From Inner Worlds to Outer Space: The Multimedia Performances of Dan Kwong

FROM INNER WORLDS TO OUTER SPACE CRITICAL PERFORMANCES Volumes in the Critical Performances series present key texts...

Author: Dan Kwong | Robert Vorlicky (Editor)

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FROM INNER WORLDS TO OUTER SPACE

CRITICAL PERFORMANCES

Volumes in the Critical Performances series present key texts by contemporary theater and performance artists along with illuminating commentary by leading critics. Una Chaudhuri and Robert Vorlicky, Series Editors Lynda Hart and Paul Heritage, Founding Editors

TITLES IN THE SERIES

FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN PRESS

From Inner Worlds to Outer Space: The Multimedia Performances of Dan Kwong edited by Robert Vorlicky FROM CONTINUUM PUBLISHERS

Of All the Nerve: Deb Margolin Solo edited by Lynda Hart Hardcore from the Heart: The Pleasures, Profits, and Politics of Sex in Performance by Annie Sprinkle, edited by Gabrielle Cody Rachel's Brain and Other Storms: The Performance Scripts of Rachel Rosenthal edited by Una Chaudhuri

From Inner Worlds to Outer Space The Multimedia Performances of Dan Kwong DAN KWONG

Edited by Robert Vorlicky

The University of Michigan Press

ANN ARBoR

Copyright © by the University of Michigan 2004 All rights reserved Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America @) Printed on acid-free paper 2007

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in Publication Data applied for I SBN o-472-09866-7 (cloth) I SBN 0-472-0 6866-o (paper)

A u t h o r's N ote/Ed ito r's N ote

Dear Reader, Please note that these texts were originally written for live theatrical per formance. The occasional sudden shifts and changes in emotion, mood, or attitude during spoken passages are difficult to communicate in print. I've included some notes indicating how I deliver the text onstage. I hope these notes aren't too intrusive. Many of these performances involve fairly elaborate multimedia compo nents. Often visual, aural, and physical elements occur simultaneously with text. In some cases, I have used a modified script form, which hopefully will help give you a sense of the what/where/when of things happening onstage. The book's photographs will convey some of the images (special thanks to Jenny San Angel for her computer expertise in capturing and processing still images from performance videotapes). The rest I leave to your imagination. This book is dedicated first and foremost to my family: my mother Momo Nagano, who shared with me her indomitable spirit, her delight in storytelling, her obsessive attention to detail, and who taught me that "growing up" doesn't mean you stop having fun; my father, Sam Kwong, who showed me how to work hard, to take care of those who work for you, and to always do the best you can; my three wonderful sisters, Maria, Didi, and Poppy, who have graciously tolerated being repeatedly referred to in my work and who are some of the most important landmarks in my life. This book is also dedicated to the late Harvey Jackins, who believed in me like no one else and whose brilliant thinking and generous heart continue to guide my work and allow my life to be ever more focused. No discussion of my performance work would be complete without men-

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tioning Highways Performance Space (Santa Monica, California) and the two people who founded it in 1989, Linda Frye Burnham and Tim Miller. These extraordinary individuals selflessly nurtured, encouraged, and sup ported my development as an artist. Although both have moved on, their spirit of bold, heartfelt, life-changing art still resonates within me, coloring my artistic conscience. I am forever grateful to them and to Highways itself, the place where I have given birth to most of my performance creations. Special acknowledgment and gratitude are due to Christine Sang, whose superb directorial and choreographic contributions on Monkhood in 3 Easy Lessons and The Dodo Vaccine were invaluable. Her wisdom and knowledge led me to profound levels as a performer. Finally, my deepest thanks go to Bob Vorlicky, whose thoughtful and ap preciative interest in my work has been an extraordinarily validating expe rience for me as an artist.

Dan Kwong My heartfelt gratitude goes to Molly Vaux, Chris Mills, Ellen Bialo, Scott Loane, Karen Casko, Agosto Machado, Roman Marin, and Jim Muzzi for their generous support. I profoundly thank my editor and friend LeAnn Fields of the University of Michigan Press for remaining steadfast in cham pioning publications in the field of theater studies and performance. Her counsel and professionalism have been invaluable. And special thanks are due, as always, to my son Sasha for his unconditional love. I am extremely grateful to the Tisch School of the Arts, New York Uni versity, for awarding me a Senior Faculty Development Grant, which par tially funded this proj ect. It has been a distinct pleasure and honor to collaborate with Dan Kwong. Thank you, Dan, for your patience, your unwavering cooperation, and the priceless gift-evident in your on- and offstage lives-of performing and living the "change." In loving memory of Lynda Myoun Hart (1953-2000).

Bob Vorlicky

Conte nts

1 . Introduction: "Flying Alone in Outer Spaces" 2. Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder (1989) Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy (1991) C O M M E N TA RY :

((

CENTERING"

3· Monkhood in 3 Easy Lessons (1993) Correspondence of a Dangerous Enemy Alien (1995) C O M M E N TA R Y : " P E R F O R M I N G H I S T O R I E S "

4· The Dodo Vaccine (1996) The Night The Moon Landed on 391h Street (1999 )

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47 73 81 109 139

C O M M E N TA R Y : " I N S I D E O U T "

151 179 219

5. Excerpts from More Tales from the Locker Room (and other smelly places) The Sword and The Chrysanthemum (1997) Al the Barber (1997) Station Wagons of Life ( 2000)

229 229 231 234

6. Publicly Confidential: Conversations with Dan Kwong (1999-2003)

245

Appendix: Performance History

261

Selected Bibliography

269

I n t rod u ct i o n : "Fl yi n g Al o n e 1 n O u ter S p aces "

Since the rise of second-wave feminism in the 1960s, one-person perform ance has proliferated on the U.S. theatrical stage. A variety of factors, in cluding the form's relatively inexpensive production costs and its appealing (albeit often fraught) relationship with identity politics, caused solo per formance to reach cultural popularity in the 1990s, and it continues to at tract actors and draw audiences. For nearly fifty years of documented per formance history, solo performance in all its fictional and nonfictional manifestations has remained a genre of theatrical engagement that cuts across differences of race, class, sex, and education. As the nation embraces technological advances that increasingly isolate individuals from their im mediate communities and thrust them into a global, virtual world of pseudoconnection and overexposure, it seems that many Americans yearn for storytelling rendered intimately by one person. Contemporary solo performance in the United States has its roots in the feminist, women-centered art of the 1960s and 1970s-from the multimedia body art of Carolee Schneemann (which incorporated visual images, writ ing, film, video, slides, and sound) to the durational life art (or "living art" ) of Linda Montano. This work rapidly evolved into cutting-edge perform ances that foregrounded other specific features of the performing body, most notably its race. In the 1970s and 1980s, race joined gender and sexu ality as the predominant subject matter for African American, Latino, Anglo-American, and gay and lesbian artists. Popular soloists who launched careers during this period include Rachel Rosenthal, Karen Finley, Robbie McCauley, Roger Guenveur Smith, Deb Margolin, Holly Hughes, Carmelita Tropicana, Marga Gomez, Luis Alfaro, Tim Miller, and Annie Sprinkle. By

