Cultural Identity?

I never really thought about my cultural identity until I came to college and was kind of forced to think about it in class. It's interesting, I suppose--fairly unique, in a way. I was born in Korea. Lived with a foster family until I was adopted at four months old by a white middle class couple living in suburban New Jersey. Same for my sister, who is three and a half years younger than I am. She was seven months when she arrived.

We grew up in a predominantly white town. Culturally, we are white. Alec Baldwin's character on 30 Rock tells a white man on the show that, "Socioeconomically speaking, you're more like an inner city Latina." Well, socioeconomically speaking, my sister and I are white. White-washed, Twinkies, what have you. I mentioned this in a rant about a year ago, actually. I never really thought about this until college though.

Here, I do meet other Asians who have this presupposition that I can identify with them as an Asian girl. Except, only on the surface am I an Asian girl. Nearly all of my friends in elementary and secondary school were white. I can think of maybe six or seven total that weren't. Most of them came from Asian families that still held some of their cultural values beyond assimilation. I have no Asian cultural background at all. This doesn't bother me. I am what I am. But what I am is not what people assume. Which I enjoy, on some level. But on others, it's frustrating. It's another inherent contradiction. Just last night, I stopped by my friend's apartment. Before I'd gotten there, she'd told a friend of hers who didn't know me that I was coming. Later, he told me that he'd been surprised to see that I'm Asian because my name is so Irish.

I'll get back to this later. I for real need to sleep.

"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal."

T. S. Eliot was pretty awesome. If for no other reason than for having written my favorite poem ever, and for having said that. That said, I stole this quote from a friend's profile the other day:

"Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery--celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Goddard said: 'It's not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.'"

- Jim Jarmusch

I like that. First of all, because I happen to enjoy devouring everything he mentions--including the random conversation, bridges, architecture (cathedrals!), bodies of water, and light and shadows. Light is my favorite part of photography. And I love it when I find other people who "devour" everything he mentions too. They pursue what makes them curious, what interests them, what they question. Secondly, the demand for "original" work is intimidating and doesn't so much inspire me as nurture feelings of inadequacy. Third, it reminded me of David Lynch and how he says you need clarity to create.

I was reading an article today on a New York Times Online blog called "Proof." One contributory, a novelist named Brian McDonald, wrote a post entitled "Under the Literary Influence," about how he used to be addicted to booze-addled authors: Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Eugene O'Neill. McDonald loved reading their works and reading about their lives. To him, there something romantic about seeing Hunter S. Thompson catching fire when downing flaming shots of Bacardi 151, that made him see "a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and a pint of raw ether" instead.

Now, I like a lot of these writers. I love Fitzgerald's lyricism, Chandler's tone and distinct dime-novel style, Kerouac's poetry, O'Neill's tragedy. I've read a little Bukowski, which I thought was alright, though outrageous, and I tried to get through A Farewell to Arms but I just couldn't do it. I respect that these guys wrote some great stuff, and I understand that a lot of it wouldn't exist without all the drugs and alcohol they took. At the same time, I wouldn't be able to do that myself.

I guess it's my stubborn pride (me? proud?), but I wouldn't be okay with taking responsibility for something born of a substance-induced inspiration. I think I mentioned this in my "Clarity" post too. It'd feel wrong--it wouldn't feel authentic, to me. I'm finding more and more that I'm not very adept at expressing myself in any medium. I have problems when I try talking to people, and I feel like I'm not a particularly sophisticated or notable writer. Screenwriting is showing me that it's not a great medium for me, and I'm beyond awful with poetry. I can't paint or draw and I just can't seem to grasp the technical aspects of photography. But what stuff I do write and plot and paint and photograph is mine. I can take a little pride in that it's authentic, it's real, and it belongs to me--it's my own expression, my own view, my composition. It doesn't belong to an altered state of mind--to the alcohol I drank or the drugs I took or any other crutch.

