except it’s set in a more fantastic realm where the boundary between the human world and the fairy world is blurred. it’s also different in that the cinderella figure (ash) neither falls in love with a prince nor is rescued by one; she falls in love with the king’s huntress instead and seeks her own freedom to choose and pursue her love.

i am not one who is enthralled by retellings, and i find the cinderella story to be a tired one, one that wastes unnecessary pages in the same set-up of girl losing mother, girl’s father remarrying, girl losing father, stepmother forcing girl to become a servant to pay off her father’s debts.

we know what happens in the cinderella story, and writers know that and yet (or thus) slog through establishing this tired background like it’s essential for the reader to slog through it as well. it’s not like i’ve read a lot of cinderella retellings, but i do wish we’d just get dropped into the story, forget starting from childhood, like how i don’t understand why korean dramas must invest episodes with child actors instead of just starting with the main characters as adults and weaving their backstories into the story.

ash, though — lo luckily doesn’t spend more pages than necessary on the set-up, and she also uses the pages to establish her world and to situate us within it, to make us familiar with the role fairy tales play in ash’s life. the book is well-paced and zips along nicely, integrating its own mythology with the cinderella story, such as with the fairy who takes the role of fairy godmother, except, in ash, he’s male and sinister and not quite so genial.

the novel really hits it stride when ash meets the huntress, kaisa, and ash starts falling in love. lo doesn’t make a big deal of this, though; ash doesn’t worry over her developing feelings for kaisa, except in the ways we wonder if our feelings are reciprocated; and, in lo’s world, there is no agonizing over sexuality or attraction — it is what it is, and it is love.

maybe it goes without saying that it’s refreshing to read a love story like this, to read about two women who fall in love and that’s that. it’s not to say that we don’t need narratives that show the struggle to recognize and accept one’s sexuality and orientation — as long as we live in the world we do, we need to hear those stories, and we need to listen to and recognize and work to heal that pain — but we need narratives like this, too, narratives that show this love to be normal, that postulate a world in which it is simply accepted and allow us the hope to continue working towards making that our reality.

… but what about the two books that are actually photographed in this post?


i read cookbooks like i read books, cover to cover, and i’ve recently been developing a taste for a certain kind of cookbook, one that’s more like a hybrid of cookbook and memoir, that’s there less to be cooked from and more to derive inspiration from. i like cookbooks that challenge us to look at food a different way, to look at food culture a different way, to look at its history and examine its place in the world and explore where else it can go. taking it a step further, in general, this is the food writing i love.

which isn’t surprising because what i’m drawn to in creatives is a unique way of looking at things. i’m interested in the ways that we bring our backgrounds and histories and tastes and preferences to something like a story or food or music and create something that is individual and vibrant and alive. i’m interested in how we each individually negotiate our relationships with our ethnic, gender, sexual identities because we all do so in different ways and that, in turn, shapes what we say through our work.

and i’ve found that those are the discussions about craft i’m interested in and those are the cookbooks i’m drawn to — and all this is to say that this is why i’ve been looking forward to reading corey lee's benu (phaidon, 2015) so much. i mean, lee says it himself:

there are recipes, but this is not a book intended to be cooked from. it is meant to archive and share with you something that our team works so tirelessly to execute every day. food is an ephemeral form of expression, and i want to document some of our hard work.

at its most ambitious level, i hope this book will spur chefs to make new and delicious creations with some of the ingredients that we use. and for diners, to seek out some new food adventures. i hope you enjoy it. (lee, 23)

so there’s an introduction of sorts. i’ve been reading benu slowly (for now; i could go into devouring mode tomorrow), so there’ll be more on benu as i read it over the next few days, and on o chonghui’s river of fire (columbia university press, 2012). i started reading the first story in the collection today, and it is delightfully strange. i’m looking forward to these five days.