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the 1990s, the solo voices of Asian American, and to a lesser extent Native American, artists also were finding in this theatrical genre a necessary out let for expressing the narratives of their culture-the stories of family, tra ditions, dreams, and "otherness" as experienced inside America's borders. Traversing all forms of solo performance during the past fifty years, one structure has remained a constant presence-autoperformance. Autoperfor mance, or what some call "self performance" (or "performing the self" or "self-scripted performance" ), is an artist-actor's live performance of material drawn from her or his life. The primary material for autoperformance is au tobiography. Many women artists in the United States-from Beatrice Roth and Leeny Sack to Rosenthal, McCauley, Margolin, Hughes, and Gomez embraced autoperformance as a viable mode of self-conscious theatrical presentation at least a decade before their male counterparts did so. It is easy to understand why this performance mode appealed to women artists. Alone, the autoperformer is free to fully occupy stage time and space and to express her self-her subjectivity-without interference. She is no longer the "object" that is created, conventionally, by a man's visible presence (or his "gaze") onstage. Autoperformance, therefore, serves to liberate the artist, em bodying, enlivening, and giving voice to the otherwise voiceless, within con ventional theatrical representation. Although stand-up comedians used self-referential material in their for mulaic, humorous sketches prior to the 1970s, Spalding Gray is considered the first commercially successful male autoperformer in the United States. In 1979, his Sex and Death to the Age 14 christened autoperformance as a the atrical form that would gradually appeal to male performers, and from the 1980s to the present male autoperformers have produced a revealing body of performance literature and history. This work captures the shift in male self identification that has occurred as a result of the civil rights, feminist, and gay liberation movements and their influence on culture. But male soloists, regardless of the specificities of their identities, are not particularly self-dis closing in public performance. Historically, many male soloists-regardless of their race-resist speaking candidly because personal information signals their vulnerability. They do not want their stage personae to jeopardize (through language, gesture, or behavior) the cultural privileges afforded their gender and sex as American men. For this reason, male autoperformers differ vastly in their relationships with intimate detail: from why they choose to convey personal material and how they theatricalize it to what it is they want to say and to what end. Not surprisingly, autoperformance has remained an attractive theatrical form for minority artists, particularly gay artists and men of color, who are

I N T R O D U CT I O N

already marginalized and therefore have less power to jeopardize. In general, white, straight male artists have not rushed to line up behind Spalding Gray to embrace the autoperformative mode of presentation; public perform ance of the personal is not a foundational feature of this group's theatrical engagement. While solo performance has been an appealing form for the majority of straight, white, male performers (from Eric Bogosian, Denis Leary, and Rob Becker to Bill Talen and Danny Hoch), these artists create and perform fictional characters rather than locating themselves and their autobiographies at the center of their work.1 Dan Kwong is a groundbreaking Asian American artist and one of the first men of color in the United States to embrace fully the autoperforma tive form for his creative expression. 2 Kwong, a Chinese Japanese American, was at the forefront of a new generation of Asian American male perform ers in the late 1980s and 199 0s who incorporated spoken language into their solo performances and chose to work within the autoperformative form. Several practitioners, including Chinese Filipino American Han Ong, Japanese American David Mura, and Chinese Welsh American multimedia artist Kip Fulbeck, drew on autobiographical material in some of their pieces, while others, such as Japanese American Lane Nishikawa and Chi nese American Laurence Yep, staged solo works that were completely fic tional. Kwong, however, adopted autobiography as the primary material for his creative projects. His work is highly personal, as he explores what it means to be a son, a brother, a grandson, a lover, a jock, a would-be astro naut, an artist, an American, an Asian American, a third-generation Asian American, an American Asian, a man, and a heterosexual man of color in America in the twenty-first century. These are the particulars-the outlines of an identification-that he chooses to focus on, alone, in performances that are filled with the ghosts and bodies of the family members, friends, and strangers who inhabit this and other worlds. Since the late 198os, Dan Kwong has been a central figure in the art scene of Southern California. The West Coast has generated most of the solo work by Asian Americans, with Highways Performance Space playing a leading role. Tim Miller and Linda Frye Burnham established Highways Perfor mance Space in Santa Monica in 1989 . True visionaries, they established in stitutional, supportive structures for alternative theater and attracted many exciting, underexposed talents searching for an artistic home. Dan Kwong was among the artists featured at Highways during its first year, performing his full-length Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder, and Highways has been Kwong's personal and professional home ever since. In 1990, he became a member of the Highways board of directors, serving as its cochair from

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2000 to 2003. Also in 1990, he became a roster artist in Great Leap, an Asian American performing group founded by Nobuko Miyamoto.3 And since 1991 he has curated and produced Treasure in the House, an annual Asian American performance festival at Highways. He continues to teach highly acclaimed Asian American men's autoperformance workshops nationwide. His classes on solo performance techniques draw from the participants' au tobiographies and are now internationally recognized, especially in South east Asia. Kwong's rich commitment to the arts is grounded and self-evident in the body of work he has created since 1989. Likewise, numerous thematic foci, multimedia choices-which include the use of text projections, photo graphs, video, film, audio, choreography, and puppetry-and aesthetic, psy chological, and political trajectories characterize his solos and connect them to one another. While his work incorporates the realities of "dislocation, incarceration, and diaspora;' which are the general, reiterated "historical ex periences of Asian Americans;'4 Kwong actively scrambles time and place amid much humor, irony, paradox, pathos, and self-analysis-into a theatri cal playing space where such issues as identity, identification, community, citizenship, authenticity, sexuality, and masculinity converge, intersect, com plement, and contradict one another.S Kwong's autoperformances are glimpses into an ever-evolving self, which coexists in a wide variety of relationships with its own Others. He takes up a challenge set forth by James May for "playwrights to circumvent this im perative to reinscribe the [Asian or Asian American] stereotype while at tacking the representational apparatus of Anglo-America:'6 May pointedly criticizes U.S. playwrights for their failure to even aspire to this goal. In con trast to others' compromised, theatrical attempts to present Asian America onstage, Kwong's choice of autoperformative content and structure liberates him from representational constraints of conventional realist theater or multicharacter/multiactor productions. In Kwong's work, solo performance (re)establishes itself as a contemporaneously radical yet ancient form of storytelling, one in which the spectator's imagination is actively engaged through the artist's ability to situate the Other in relation to the (perform ing) Self. His autoperformances, along with those of other Asian American soloists starting in the 1990s, have begun to address May's legitimate con cerns about the nature of representation in live art. Occupying center stage, Kwong embodies and subsequently performs his own identity, his own subjectivity. His work is nonstereotypical (compared to conventional Western theatrical representations of Asianness) in its re fusal to exoticize and caricature either himself or the Asian and Asian Amer-