At the same time, that strikes me as extremely self-righteous and silly. If I feel like I would have to give credit to psychotropic substances, then wouldn't I feel like I owe credit to all sources of inspiration--everything from which I steal? "Old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows." Wouldn't my work belong to all of that, to everything that contributed to it? In that sense, I enjoy the idea that something created is the sum of everything that inspired it, and that it wouldn't be what it is without one of those parts. "J. Alfred Prufrock" wouldn't be the same without the opening from Inferno or the allusions to Lazarus, Michelangelo, or Hamlet. The Great Gatsby wouldn't be what it is were Fitzgerald not so influenced by the old Roman story of Tremalchio. Again, though, to me, interpretation and reinterpretation are creation, and to steal from all over and use those thefts to assemble something else is, in a way, creation, too.

Plus, that's just the way that I feel about it. I don't have a problem with other people writing through hazes--clearly, since I love Fitzgerald and Kerouac--it's just a personal thing. I've gotten pretty decent at not judging others by my own standards for myself--most of the time.

...

I had more to say but I'm sticking it in a separate post because this one is already absurdly long and incoherent and lacks any semblance of unity whatsoever. It's just all been on my mind and I had to get it out before I forgot. This just took over two hours. Yikes. Way past sleep time now.

Edit 2/22/09: I split it up. This was just too damn long.

"...She held herself to insanely high standards...

...She worried a lot about whether she was good enough. It was surprising to see how relieved she seemed whenever I told her how amazing she was. I wanted her to feel strong and free. She was beautiful when she was strong and free."

-- Love is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time by Rob Sheffield

Not written about me, but it might as well have been. Minus the fact that I haven't died out of the blue from a pulmonary embolism. :: Knock on wood. :: Renee, Sheffield's wife, was 31 when she died.

Well, that was morbid.

I like it when I find people who make me feel strong and free. I like it when I find people who make me feel like me. It doesn't happen very frequently. Or maybe I don't let it happen very frequently. I also like it when I find people who see me better than I can see myself. Though, that's not as hard to do these days. I'm stupid and scared and kind of end up running away from everyone in the end, anyway. I suppose I should work on that. At least I'm aware of it. Even when I'm in complete denial of something I don't want to be true, I'm usually still aware of it and am just avoiding being honest with myself. Deep down I know it's the truth. That's something I guess. Though, knowing you're acting cowardly doesn't make the fact that you're being a coward any easier to accept when that's the last thing you want to be.

Haha, that's depressing.

Morbid and depressing. Lovely. I'm a fun person, I swear. I guess, just not at 3:23 a.m., evaluating the post-Valentine's Day wreckage. Well. Just in general at this hour when I can't find the "off" switch for my incessant, overbearing, impossible-to-please brain.

Speaking of which. An old friend commented on my away message on AIM the other day when it said, "Consciousness is overrated." He told me that it was horrible and depressing and that I was basically saying I'd rather die. Which is not what I intended at all. I just meant that, when you have a lot of realities to deal with which you'd prefer to ignore, sleep is infinitely preferable to being awake. I just meant that I was running away because I couldn't turn off my brain. I just meant I was being weak. I didn't mean I was suicidal and I wasn't envisioning some macabre end of all consciousness. I meant consciousness as in being awake versus being asleep, not being alive versus being dead. I was just indulging in childishness. But I wasn't about to explain that to this kid. He never would understand, anyway. He doesn't see me clearer than I see myself, though I think he might have a long time ago. He's one of those people Andy Warhol talks about who likes me for the wrong reasons--or at least, likes me for something that I'm probably not. He wouldn't understand that, either, though.

That was depressing too. Moving on.

This song is pretty sweet. It's nothing special, really, but for some reason, the lyrics and tone just click with me. It makes me think of summertime in the city, where young people find this inexplicable euphoria in the damp darkness, where they roll through the streets like they own the world. It makes me want to gather a bunch of chill people and go to a random concert and grab a drink or two. It makes me want to do something spontaneous and embrace the irrepressible irresponsibility of youth. It makes me want to find someone passionate to love, and go on an adventure with them. Do something crazy just for the sake of being able to talk about it afterward--just once. Why not, when every other kid makes a lifestyle out of it. Really, the song is just fun. Give it a whirl.