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i had lunch at danji today. it was good, not great, and a tad overpriced. truthfully, i wanted to like it more than i actually did, and the price was a contributing factor in my impression of the restaurant. to be honest, it's hard for me to find korean food (and tacos) i love in NYC when i grew up in LA, where korean food is excellent in flavor, quality of ingredients, and price. my expectations are unfortunately high indeed.

as she walked, she touched the trees one by one as if she were marking the path, as if her handprints left glowing traces on the bark. she felt a little guilty because she had lied to the huntress, and she wondered if the huntress had known, for ash had not been lost that day. (lo, ch. xi)

cherry bombe: food fight!

what do you do when the world is going to hell in a hand basket? i like books and food and events, so it’s awesome when some of these things intersect as they did tonight. cherry bombe magazine threw an event called “food fight” (which may be a series of events; they say they will continue with more in the future), so i hied it on over to gowanus to listen to people talk about how food and social justice come together.

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the women + man featured:

they were introduced and moderated by kerry diamond, editorial director of cherry bombe magazine.

(what's with the photo of the east river? don't i usually accompany these posts with a photo from the event? yes, i do, but all my photos from tonight turned out to be total shit, so here's a photo of water because i always go to water for comfort. hey, i grew up in california; it's a natural instinct.)


kerry diamond:  it's no longer enough to be a nice person who believes in the right things. and i think we've all been that nice person who believes in the right things.

SPEAKERS:

  • anna lipin:
    • women represent about 20% of government positions.
    • we are citizens of a democratic republic. we are not powerless. i think it's worth remembering that.
    • no matter what community you need, there are people with resources who can help you enact your own political voice.
  • kat kinsman:
    • so, what you're feeling — it's real, and it's terrifying. there's this national gas lighting going on, and people are saying it's going to be okay, and it's not. it's not going to be okay so long as it's not okay for all of us.
    • you have to be prepared to ask people if they're okay, and you have to be prepared to hear them say no.

PANEL:

  • KD:  it just takes one person with one idea to accomplish great things.
  • KD:  [the morning after the election,] i felt like the world had changed in ways that i could barely express. the america i thought i knew was no longer the america i thought i knew. and i thought of mimi. she has gone through so many things [the great depression on], and, still, you are an amazing person who has gone through these things. when you lived through all these things, what did you think, and how did the world go on?
    • mimi sheraton:  i was born in 1926, so i remember the depression.  i remember what happened through [the century], and i'm still standing — or, i'm sitting — so i want to assure you that you will be, too.
    • MS:  i think one of the most dangerous things now as a writer, from hearing that tonight [trump] spoke to the press and gave them hell and threw them all out — the first thing i can say is no self-censorship.
    • MS:  [she speaks about how she's met trump before.]  he's a germaphobe. i was told not to shake his hand because he doesn't like that, so i wondered if he wore gloves when he groped.
    • MS:  i think we have to be watchful and protest every step of the way.
  • KD:  ovenly is not just a bakery. it's an organization for social good. [could you speak more to this?]
    • agatha kulaga:  [both she and her partner have experience in social work/non-profit work.] we had a lot of experience in the past doing a lot of work for non-profits. i think that, even without knowing it, when we started ovenly, we were baking because we wanted to start a baking business, but, when we opened up our first retail business, one of our first customers was a social worker who stopped by to ask if we might be introduced in working with young men who had just been released from the justice system. we never thought twice about it but said yes. we didn't seek it out; we started to employ young men who had gone through [his organization's*] job placement service; and that's how we just developed this relationship. and we started speaking to the ansob center for refugees — and it just turned into this really beautiful way of having open hiring practices and having this great job pool.
    • AK:  we started hiring folks not based on résumés. we basically said, "you've got to want to work hard. we want people who are committed and have a positive attitude and good energy."
    • AK:  at this point, 40% of our employees are former refugees or people who have been incarcerated.
    • AK:  as we grow, we keep in mind that the only way we can scale our business is if we do it in an ethical way. it's important for us to make sure we're offering the best in everything that we do.
      • [she acknowledges that, when ovenly started out, they couldn't do everything or provide everything they'd want to their employees, but that doesn't mean they couldn't stick to their ethics/values.]
    • AK:  there's money out there; there are resources out there — if you want to do better, there are ways to do it.
    • AK:  you really need to start small, and that's where i think change really starts to grow, and you can really have an impact.
    • AK:  if people know you're trying to be a responsible business owner, people are more likely to give you business.
  • KD:  wen-jay's a one-woman operation. [she had just lost her job and set out to create the job she wanted to do.]
    • wen-jay ying:  i wanted to find a more convenient or more fun way for people to get their local produce. this was five years ago when food businesses weren't really a thing, so i figured i'd start my own food business. i started going to farmers' markets, and, within two months, i had five CSA markets.
    • WJY:  i think, when you're in tune with your neighbors, you are the ones to make the biggest differences in your neighborhoods. if we take a second of the day to be mindful of what's in front of us, we can change.
  • KD:  roy, if you could tell us more about drive change and snowday?
    • roy waterman:  i'm here because our co-founder was unable to be here. i'm one of the founding members of drive change, and, basically, this business was birthed because there was this problem of communities of color being over-policed — we see a lot of abuse; we see a lot of police brutality. and i was a chef and catering all over manhattan when i met jordan.
    • RW:  we use the mobile industry to train formerly incarcerated people.
    • RW:  we've been known [in our food truck, snowday] to use maple in almost everything, so canadians had it right all along.
    • RW:  we source locally. we believe there's a very, very fine line between food justice and social justice.
    • RW:  [our program is] a course of one year. it's a full-time commitment. we pay them a livable wage. they're on the food truck two days a week, in a kitchen two days a week, and spend one day learning food development. we don't change people — i don't believe people change people; i believe people change systems. i don't think the justice system is broken; it's doing exactly what it was intended to do, which was oppress people.
    • RW:  it costs $210,000 a year to support one inmate for one year on riker's island.
    • RW:  our mayor continues to funnel unlimited resources into riker's island. there are an estimated 10,000 officers on riker's for [7,000 to 9,000] inmates.
    • RW:  [discloses that he was incarcerated for 13 years but was able to transition successfully upon release] i had a level of support that was invested in my survival and my success. that's not the case with a lot of our young people. i like to believe that food is the ultimate equalizer, no matter what your history is. you can start as a dishwasher and work up to be a chef. like my mother said, food has the ability of making people happy when it's good and making people mad when it's bad.
    • RW:  we believe in investing in human capital. [...] i believe that life lived without purpose is a life unfulfilled.
    • RW:  we do not place our young people in jobs. it's easy to put a person in a job, but it's hard for that person to maintain a job. we feel like we're preparing them to go after any preferential opportunity, instead of placing them in low-hanging fruit jobs. we believe in empowering our young people, so they can go out and fish, and we have tons of restaurants and lounges and food trucks that reach out to us [with opportunities we post on our job board].
  • KD:  tell us a little about hot bread kitchen. [read more about it here.]
    • hawa hassan:  i was in the entrepreneur portion, and, in six months, i outgrew the program. i was a one-woman show. one thing i learned is that it gives you the tools that you need, but it's completely up to you to use those to build your own business. i think having good business sense isn't that useful; if you can't make connections, you're going to have a really hard time.
    • HH:  i would say:  join an incubator. get a community that believes in you and is smarter than you. and work your butt off.
    • HH:  i cried on the sidewalk a lot. that's what you do when you're an entrepreneur.
  • KD:  you also came to america at the age of 7, by yourself as a refugee. this food industry would not exist without immigrants, and it's so scary and awful even imagining what could happen under our next president.
    • HH:  maybe one of the last things [trump] will get to is wipe out foods that are important to generations like ours.
    • HH:  i think the driving force in this country is money. i think we have more control than we know, so let your money do the talking for you. so, if he's saying, no mexicans, start buying mexican. i will use my money to do my talking for me. pay attention, and be proactive, and read read read read read. i know i'll probably never meet [trump], and i don't know what effects he'll have on me, but i know i'm a force to be reckoned with. and i will keep forging on.
  • KD:  so, our canadian, why are you still here?
    • leanne brown:  i really care about this country; i was really devastated. i felt as though some very naïve part of me died, and i'm glad it's gone because i think it wasn't helping me — it wasn't guiding me in any proper way.
    • LB:  the only way that good things and progress is made is that good people work insanely hard every single day to prevent bad things from happening.
    • LB:  one thing about anger that's really awesome is that it's really, really energizing. i feel like we can't afford to not pay attention anymore. we have to be involved and do things every single day.
  • KD:  one of the questions that's come up a lot through social media is the role of the media in all of this. and not the political media but the food media. does the food media have any responsibility to change? i'm still stuck that you were one of the only journalists covering food stamps.
    • LB:  i wrote this cookbook called good and cheap, and i wrote it as a cookbook and strategy guide that was aimed at people living on food stamps, which is about $4 a day. that's the average right now, and who knows what's going to happen to this incredibly important safety net.
    • LB:  the book is aimed at that group of people. there are about 42 million americans living on that $4 a day right now. [...] the entire population of canada is 35 million.
    • LB:  we all have to be part of our government. [she used to work in government in canada before coming to NYC to do her masters, and it was both frustrating and great because government moved so slowly, but it was ultimately where change did happen, albeit so slowly.]
    • LB:  [good and cheap] is a strategy guide. it's a way to empower people. the amazing thing about this country is that food is really cheap. maybe it's too cheap. and it's all the effort and work we put into it that makes it worth so much.
    • LB:  since putting [the book] out there, i found so much support. the cookbook ended up going kind of miniature viral, and there were all these strangers who were like "this is so great; we want to help you." we wanted the book to be free because it's for people who can't afford it.
    • LB:  hunger is such a big problem, and it can hit any of us at any time.
    • LB:  if you put your work out there, if you put your best out there, people will come support you. your neighbors might not care what you're doing, but there are other neighbors who will. 