ican characters he creates. In their most dynamic, penetrating moments, Kwong's autoperformances create a generous, inclusive relationship be tween his self and Others (i.e., the Others with whom he coexists in an inter subjective relationship as presented in the play) and actor and audience. In writing his life, performing his stories, and inviting us to look at, listen to, and "experience" his self through simultaneous, multimedia theatricality, Dan Kwong locates art within his inner selves and the world's outer spaces. In doing so, he offers his art, unselfishly, as a source through which the beauty of all our lives can be released and known for what it is. In Kwong's first full-length solo piece, Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder (1989) , the performer creates an unforgettable image that will resonate the matically, theatrically, and politically throughout his canon. This stage pic ture is worth close attention, since its coarseness, ferocity, and immediacy are memorable. Midway through the performance, Kwong enters in casual clothes, wearing his baseball glove, and picks up a bucket of moist clay "baseballs" on his way to center stage. In a tight spotlight hangs a "trash can lid with [a] painted Asian face," about six feet off the floor, on a bungee cord. This lid has been hanging onstage since the start of the performance. Kwong begins to tell the story of his high school friend and baseball team mate Scott Miller and their relationship. He interrupts the story every now and then to throw balls, with increasing violence, at the trash can lid, so that the clay splatters all over the image of the Asian face. The story of Scott Miller is Kwong's teenage memory of a white friend, scouted by the California Angels, who threw the ball faster and faster at his terrified Asian American buddy in the parking lot of Anaheim Stadium. Un like Kwong, Miller dressed up when he went to the ballpark, since young sters in the past had mistakenly identified him as one of the game's stars. Miller looked like "one of them, " Kwong recalls: "Like [one] of the chosen ones. Like [he was] on the inside." Despite his deep desire to project himself into a comparable, heroic position, Kwong, "as if looking in a mirror;' real izes that "No one would ever mistake me for a big league baseball player." The artist punctuates his realization by hurling one last ball at the trash can lid. " WHAM! It smashes into the face, now completely obliterated." From Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder to The Night The Moon Landed on 39th Street (1999) , Kwong's full-length solo performances comprise a sus tained tale of the marginalized "face" (or body) that moves from internal ized oppression and self-hatred to a liberating expression of free will, free dom, and self-knowledge. His performance embodies the struggles faced by a "colored" self in the United States. On seeing that his reflection is not that of Anglo-American Scott Miller, Kwong strikes out against his Asianness.

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He wipes out his image, captured in a mirror that contains refuse, the val ueless, and the disposable. Kwong's performances capture the artist's evolving, self-realized Asian American male image. His experience resonates with those of other Asian Americans of various generations whose autobiographies have captured the impact of socioeconomic, political, and historical events along with inter and intraracial and inter- and intrasexual exchanges on their lives. The past is embodied in the storytelling, letters, journals, and diaries of Kwong's an cestors, who immigrated to the United States from China and Japan. A third-generation Japanese American, or Sansei, Kwong's present is filtered primarily through personal and popular culture/ But the relationship between the personal (or autobiographical) and the theatrical is always complex. In plays with multiple characters and actors, there is a tendency to assume that Asian American drama illustrates "some offstage sociological reality."8 The relationship between lived experience and theatrical representation is more problematic than this. "Theater as theater," after all, plays with dramatic representation in ways that complicate the construction of characters in historical moments. Dramatic representation also "sustains essentialized racial categories;' which are socially constructed, through "human performance."9 This latter observation accounts for the impact of the actor and his or her body on the social construction of racial and ethnic categories, an impact that is uniquely performed and unsettled in autoperformance. The genre that can, and often does, challenge theatri calized assumptions and representations of race and ethnicity, as well as sex and gender, is solo performance. Dan Kwong's autoperformances deliberately confront racial and gender stereotypes through the multimedia presentation and representation of self as subject. When Kwong "performs" race, for instance, or gender, he often immediately deconstructs it through multimedia collages involving a si multaneous presentation of dialogue, song, movement, and images on film or video. He never fixes or stabilizes his self so that his solos can be critiqued through assumptions, categories, or social constructions of identity. His work requires reading on many levels-and in concert with the work of other high-profile Asian American autoperformers such as Korean Ameri can stand-up comic Margaret Cho (of I'm the One That I Want, the com mercial film and national performance tour) , Chinese American slam poet Beau Sia (of Russell Simmons' Def Poetry Jam on Broadway) , as well as auto performers Japanese American Denise Uyehara and Filipino American Alec Mapa, 10 all of whom are committed to dismantling onstage stereotypes of Asian Americans.


Despite an active presence in U.S. theaters, clubs, and other performance venues, Asian American solo work is noticeably absent in print. Even the much anticipated Extreme Exposure: An Anthology of Solo Performance Texts from the Twentieth Century fell short of many readers' expectations. Despite its useful contribution in bringing together a range of solo voices (many of them excerpts from longer works), this anthology of forty-three artists in cludes the work of three Asian American women soloists but not one Asian American man.11 The commentaries in the present volume provide the first comprehen sive, close reading of Dan Kwong's canon of full-length plays and comple ment the artist's self-critique in the interviews ("Publicly Confidential" ) . The interviews include the artist's views on growing up Asian American in the often conflicted spaces of "America," his politicized dramaturgical ap proach to racialized and gendered heterosexual masculinity, an overview of his artistic activities on national and international stages, and his assess ment of solo performance as an enduring art form. This collection provides a foundation on which further scholarship on Kwong, and Asian American solo performance in general, can broaden and deepen our approach to this fertile material. From Inner Worlds to Outer Space is a step toward bringing the still mar ginalized voices of Asian American men to center stage. Asian American performance art, especially work created by men in solo form, currently has few practitioners, and they have received little to no sustained critique.12 Dan Kwong provides a possible explanation for this absence. My heritage is Japanese and Chinese, and both cultures place a high pri ority on blending in. To draw attention to one's self-to the individual is considered selfish, braggartly, and asking for trouble. Also, there is the legacy of anti-Asian racism in the United States. Being visible as an Asian has historically been a dangerous thing-from nineteenth-century Chinatown lynchings to race-based murders based on resentment of Asian economic competition. Racism has reinforced a common desire in many Asian communities to remain invisible. The closer one is to the immigrant generation the stronger [is] the emphasis on basic survival issues (varying with class status) and there fore the stronger the reality that an Asian American man will not choose a career in the arts. It is unthinkable-since he is not only expected to take care of his own immediate family but also his extended family if necessary. Traditionally, you owe this to your family; it is an unspoken law that we take care of each other. For a man to pursue a career in the