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Now playing: We Are Scientists - After Hours

I almost died in about 8 different ways today...

...just from going to Shop-Rite on Rt. 17 in Ramsey.

1) The wind.

Okay, not the shopping center's fault. But the wind was going at a pretty steady 25+ mph, and when combined with #2, the result was not good. #2 being...

2) Rogue shopping carts.

One actually darted across the main drag of the parking lot, hit a curb...then backed up and went back across the road. And stopped in the middle. I was almost impressed. Except for the fact that, ya know, it nearly slammed into my car.

3) Cars. And the parking lot itself.

Why is there an unwritten law that seemingly states that all supermarket parking lots must be unqualified disasters? They're never organized functionally, and there are always people running stop signs, making wide turns, going the wrong way down one way sections. This one is no exception.

4) Old men. And old women.

The old folk who frequent the Shop-Rite in the middle of the day should so not be navigating shopping carts, let alone three-ton automobiles. One old lady decided it was a good idea to turn her cart out into the middle of the aisle without looking to see if anyone was walking. I was walking. And the old men who wander around with baskets look so lost--they stop in the middle of everything to check their lists and read the aisle signs and cause major traffic jams.

5) All women, for that matter.

I hate the rich moms who come into Shop-Rite while their kids are in school. There are a few different types, but they all fit one type or another. There are the ones who come in wearing their $120 jeans, long sleeve shirts, and puffy vests. There are the ones in the $120 jeans with sweater sets and the Kohl's handbags that look almost designer but not really. Then there are the ones in the $120 jeans with the expensive coats and designer bags. And they all invariably have giant diamond stud earrings, straightened hair, obnoxious highlights/dye jobs, and too much make-up. They walk around with their coupons and their little daughters who are wearing Coach leather shoes and Guess for Kids clothes. They block up the aisles and they don't pay attention to where they're going with their shopping carts because they're too busy babbling on their Blackberries or bluetooths like it's their job. And really, it is. It's probably the most work they'll do all day.

Anyway. Just felt like a rant. Now have an hour to read 80 pages of The Sound and the Fury. Woot.

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Now playing: Martha Reeves & The Vandellas - Heat Wave (Stereo Mix With Fade)

Less is more.

I am trying to come up with three proposals for feature films for my 9:45 tomorrow and I am failing miserably.

I can't seem to think of anything remotely original or at all feasible--nothing that wouldn't require copious amounts of research. Everything I come up with sounds trite, to me, or over-complicated.

The DGA Award for feature film went to Danny Boyle for Slumdog Millionaire. That film is unstoppable right now--with the momentum it has, it'll probably win big at the Oscars in three weeks, too. It's definitely one of my favorite movies this year. I'd say that I liked The Wrestler more, though.

Both films have marvelously simple plots. The Wrestler's premise is so basic: a washed-up, aging wrestler comes to terms with his mortality and the emptiness of his life outside of the ring after suffering a heart attack. Even Slumdog isn't that complicated--a young man from Mumbai survives several tragic events and finally hits a lucky streak, finding himself in contention for twenty million rupees during his search for his childhood sweetheart. Neither film really had any shocking twists or highly suspenseful points. Their endings were not unexpected.

Both are delivered beautifully, and people are loving them. Slumdog is #34 of IMDb's Top 250 right now, and The Wrestler is #47. There are great films that are complex. But sometimes a simple story well told is better, even if it's an old one.

On a completely separate note, I just finished reading The Great Gatsby. I forgot how things ended between Jordan and Nick. They have a strained conversation on the phone, don't talk for a while, then she tells him she's engaged and tells him he shook her up, the way he treated her. Then she reminds him about a conversation they once had:

"You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn't I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride."

"I'm thirty," I said. "I'm five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor."

Maybe another day I'll have something to say about that. Right now it just stands out in my mind.

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Now playing: John Mayer covering "Bold as Love" live in concert on his Where the Light Is DVD