Q&A:

(this was less a Q&A than people in the food industry adding comments. i'm sorry i didn't get their names.)

  • audience member:  we're in the echo chamber. we need to get out of the echo chamber.
    • [she also made a really good point about small businesses and how small business owners see things like obamacare and the increased minimum wage and say no. as a small business owner, she voted against her wallet by voting for hillary, but a lot of small business owners don't vote against their wallet.]
  • HH:  [as a green card holder who needs to renew her green card by the end of the year, she's looking at a lot of money being spent on this bureaucracy, but there's a real terror of having to whip out her green card if she's ever stopped. this fear is a real thing to many.]
    • HH:  there are no easy solutions, but i know that marching to trump tower is not something i'm interested in. frankly, it's a waste of my time. but i'm scared.
  • MS:  i would like to supply a ray of hope that trump is starting to step down [with some of the things he said he'd do], and i think there are many lobbyists who are going to try to scale him back. [like lobbyists for the agriculture industry; they're not going to let trump deport their labor force, essentially.] the more dangerous outcome of [this is that] it's [creating] really bad feelings for people of colors in their neighbors. [violence is an almost unavoidable fallout of all the hate.]
    • KD:  i think you're right in the culture he's creating. he might be dropping things, but it's about how people are treating people they don't think belong.
    • MS:  it's not just immigrants. it's anyone who does anything a little differently, the fear and hatred of the Other — and that's not necessarily immigrants.
  • KD:  this is one solution, but don't act like this is normal. we can't go back to pretending this is normal, and i think that's a big first step.

about narratives. (take heart.)