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arts would be considered an incredibly impractical-that is, nonlucra tive-and therefore selfish thing to do. Kwong posits the combination of cultural values and anti-Asian racism in the United States as a possible explanation for the delayed entry of Asian American men into the arena of solo performance, but he then complicates this scenario by identifying the impact of immigration and mainstream cul tural critics on the critique of Asian American male soloists: For the Asian American artists who do pursue a public career, another observation arises. How much of their invisibility is due to racism within mainstream culture, which leads to their simply being ignored and over looked? In the United States, Asians have tended to stay quiet. Yet, when their opinions are voiced, mainstream culture just does not seem to hear it, value it, or understand it. Unlike the African American community, we have not made quite as much progress in establishing a power base for combating racism. But it is slowly evolving, along with the recognition that building alliances with other communities of color (and progressive whites) to present a united front against racism is the most effective route. These posited features of Asian American identity as manifest within U.S. borders-silence, anti-individualism, group invisibility, and experience as targets of sustained racism-are named, challenged, and revised unapolo getically and forthrightly in Dan Kwong's autoperformances. His art is a tes tament to the dismantling of dominant cultural assumptions regarding Asian American manhood, especially as they pertain to heterosexual men. Robert H. Vorlicky

NOTES 1.

See Michael Peterson's Straight White Male: Performance Art Monologues

(Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1997), which focuses on the monodramas of "white" artists, including Eric Bogosian, Josh Kornbluth, Danny Hoch, and Spald ing Gray. In Peterson's analysis, white includes Armenian Americans (Bogosian) and Jewish Americans (Kornbluth and Hoch). Here heterosexuality and whiteness are conflated in such a way that the specificity of the artists' racial and ethnic ancestry (arguably) are erased, collapsed, and assimilated into a category of white heteronor mativity. Note that John O'Keefe (Shimmer, 1988) and Josh Kornbluth (Josh Korn bluth's Daily World, 1988; Red Diaper Baby, 1992; The Mathematics of Change, 1993;


Love & Taxes, 2003) are also among the few straight white solo performers who focus

on autobiographical material in their stage pieces. 2. Ping Chong, born in Hong Kong and a pioneer in U. S. experimental, multi media theater making, performed in his own solo works in the 1970s and 1980s but did not use dialogue. Although Chinese American Winston Tong used dialogue in his 1976 Obie-winning Bound Feet, he used voice-overs, as he focused on Chinese women of the elite class, whose feet were bound. 3· Great Leap, as described by Dan Kwong, is "a non-profit performing arts or ganization that has been around for about twenty-three years. It was started by Nobuko Miyamoto, a former Broadway dancer (she was in the original West Side Story, The King and I, and Flower Drum Song) who got fed up with the stereotypical

(racist) portrayals of Asians and became a highly politicized folksinger/performer in the 1970s. When she started Great Leap, it was an Asian American performing group. I became one of their roster artists in 1990. We toured elementary schools all over Southern California and the occasional high school and college. After the Los Ange les riots in 1992, Nobuko felt it was time for Great Leap to become multicultural and several more artists were added to the roster. Now, we typically have an Asian, Latina, and Black artist in our touring shows, and often include a White woman who was raised by deaf parents. We all use personal stories to talk about cultural issues. For the last six years or so, we have had two 'teams; one that mainly does the ele mentary and high schools, and one that mainly does the college circuit and profes sional theatres. I've been on the latter and also serve as the touring tech coordinator. We each perform about twenty-five minutes of material. Lately I do the Baby Pup pet [from Monkhood in 3 Easy Lessons] and Station Wagons of Life.

. . .

The appeal of

a multicultural show is obviously very strong to presenters who seek to address di versity issues. . . . It's very much like a family. Our artists are based in L. A., Seattle, and Chicago, and we are constantly rendezvousing in airports around America" (Dan Kwong, e-mail to Robert Vorlicky, October 26, 20 02). 4. Dorinne Kondo, "The Narrative Production of'Home; Community, and Po litical Identity in Asian American Theater," in Displacement, Diaspora, and Geogra phies of Identity, edited by Smadar Lavie and Ted Sedenburg (Durham: Duke Uni

versity Press, 1996), n6. s.

See David Eng, Racial Castration: Managing Masculinity in Asian America

(Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), for an illuminating theorization of Asian American male subjectivity as revealed through the role of sexuality in racial for mation and the place of race in sexual identity. 6. James S. Moy, Marginal Sights: Staging the Chinese in America (Iowa City: Uni versity of Iowa Press, 1993), 139. 7. See Kondo, "Narrative Production;' for a discussion of the term Asian Ameri can (as opposed to Oriental) and its "increasing approbation" of all peoples of''Asian

descent [who] are lumped together regardless of national origin" (98). 8. Elaine Kim, Asian American Literature: An Introduction to the Writings and Their Social Context (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1982),

xv.

9· Josephine Lee, Performing Asian America: Race and Ethnicity on the Contem porary Stage (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1997), 6. For a useful overview

of U. S. ethnic theaters in general since the nineteenth century, see Yuko Kurahashi's "Ethnic Theatres in the United States: A Forgotten Aspect of the Alternative Theatre

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Movement;' in "The Development of Asian American Theatre: The Case of the East West Players;' Ph.D. diss. , Indiana University, 1996, 25-55. 10.

See Uyehara's autoperformance Headless Turtleneck Relatives, in Maps of City

and Body: Shedding Light on the Performances of Denise Uyehara (New York: Kaya

Press, 20 03); and Mapa's autoperformance I Remember Mapa, in 0 Solo Homo: The New Queer Performance, edited by Holly Hughes and David Roman (New York:

Grove Press, 1998), 199-228. Additional Asian American artists who frame (to vary ing degrees) their solo work through autoperformance include Brenda Wong Aoki, Dan Bacalzo, Amy Hill, Shishir Kurup, Sandra Tsing Loh, Alex Luu, Nobuko Miya moto, and Jude Narita. 11. Jo Bonney, ed. , Extreme Exposure: An Anthology of Solo Performance Texts from the Twentieth Century (New York: Theatre Communications Group, 2000 ). An

earlier anthology of historical significance in its documentation of solo performance is Mark Russell, ed. , Out of Character: Rants, Raves, and Monologues from Today's Tbp Performance Artists (New York: Bantam, 1997), which includes one Asian American

soloist (Nicky Paraiso, a Filipino American) among its thirty-one artists. 12. When considering the work of Dan Kwong, for example, a notable, recent ex ception to this trend is Meiling Cheng's critique of Kwong's Monkhood in 3 Easy Lessons in her In Other Los Angeleses: Multicentric Performance Art (Berkeley: Uni

versity of California Press, 2002), 216-21. Regarding Kwong's autoperformances, see also Robert H. Vorlicky, "The 'American' Voice in Asian American Male Autoperfor mance;' in Asian American Literature in the International Context: Readings on Fic tion, Poetry, and Performance, edited by Rocio G. Davis and Sami Ludwig (London:

Lit Verlag, 20 02), 203-11; and "Marking Change, Marking America: Contemporary Performance and Men's Autobiographical Selves," in Performing America: Cultural Nationalism in American Theater, edited by J. Ellen Gainor and Jeffrey D. Mason

( Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999 ) 193-209. ,

Sec rets of T h e S a m u ra i Cente rne l d e r (1989)

(The stage is covered with a very large piece offake grass [outdoor carpeting] in the fanlike shape of a baseball field. Home plate lays at the tip of the field closest to the audience. Spanning the width of the stage, a turquoise blue "out field fence," made of felt cloth and approximately five feet high, stands at the far edge of the grass away from the audience. Huge white numerals 390 on the fence note the distance in feet from home plate to the centerfield fence. A large projection screen is just above and behind the centerfield fence. On the far left side of the ''field," a metal trash can lid is suspended verti cally in the air by red and white bungee cords about six feet off the floor. Painted on the inside of the trash can lid (in a loose, sketchy style) is the face of an Asian man. Sitting on the "grass" below the trash can lid is a red metal pail filled with moist clay "baseballs." On the far right side of the stage stands a tall, black, wooden "weapons rack" holding a Japanese sword in its black scabbard. Near the weapons rack is a large television on a tall stand. The stage is dark. We hear suspenseful pizzicato strings plucking a tentative rhythm. They stop. A text slide is projected, written in cartoonish cutout letters: ove r b l ow n p ro d . p resents:

Text slide fades out and strings begin again. Building in momentum, they sus tain their rhythm like the ticking of a clock. A faint back light barely reveals the

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S E C R ETS O F T H E SA M U RA I C E N T E R F I E L D E R

silhouette of the S A M UR A I C E N T E R F I E L D E R seated cross- legged on the grass at center stage, head bowed. The S A M UR A I C E N T E R F I E L D E R is dressed in elaborate costume-a base ball uniform covered with samurai "armor" and helmet. His armor skirt is made from strips ofgrayish carpet padding hanging from a red waistband; his orange shoulder guards are slabs of thin foam rubber with bands of shiny decorative braiding glued on; shin guards of foam rubber wrapped in blue lame fabric; forearm guards made from the same foam padding decorated with black, yellow, and red electrical tape. His headgear is a modified black bicycle helmet: a glistening metallic cres cent moon shape is attached above the forehead area, looking like horns and anchored to the center of the helmet with a cutout baseball image; sharp an gular black cheek guards frame his face, and a fringe of purple metallic cloth dangles around the back edges of the helmet. On the back of the helmet is the number 12 in small white numerals (in the baseball player's style of identifying equipment). Beneath his armor, he wears snug-fitting gray baseball pants and a navy blue baseball jersey with the team name Giants and a small number 12 in red and white emblazoned on his chest. There is a large number 12 in red and white numerals on his back. A red long-sleeved undershirt and black Chinese shoes complete his colorful outfit. As the next slide appears (in the same cartoonish lettering), we hear loud, low, ominous horns blaring out-like when the mighty overlord appears in an old samurai movie . . . S EC R ETS of t h e SAM U RAI C E N T E R F I E L D E R

During this, a tight spotlight comes up, illuminating the S A M UR A I C E N T E R He lifts his face and slowly scans the horizon, searching for potential danger. Slide fades out as music continues in swirling, mysterious tones. S A M UR A I C E N T E R FIE L D E R lowers his face into the darkness again. Final text slide ap pears, same style: FIE L D E R .

-ta l e s to u n boggle t h e m i n d . . .

Text slide and music fade out. In silence, the S A M UR A I C E N T E R FIEL D E R sits in formal cross-legged samurai fashion, his right leg folded under him and his left leg folded in front. He is oblivious to the audience throughout this movement section.

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He gradually reaches his right hand across his left thigh and grasps the han dle of a baseball bat, hidden by his side. Very slowly he begins to slide it for ward, the knob end towards the audience. He leans forward, preparing to rise. Suddenly he springs to his feet, drawing the bat like a sword and pointing it to the sky. Back to the rhythm of slow tai chi, he gracefully lowers it and extends it forward to the audience again. He begins taking very slow, meditative prac tice swings like a batter waiting for the pitch. Breathing deeply in rhythm with his movement, he repeats it twice then sets himself in a left-handed batter's stance, poised for action. He waits for an imaginary pitch. Suddenly his eyes widen, as if seeing the approaching ball. (All in super slow motion.) He coils like a spring, then extends his right foot to stride into the pitch. Shifting his weight forward onto the front foot, he begins powerfully uncoiling as he swings the bat around. An explosive moment as he connects with the imaginary ball. He follows through on his swing, eyes watching the ball soar into space. Still in slow motion, he begins to run in place-long, powerful strides that slowly begin to speed up until finally in a burst of actual running he charges at the audience. He stops in front of them, shocked. Embarrassed at being caught in the middle of his self-gratifying fantasy, the S A M U R A I C E N T E R FI E L D E R speaks. ) Oh. It's you. Uh-nice to see you . . . !

(He composes himself, quickly turning provocative and cagey. ) I suppose you heard there would be some secrets revealed here tonight? My secrets . . .

(He turns on some Tashiro Mifune-arrogant-charm.) What kind of secrets do you want to know, hmm? I have many kinds. Some of them you may like! Some of them you may not. S O M E OF T H E M Y O U M AY A L R E A D Y K N O W ! All o f them come from inside. Let US pro ceed.

(He walks to the weapons rack, holds the bat up as if making an offering, gives a ceremonial bow, then places it in the rack above the Japanese sword. He turns around and whispers conspiratorially to the audience.) Secret Number One!

(He gestures to the technician's booth and pompously requests.) Slide, please . . .


(A text slide appears.) To p of t h e fi rst i n n i n g: By n atu re, h u m a n s a re good.

(He parades across the stage, reciting the text aloud to himself) "By nature, humans are good."

(Slide goes out. He stops and addresses the audience, making sure they heard him.) By nature-humans-are-good!

(This aphorism tickles him. He approaches the audience and repeats it directly to different people, taking more giddy, goofy delight each time. Suddenly he stops, wary of nonresponsive audience members. He turns belligerent and bel lows at them.) What? Y O U WA N T S O M E T H I N G A L I T T L E M O RE O B S C U R E? ! Took me a long time to learn this one. Y O U M U S T S T U D Y T H I S W E L L ! Next slide, please.

(Another text slide appears.) Two outs, r u n n e r o n th i rd base: T h e Ce nterfle l d e r m u st e m b race the Vo i d . D o th i s l ovi n gly.

(He parades across the stage again as he recites, striking a dramatic pose with eyes closed and arms raised to the heavens.) "Two outs, runner on third base! The Centerfielder must embrace the Void . . ."

