Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Domestic Partner and I are a little sad this week. We lost one of the feral cats that had been born in our backyard, the one we simply named Brownie. She hadn't been living in our yard lately, but we would see her now and then while walking the dogs. She would meow at us, as if in recognition of the humans and canines associated with the backyard buffet of daily kibble.
We found her rain-soaked body in a far corner of the yard, next to the brick wall that separates us from our neighbors and under our pomegranate tree. A bit shocking to see was her rear end split open, just underneath her tail, as if she had exploded from within. It was a wide but clean opening, revealing a lot of pink inner flesh but with hardly any gore. The rest of her body was intact, including her hind legs, so it didn't seem that she had been attacked by a dog or possum, or even hit by a car.
We wondered if maybe she had been poisoned.
It made us sad to find Brownie like this. We also wondered if there was anything we could have done to prevent her unnecessary and early death. She was just eighteen months old. I knew it was Brownie by her tipped ear, the point of her right ear having been nicked off by the FixNation clinic when she was spayed for free, so that if she was ever caught by animal control they would recognize the symbol for an already fixed cat.
Brownie was almost ours, which is why Domestic Partner and I were upset to find her dead. She had been a friendly feral kitten, even allowing us to pick her up when she was about a month old. Her fur was such a pretty golden brown, with distinctive stripes along her torso and legs. Smaller stripes formed the classic letter M design on her forehead. But we had already taken in her weaker, runty sister, which their mother had abandoned. Brownie was healthy and already socially outgoing, so we figured she would have a better chance surviving as a feral cat.
Now, we regret not having taken the chance to prolong her life.
Brownie was never really ours. She was skittish as an adult, and she would dart away if we got too close to her. We know that we can't save every needy animal out there, even in just our neighborhood, but we are still sad about losing Brownie, we're not quite sure why. It's just that she could have been ours. We almost took her in to be vaccinated and domesticated. That friendly little kitten could have been safe and happy inside our house as an adult, honoring us by placing her trust in us.
And I guess we betrayed that potential trust, that bond that could've been that Brownie wasn't even aware of. I think that's what hurts a little, useless as it is anthropomorphizing any animals, even friendly felines.
We buried Brownie in the backyard dirt, under the branches of the pomegranate tree, branches that are already turning green from spring's rebirth.
Monday, March 28, 2011
My American-born cousin is much more authentically Japanese than I'll ever be - not just because she's full-blooded, her parents both being Japanese nationals - but also because she's much more fluent in what is her first language, despite her California upbringing, and fluent enough to have worked in Tokyo without any American coworkers or translators.
She has been back home in America for several years now. Last week, she described how inspired she has been by the can-do attitude of people in Japan, after the recent earthquake and tsunami disasters. She told me it sparked something inside her, almost a reminder of what it means to be Japanese. As American as I must admit to being (if not always typically so), I understood, at least to a small degree, the pride she was feeling, of the graciousness people demonstrate to each other in Japan, even in times of crises.
Or maybe, especially during crises.
I am almost finished reading Honor Thy Children, the tragic true story of a Japanese American family that had lost all three of their adult sons. Two of them, the oldest and the youngest, had died from complications from AIDS. The story chronicles the graciousness and love that the parents gained for their sons and for each other, although via some of the harshest, hard life lessons and heartache.
I had been hoping to find the film documentary of this family's story, a DVD copy, but the family did not approve its release after it had been shown at film festivals. Domestic Partner told me that entire audiences who viewed the film had been in tears. But I found the book online, instead, written by Molly Fumia. Two of the brothers had hidden their homosexuality, at first. Their heterosexual brother, the "normal" one - the one that their parents had placed all their hopes on for marriage and grandchildren - had been killed by gunshot.
The Youngest Son, the last one to be lost, was handsome, outgoing, and charismatic. I had expected to read the book and realize a new role model in him, specifically, a gay Japanese American role model, even if he is no longer alive.
Being a true account, the book describes honest, human portrayals of the family members. So far, I haven't been liking a lot of who he was, the Youngest Son, who he used to be. The opening of the book includes a detailed tour of his wardrobe, and how perfectly organized all of the brand name clothes are, especially Ralph Lauren's Polo brand. In the book, the Youngest Son seems shallow and materialistic, a clothes horse who lives for the next wild party.
But I can't deny the significant amount of AIDS awareness he was able to accomplish in a small space of time, as documented in the book. During his last few years, in the late 80's and early 90's, his public speaking and seminars for high school students helped young people to realize that everyone, gay and straight, needs to be aware of the risk of HIV, whether they choose abstinence or safe sex. His work helped to open up dialogues about sex between parents and their teens.
And I cannot completely dislike this young-man-who-has-passed-away. He briefly discusses his attempts to be "less Japanese" by perming his hair and wearing blue eye contacts in the 80's. I never wore blue eye contacts myself, but I remember wanting to. I remember, while growing up, also wishing that I looked less Japanese, and "more American" so I could fit in better.
The book also covers some of the family's time in Hawai'i, and the Youngest Son's realization of feeling pride in being Japanese, or being Japanese-from-Hawai'i, as he puts it. I'm lucky I was able to return to Japan as an adult and work there for as long as I did. I'm feel fortunate that being in Japan meant I was finally able to view other Japanese men as attractive. Through that attraction I was able to achieve more self-acceptance and stop viewing myself as so inferior because I look more Asian than Caucasian, despite my interracial background.
I am like the Youngest Son in that respect, shallow like him in that I get too caught up in outside appearances. But I was in Japan long enough to learn a little bit about the graciousness of the people there, and of their spirit. I hope I can keep that spark lit and fan the flames of that Japanese spirit in my American self, especially as I get older and my looks fade.
I almost feel as if I owe it to a young, gay Japanese American man who didn't even get to live long enough to become middle-aged.
(The photo above is of me with my third grade P.E. class in Japan. Yes, I am the one pinching himself, I mean the one with his mouth hanging open.)
Monday, March 7, 2011
Nothing makes me feel more "politely Japanese" than when I'm trying to make someone feel less embarrassed than they already are.
I had a phone call from a potential student over at that film school I work at in L.A. He asked me about financial aid, a standard question.
"What is your email address, please?" I asked. "I can send you the link for the online application."
The caller, a guy in his late 20's, seemed reluctant to tell me. He stammered a bit before telling me that it was 'Britney pants at xmail dot com.'
"Oh, that's nothing," I said, attempting to reassure him. "Believe me, we've gotten a lot worse" (such as 'nunsgivehead at xmail dot com' - true story).
I was tempted to ask him, "Is that 'Britney pants' as in she breathes heavily? Or as in 'I'm wearing my special Britney pants today!'?"