 

most of us were from the south, most of us from some part of the bible belt. most of our stories sounded remarkably similar. we had all met with ultimatums that didn’t exist for many other people, conditions often absent from the love between parents and children. at some point, a “change this or else” had come to each of us: otherwise we would be homeless, penniless, excommunicated, exiled. we had all been too afraid to fall through the cracks; all of us had been told cautionary tales of drug addicts, of sex addicts, of people who ended up dying in the throes of AIDS in some urban west coast gutter. the story always went this way. and we believed the story. for the most part, the media we consumed corroborated it. you could hardly find a movie in small-town theaters that spoke openly of homosexuality, and when you did, it almost always ended with someone dying of AIDS. (conley, boy erased, 21)
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i have this irrational dislike of ground meat — like, i have no problems eating food made with ground meat, but i hate — hate — cooking with it. i hate how it smells; i hate how it looks; and i hate how it feels. there’s no logical explanation for this, either, because i know the reason i hate it is that my mother hated it, and she didn’t have a logical explanation for it.  (also, korean people don’t usually cook with ground meat?)

when i was thinking of making these turkey ricotta meatballs from julia turshen’s small victories (chronicle, 2016), i went back and forth about the meat. should i just go for the ground turkey the recipe specified? or should i go for one of the variations suggested and buy some sausages and remove them from their casings? or should i just go my usual route and buy meat and grind it myself?

in the end, i went with the ground meat. it seemed like a good week to get over something that made no sense.


‘all you can do, rosemary — all any of us can do — is work to be something positive instead. that is a choice that every sapient must make every day of their life. the universe is what we make of it. it’s up to you to decide what part you will play. and what i see in you is a woman who has a clear idea of what she wants to be.’

rosemary gave a short laugh. ‘most days i wake up and have no idea what the hell i’m doing.’

he [dr. chef] puffed his cheeks. ‘i don’t mean the practical details. nobody ever figures those out. i mean the important thing. the thing i had to do, too.’ he made a clucking sound. he knew she would not understand it, but it came naturally. the sort of sound a mother made over a child learning to stand. ‘you’re trying to be someone good.’ (chambers, the long way to a small angry planet, 213)


it’s been a dark week for america and a particularly dark year for the whole damn world, what with brexit in the UK, the passage of HB2 in north carolina, the political shit being uncovered in korea*, etcetera. i spent election night weeping for my country, partly because of the living cheeto and his monster of a VP-elect headed for the white house but mostly because of what this has exposed about our country.

if you’re a person of color, a woman, someone who identifies as LGBTQ, the results of this election aren’t entirely surprising. we’ve known that the “post-racial society” white people liked to claim existed was a big fat lie; we’ve known that racism is still alive and well; and we’ve known that sexual violence against women was already something that’s somehow been normalized. we just hoped this country would show itself to be better than it clearly is.

i’m not here to rage about politics, though.

pre-apocalypse, i started thinking a lot about narratives, whether they’re narratives we tell ourselves about ourselves, about other people, about other cultures. i’ve been thinking about how these narratives shape how we expect people to behave, the lives we think they should live, the ways we think they should act and speak and want, and how these narratives can do one of two things:  close in on themselves and reinforce these same narratives or open up the whole world and the billions of people within it.

because the truth is that narratives matter. words matter. the things we say, the words we use form the narratives we tell ourselves, and these narratives say a lot more about us than we might want to think. they tell us about our worldviews, how we see and parse the world around us, and what is important to us. they tell us about our values; they tell us about our priorities.

they tell us how we think of and regard the people around us.

* seriously. google park geun-hye.