(He screams the last word of this secret with bloodlust in his voice.) "Do this LOVINGLYfff"

(A moment of reflection, then with quiet dignity.) This cannot be explained. Next slide . . .

(Text slide out. Suddenly he rushes forward, holding up his hands to halt the proceedings.) No! Wait! Stop! This is too much too soon. I cannot successfully com municate these secrets to you without proper conditioning. You all know

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how important "conditioning" is, don't you? Where would we be with out-C O N D I T I O N I N G ? ! ! ! Let us continue . . .

(He turns on his heel and marches offstage. Lights fade to black. We hear the sound of a heavy thunderstorm. ) Slide Images

Dan's Recorded Voiceover

Illustration of an old storm-tossed

"May 7th, 1843. Manjiro Nakahama is rescued at sea by Captain William vVhitfield and brought to New Bedford, Massachusetts. There he lived for over five years, eventually becoming a key figure in the earli est exchanges between the governments of Japan and the United States.

schooner at sea.

Old historical photograph of five Japanese Samurai posing with American officials.

"In this later photo, he is seated far left, with a visit ing delegation from Japan. Manj iro is credited as being the first Japanese in America.

(Storm sound effects fade out. We hear a lonely guitar strumming.) Close-up of Manjiro from previ ous image.

Slide and music fade out.

"One Sunday, Manjiro accompanied the Captain to church services. One of the deacons of the church, horrified, came to see the Captain later and told him that the Japanese boy would have to sit in the Negro section of the church, as some of the white church members objected to his presence. And thus Manjiro Nakahama also became the first Japanese to experi ence racism in America:'

(We hear a Japanese shakuhachi flute playing a melancholy melody. A text slide appears.) o p p res s i o n , n . T h e syste m atic, i n stitut i o n a l ized, o n e-way, soci a l ly co n d o n e d m i streatment of m e m bers of o n e gro u p b y mem bers o f a n oth er gro u p o r b y soci ety a s a w h o l e . (s ex i s m , raci s m , g a y o p p re s s i o n , etc.)


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(Slide and music fade out. We hear a Wurlitzer organ playing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Lights up and Dan briskly jogs onstage in baseball uniform with glove and ball. He repeatedly tosses the ball in the air and catches it, as if warming up. Brimming with energy, he takes his position at center stage. We hear a recorded voiceover accompanied by a slide sequence with comi cal music. Throughout, Dan punctuates the voiceover with typical jock-shouts and gestures as if playing in an actual game.) Dan's Recorded Voiceover

Slide Images

"Baseball, America's National Pastime. A game which includes running, throwing, catching, hitting, strategy, and a wonderfully high-strung intensity. A game played with a little white ball . . ."

A huge image of a major league

DA N L I VE :

Slide fades out.

Hey whaddaya say! Let's play some ball now!

Voiceover Continues

"I began my baseball career very early. Morning feedings were typically followed by vigorous work outs to perfect fundamental techniques such as Basic Screaming and Crying." DA N L I VE :

baseball.

Slide Images Dan as two month old infant in crib.

Woooo! Yeah baby! One down, now!

Voiceover Continues

Slide Images

"By the time I was six years old, I had my first real leather baseball glove. Soon after, it became clear to me that my true calling in life was to play major league baseball. Not an unusual wish for your typical Chinese Japanese-American city boy.

A funky old baseball glove.

"As I had no brothers, my three sisters were drafted as teammates, usually against their will. The gruel ing conditions of year-round training eventually led to the first Free-Agent Sisterhood Arbitrations.

Sisters posing with bat and ball.

"My childhood career was one full of controversy, both on and off the field. One of the biggest prob lems seemed to be determining just where the playing field ended.

7-year-old Dan holding a baseball bat in front yard. g-year-old Dan in summer camp, eyes crossed for the camera.

Kwong children dressed as cow boy and indians. Dan holds a peace pipe. Close-up of actual note from schoolteacher, complaining that "Danny plays and talks a lot."

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Sandy Koufax in action.

Sandy's autograph on a faded old piece of paper.

Willie at bat.

Willie making an amazing leaping catch.

Dodger team photo with Dan's head pasted onto a player's body.

Dan in the outfield.

High school team photo.

Close-up of Dan's auto license plate frame-" I'd rather be in centerfield."

"Since I grew up in Los Angeles, my baseball heroes were members of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Of course, there were many different ones over the years. Guys like the great pitcher Sandy Koufax, who once signed an autograph for me while standing stark naked in the Dodger locker room. "But for many years, my main man on the Dodgers was Willie Davis. Willie played centerfield, like me. He was left-handed, like me. He could run as fast as the wind, like me. And he was never more splen did than when he was chasing down a long fly ball to the outfield. Every season I would faithfully troop out to Dodger Stadium to watch him perform on the perfectly manicured grass in centerfield, dream ing of someday wearing a Dodger uniform myself and of someday being just like them. "By the time I got to high school, I was a pretty good player. I made the varsity team my freshman year and got to wear this really cool pinstripe uni form! It rarely got dirty, since I sat on the bench most of that year-but I did look cool. "One problem was, my coaches were always trying to make a pitcher out of me, even though there was only one position I really wanted to play . . . "

(Blackout as Dan runs offstage chasing an imaginary fly ball. Slides and music end. A few moments in blackness, then lights come up bright. A baseball comes flying onstage and bounces across the grass. With a wild whoop, Dan comes charging back onstage chasing after the ball. He gloves it and tiptoes delight edly back to center stage. Tucking his glove under one arm, he holds the pris tine baseball close to his face as if it were a delicious ripe fruit. Throughout the monologue, his delivery is very stylized and formal, often changing attitudes and moods quickly and radically.) Oh, I love a brand new baseball! Mmmm!

(He sensuously rubs the ball all over his face, eyes rolling up into his head.) I've loved them for a long time, ever since I was just a boy!


(He rubs the ball between his hands like a magic lamp, then holds it aloft.) Ooooh! Look! Look at it! It's perfect! This little globe, wrapped in smooth white leather, tightly stitched with crimson red string-I love it! I LOVE IT!

(He holds it up to his nose and takes a long, drawn-out sniff) Oooo . . . it even has a smell that gets me excited!

(He sets the ball down before him and quickly jumps back, staring obsessively.) And when I see a baseball, I get this tingling feeling in my stomach . . . . My nostrils flare, my palms itch, and all I wanna do is-(He snatches up the ball in painful ecstasy. )-hold it in my hands and feel its hard, well defined seams in every position and angle . . .

(He demonstrates the hand grip and flight path of each pitch, complete with exaggerated vocal sound effects.) Fastball-Zzzzz! Curveball-N eeeeeerrrrrrr! Screwball-Eeeeeyoit! Change-up-Huhhhhhhh! Knuckleball-Whububububububub!

(He stops to suspiciously survey the audience.) Say-tell me who in the house really loves baseball? I mean, really? (A smattering of hands. Dan eagerly selects someone in audience.) What is your favorite position? (They answer.) And what do you love about it? (Whatever they answer, Dan gets very excited for them.) Anybody else here who has any other sportlike activity that they love? (More hands. Dan selects someone.) What is your favorite? (The person answers.) And what do you love about it? (Dan gets equally excited about it.) And anybody here who couldn't care less about sports, least of all base ball, and in fact thinks it's one of the stupidest, most boring, and point less activities ever devised for human participation? (Usually a large number of hands.) Thank you! Perhaps by the end of the evening your opinions may be al tered somewhat. But probably not.

(He returns to the business at hand.)

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F R0 M I N N E R W0 R L D S T0 0 U T E R S P A C E

Baseball. Centerfield. Now, there are a few things about centerfield I just have to tell you! Every player's position is important. Each has its own unique character, challenges, and special situations, but oh, centerfield, centerfield, C E N T E R F I E L D ! ! ! Center . . .

(Standing in horse stance-feet spread wide, knees bent, torso upright-Dan inhales deeply as he reaches to the sky, clasping his hands together. Exhaling, he draws his hands down to his belly, sinking deeper into his stance-a martial arts "chi" [energy] gathering exercise. He stands balanced, relaxed.) Standing in alignment with the pitcher and the catcher, the centerfielder is in excellent position to follow the flight of every single pitch-thus tun ing into the very pulse of this game. (Getting excited again.) Yet at the same time, he (or she) stands afar, taking in the big picture. A perfect view of the entire game before him, like being in some sort of planetary obser vation post. Standing in a broad expanse of green grass, flanked on both sides by the left and right fielders, you are the balance point. Center.

(He repeats the meditative chi-gathering exercise, then picks up his ball and glove. As the monologue continues, he gestures exuberantly, illustrating his points with animated intensity.) The basic task of the outfielder-center, left and right-is: To catch the bali-in the air-before it touches the ground. This is "Space Patrol." And there's something about pursuing a ball in flight, some quality of purity that elevates the spirit. "Ball" and "air." A spinning planet, zipping through space guided by the laws of physics! Mass, inertia, gravity, tra jectory, velocity, rotation, angles of intersection. . . . This is about a union. A divine union. A cosmic union. A time-space continuum union! Yes, it is a union of ball and glove-this is its essential physical manifes tation, BUT-it is also a union of spirit-and the flesh. The potential and the actual. Dreams and reality! Fear meets courage! Hope faces de spair! Hoohoooo! The first time I ever played with a real leather glove and a real baseball was when I was six. Me and Dad walked down to Silverlake Playground one hot summer L.A. afternoon with my new mitt, new bat, and a pearly white new baseball. We stood at opposite ends of the field and began my initiation into an American ritual of fathers and sons. He hit me-lots of little ground balls. Lots of little pop flies. You know, easy stuff-stuff a six year old could handle. Well, after a good while of this the vintage 1960s


Los Angeles smog started to get to us. Finally Dad called out, "Okay, that's it! Let's go!" Believe me, I was feeling pretty whipped myself. But in true spirit I gave the only appropriate response: "J U S T O N E M O R E ! J U S T ONE M O R E ! J U S T O N E M O RE ! " Down at the other end o f the field, I could see my father heave a sigh. A moment of still concentration. He tossed the ball up and-c RAC K ! He hit a towering fly ball that was higher and farther than anything I'd ever seen in my six years of life! Hoo hoooo! And my first reaction was, "Oh come on. What is that? What am I supposed to do with that?" This ball was going over my head, past the swings, clear over by the tetherball court! I mean, it was outtasight! And I started to run. After the ball. And as I ran looking up at the ball, an interesting thing happened. After my first few steps, something exhil arating came over me! My little moment of despair was washed away, and in its place was an electrifying sensation of-challenge. Coupled with a certain mad glee. "Grrrrrrr . . . You-watch-me-catch-this-ball!"

(He begins running in place, filled with newfound vigor and passion.) I could feel my father's eyes watching me as I ran faster and faster! I tore past the kids on the swings! As I raced over by the tetherball court, I, for the first time in my life, spontaneously uttered the holy mantra of the outfielder: " I I I I I I I I - G O T-I T ! " I reached out my glove and-I CAU G H T I T ! I CAU G H T I T !

(He celebrates wildly, leaping up and down and yelling with childlike delight. Suddenly he stops. Gravely. ) That was incredible.

(He goes wild again.) How did I do that? "Hey Dad, did you see that? Did I blow your mind or what?" I didn't even need any acknowledgment. I knew what I had done, and I knew it was good! And it seemed obvious to me: "I can do any thing." Dad walked home that day with a very proud son.

(He proudly struts upstage, drops his glove, and turns around.) You know, my father being Chinese and my mother being Japanese, I al ways used to feel "in the middle." I mean as far as I was concerned it was great being Japanese and it was pretty cool being Chinese too-inari sushi and cha shew bao! Yeah! But in elementary school when the Chi nese kids found out I was Japanese too, they'd go, "Ugh! " And when my

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Japanese buddies found out I was Chinese too they'd go, "Ohhhhh . . ." So as a young boy I got a very dear sense that somehow I and my three sisters stood in between worlds. Or maybe in two worlds . . . or was it a "third world"? But compared to my Chinese and Japanese American peers I had a perspective on this "racist" stuff that seemed just a little broader. I mean, not only did I know how stupid white racism was, I was also in good position to see how equally stupid racism was acted out be tween fellow victims. What a wonderful learning opportunity! What a drag. Unfortunately, understanding it didn't make it hurt any less. Got a little lonely out in centerfield sometimes . . .

(He runs to the centerfield wall, his back to the audience, and shouts to the heavens.) C E N T E R F I E L D I S T H E D E E P E S T PART O F T H E F I E L D !

(He whips around, keeping his distance.) The place farthest away from home plate. "Home" is waaaaaay over there, and the centerfielder is waaaay out here! This develops one's sense of con nection with that which is "other." A sense of connection with events hap pening far from oneself-whether it be three hundred ninety feet away or seven thousand miles away! A sense of connection with the universe and its most distant stars and planets. Playing so far from home requires a great faith. One's concept of "home" must be expanded and redefined . . . When the first Chinese began coming to this country in the mid-18oos, they weren't planning on staying. They knew where "home" was. They weren't exactly welcome anyways. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the Scott Act of 1888, the Geary Act of 1892, the Exclusion Act of 1902-all laws specifically designed to prevent and discourage Asian people from making a home in America. The country they helped to build . . . "Yeah sure-we'll take your labor. We'll take your backbreaking, relent less, bone-weary hard labor, but just remember: you're the visiting team."

(He turns away from the audience and jumps up and down as if calling for the ball.) HOME! HOME! HOME!