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the first thing i ever cooked for my wife, grace, were these meatballs. i made the mixture at my apartment, then packed it up with a box of pasta, ingredients for sauce, and a pot (she told me she had only a skillet) and took it all to her apartment … which soon became my aparment, too. (turshen, small victories, 168)

i get this secret thrill whenever julia turshen refers to her wife in small victories, and it makes me thrill with how normal it is, how being gay is really just another human way to be and love and exist with each other. a few weeks ago, a friend on instagram sent me a link to an article about patricia highsmith’s the price of salt, which was sort of revolutionary because it’s a story about lesbians who don’t meet a gruesome end. that’s really what kicked off all this thinking about narratives, and i know that nothing i’m saying here is new or groundbreaking, but, after a week like this, it feels worth saying anyway.

about a month ago, i read garrard conley’s boy erased, a memoir about his time in conversion therapy, which is the practice of trying to “convert” a gay person to being straight (and something the VP-elect believes in). the memoir plus the article combined made me think that here is why the [white] heteronormative narrative is so dangerous in its prevalence. when you don’t see stories of other possibilities, you can’t empathize with the Other, and we can’t break down the barriers that create and enforce the Other. beyond that, though, when we don’t see stories of other possibilities, we learn to see ourselves as the Other, to hide in shame, to be afraid of the things that make us different, that put targets on our backs as we go on with our everyday lives.

we learn to try to hide the things that make us different, and the majority learns to pounce on these weaknesses, these fears, to use narrative as a means to enforce shame so we try to repress parts of who we are and become “normal,” aka acceptable and “good,” capable of living “healthy,” “regular” lives (aka the goal of conversion therapy). we learn to fear who we are because of these supposed consequences of how we’ll “end up,” of the things and people we’ll lose, of the ugly ends we will meet.

and so narratives, again, aren’t only stories we tell ourselves. they’re weapons, tools with which to suppress and excise “sin,” and they’re prisons and cages. they’re ways to create fear because, sometimes, they’re not so far from the truth because it can actually cost us everything to be out, to be black, to be muslim. they can be used to instill shame and guilt, to stoke that monster until it consumes us and drives us into corners, into darkness, to suicide. 

at the same time, though, there’s the other side: narratives are hope, too; they’re the means through which we can heal. by offering our narratives, we offer others the ability to understand us, to empathize with us, to recognize themselves and realize they aren’t alone.

and, sometimes, i think, as creative people, we forget what we can do with our work. it’s easy to think of art as simply art, but we forget that a book is not just a book, a meal is not just a meal, that creating, too, is a way of fighting back, not only of finding hope again within ourselves but also of putting that hope back into the world. a story is a way of saying, here is one way of seeing the world, and all the great stories in the world come together with one message: be kind. be kind to yourselves, and be kind to each other. there is a multitude of us out here, and we are unique individuals to be valued equally, regardless of the color of our skin, the source of our faith, or the gender of the person we love.

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we’re the unknown americans, the ones no one even wants to know, because they’ve been told they’re supposed to be scared of us and because maybe if they did take the time to get to know us, they might realize that we’re not that bad, maybe even that we’re a lot like them. and who would they hate then? (henríquez, the book of unknown americans, 237)

i flash froze most of my meatballs because i’m just one person and it’s nice to have things on-hand in your freezer. (i also keep biscuits and chicken stock and parmesan stock in my freezer.) (apparently, i always want to have the possibility for soup.) i ate the rest with homemade tomato sauce (which i also made according to the recipe) (this is weird; i modify everything), and i must say, these meatballs are SO good. they’re super flavorful, and they’re not dry, and they hold together very well — and they don’t use breadcrumbs, which i was very happy about.

and here, in the light of what is to come in the next four years, i leave you with some recommended reading:

  1. garrard conley, boy erased (riverhead, 2016)
  2. becky chambers, a long way to a small angry planet (hoddard & stoughton, 2015)
  3. cristina henriquez, the book of unknown americans (knopf, 2014)

bookstores!

let me be candid. if i had to rank book-acquisition experiences in order of comfort, ease, and satisfaction, the list would go like this:

  1. the perfect independent bookstore, like pygmalion in berkeley.
  2. a big, bright barnes & noble. i know they’re corporate, but let’s face it — those stores are nice. especially the ones with big couches.
  3. the book aisle at walmart. (it’s next to the potting soil.)
  4. the lending library aboard the u.s.s. west virginia, a nuclear submarine deep beneath the surface of the pacific.
  5. mr. penumbra’s 24-hour bookstore.  (mr. penumbra's 24-hour bookstore, 14)
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penumbra sells used books, and they are in such uniformly excellent condition that they might as well be new. he buys them during the day — you can only sell to the man with his name on the windows — and he must be a tough customer. he doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the bestseller lists. his inventory is eclectic; there’s no evidence of pattern or purpose other than, i suppose, his own personal taste. so, no teenage wizards or vampire police here. that’s a shame, because this is exactly the kind of store that makes you want to buy a book about a teenage wizard. this is the kind of store that makes you want to be a teenage wizard. (12)

robin sloan’s mr. penumbra’s 24-hour bookstore (FSG, 2012) might be the obvious book to turn to for quotes on bookstores, but i loved this book, so whatever, here we are, even if the book itself is not featured at all in this post.

i read penumbra in 2014, so maybe it’s a little stupid for me to try to write about it when i’m two years and a hundred-something books removed from it. i may be hazy on the details, but i still remember the delight i felt when reading penumbra — it’s like this rollicking, tech-savvy, book-loving adventure that takes its characters from san francisco to new york city and back, and it’s filled with laughs and unapologetic geekery, whether in the way sloan writes about coding or type or google.

thinking about a book i read so long ago, though — i don’t know about you, but my memory is pretty shit. i don’t necessarily retain everything (or a lot of things) from the books i read, unless i’m writing things down and/or taking notes, and, given that i’ve been averaging roughly 60-some books a year for the last few years, that’s a lot of books to read and essentially forget.

so why read if i’ll just forget?

when i think about books, i mostly recall how i felt when i read them. i might recall specific scenarios or situations in which i read certain books, or i might recall the experience of reading, the emotions i felt, the reactions i had. like, i might not remember all the details of salman rushdie’s joseph anton (random house, 2012), but i distinctly remembering thinking fondly of (and wishing i had) the literary community that flocked around him and protected him while he was under the fatwa. i might not remember all the details of shin kyung-sook’s please look after mom (vintage contemporaries, 2012), but i’ll never forget crying on the shinkansen, in a japanese mcdonald’s and starbucks, in a hostel in fukuoka because i missed my grandmother, because i saw her in those pages. 

like, i might already be losing some of the details of sarah waters’ tipping the velvet (riverhead, 2000), but i’ll never forget how that book twisted me up inside, that heady rush of falling in love and the pain of want. (good lord, tipping the velvet did a number on my heart.)

and this is how we tie this back in with bookstores — because, sometimes, books come to us at certain moments of our lives, and, sometimes, a lot of the times, bookstores are the treasure troves that give. and here’s a small celebration of them.


(heh, this post comes courtesy of:  (01) i take a lot of photos of bookstores; and (02) i’m almost almost almost done with a complete draft of my book, which means that i haven’t been reading that much these days and haven’t been doing much thinking/writing outside of book stuff, so here are photos to fill the silence.)

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there is no immortality that is not built on friendship and work done with care. all the secrets in the world worth knowing are hiding in plain sight. it takes forty-one seconds to climb a ladder three stories tall. it’s not easy to imagine the year 3012, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. we have new capabilities now — strange powers we’re still getting used to. the mountains are a message from aldrag the wyrm-father. your life must be an open city, with all sorts of ways to wander in.

after that, the book will fade, the way all books fade in your mind. but i hope you will remember this:

a man walking fast down a dark lonely street. quick steps and hard breathing, all wonder and need. a bell above a door and the tinkle it makes. a clerk and a ladder and warm golden light, and then:  the right book exactly, at exactly the right time. (288)

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