(He turns to the audience and approaches with a drunken swagger.) My home was a curious variation on the standard version. With three brilliant sisters and a nuclear reactor for a mother, I knew full well how


powerful and influential females could be. So my boyhood was not only throwing rocks, climbing trees, building model airplanes, and playing baseball, I was baking brownies, sewing clothes for my stuffed animals, playing "Queen of the Prom" with Barbie dolls (and often winning) , and knitting-things. And even though I got all the basic American male programming, somehow these traditional sex roles seemed just a little too tight around the gonads, if you know what I mean. So once again there I was-"Boy do this, and girls do this. " "Boys are like this, and girls are like this." "Boys don't do this, boys do do this." "Boys-"

(He stops abruptly as the beauty of this revelation strikes him.) Centerfield seemed like such a smart position. Maybe that's why the centerfielder is the captain of the outfield. He calls the shots. He has priority. He goes after anything he thinks he can reach, and when he calls out, "Mine! Mine! I got it! "-the other fielders back off and give him room: "Take it, take it, it's yours!" And there is no place the centerfielder does not belong. It's a lovely position to be in.

(He picks up his glove and puts it back on.) Oh, but it's not all cosmic bliss in the outfield. No way. Lemme tell you there are many things that can distract you in the midst of play! Basically, every negative thought or feeling you ever had about yourself. Questions about your goodness, your intelligence, your competence, your power, your self-worth, your trustworthiness, your ability to perform under pressure, your fear of failure . . .

(The following passage gradually escalates into total hysteria.) "What if I fuck up? I've fucked up before. (I know, because everyone pointed it out to me.) Eeuuugh. I'll probably fuck it up again . . . . Oh, please don't hit it to me! Please don't hit it to me! I'll just screw it up, I know. I'll probably do something really lame like drop the most crucial ball of the game or something. I always wanna be the hero, but it never seems to work out that way. I'm just no good at this game-I've never B E E N any good at it-I'll never B E any good at it! In fact, I don't know why I even bother coming out to P L AY this stupid game. I mean, it's really just a big pain in the ass as far as I'm concerned. Why did my father have to teach me this game? I mean, I could think of a whole lot better things to be doing than coming out here week after week and going through this whole angst trip. Like, how many times do I have to prove

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to the world? ' I ' M N O G O O D ! I ' M N O G O O D ! I ' M N O G O O D ! ' It's really kinda stupid when you think about it, y'know? Yeah! ' H E Y G U Y S ! P RE T T Y S T U P I D G A M E W E ' R E P L AY I N G H E R E ! YE A H , A N D Y O U ' R E P RE T T Y S T U P I D T O B E P L AY I N G I T ! A N D I ' M T H E S T U P I D E S T O F A L L T O E V E N B E H E R E ! YE A H , W E ' R E A L L S T U P I D , S O W H Y D O N ' T W E J U S T- " '

(He freezes as he notices something that interrupts his freak-out. He slowly shifts to joyful, zestful excitement.) What a beautiful sky . . . Oh, what green grass! The sun is shining! I'm here-in this moment on earth. And I'm playing- baseball . . . I'm play ing a game. The game I love more than any other! I ' M A L I V E A N D WELL! ! !

(Now he notices the imaginary game situation again-quickly the wilting self doubt begins to creep back into his brain.) Ughhh. The other team has the bases loaded. This is a crucial situation . . . We face possible disaster! All could be lost! A mistake here would crush our efforts! And-I'm playing baseball . . .

(The joyous delight surges back into him.) Heh-heh-heh . . . Yeah . . . Yeah!

Y E A H ! c ' M O N M A N ! Y O U H I T T H AT

F U C K I N ' B A L L TO M E , JAC K ! I WA N T I T ! ! !

(Blackout. Dan exits.) (We hear background sound effects of baseball game crowd noise and organ music. A slide appears of a brightly colored watercolor painting-the image of a large baseball glove with a baseball player standing next to it. Instead of a head, a large baseball sprouts from the player's neck.) (Dan's recorded voiceover.) "So-like I was saying, practically all of my baseball heroes back then were Dodgers, and there was absolutely nothing I wanted more than to be like them in every way possible. Yeah . . . "

(Sound effects and slide fade out. We hear slow steady gamelan music. Two text slides appear in sequence.) Fu l l cou nt, d o u b l e stea l : Co nfu s i o n j o i n s t h e n u m b H ow q u ickly t h e w i s e grow stu p i d .


Strike th ree c a l l e d : G l i m m eri n gs o f l i fe a m i ss H e a l i n g yet awa its.

(A tight spotlight comes up on the hanging trash can lid with its painted Asian face. From behind the trash can lid, Dan enters dressed in black slacks, a light blue pinstripe dress shirt, and black shoes. On his right hand, he wears his base ball glove. He picks up the red metal bucket of balls and takes it to center stage. He sets down the pail, plucks a ball from it, and addresses the audience.) When I was playing baseball in high school, I spent one summer hang ing out with one of our pitchers, a guy named Scott Miller. Scott was the only guy I knew who had actually been scouted by a major league team the California Angels. And Scott took his baseball very seriously. This one summer he'd call me up and say, "Hey Danny, you wanna go work out?" Well, you never had to ask me twice to go play baseball, so he'd drive over and we'd throw our bats and gloves and balls into the back of his funky old station wagon, drive for miles out into the desert area of Sunland. There, on an empty barren stretch of highway, was an old abandoned baseball field, which we had all to ourselves! And there we would pitch batting practice to each other-

(Dan turns and casually throws the ball at the trash can lid. The ball is made of wet clay and splatters onto the face. He quickly bends and picks up another ball, seamlessly continuing his story.) -we'd hit ground balls to each other, we'd hit fly balls to each other, and we'd do this all day long under a blazing hot sun until we were ready to drop from heat stroke and dehydration. We loved it. Naturally Scott was a big Angels fan, and when we'd go down to Ana heim Stadium to watch them play we didn't just go early, we went E A R LY . I mean, Scott liked to get there at least three or four hours before the game started-just to make sure we didn't miss anything. And of course we'd bring our gloves and a ball and stand out in the parking lot playing catch.

(Dan turns and throws another clay ball at the trash can lid. It splatters on the face, further covering it. He grabs another ball.) Now, there was something about being that close to major league action that used to get Scott really pumped up. Pretty soon he'd be firing 85 miles an hour fastballs at my head-

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(Dan throws the ball at the trash can lid-Splat!) -while I tried to figure out ways to distract him and get him to slow down, without letting him know how terrified I was. There was one funny thing about Scott. When we'd go to these Angels games, he'd be all dressed up! He'd come wearing a nice button-down collar shirt, pair of dress slacks with a leather belt, dress shoes-looking really nice and neat. Which I thought was pretty weird. I mean, you go to a baseball game to have fun, right? So why would you want to wear any thing other than a t -shirt and jeans? But hey, I didn't say anything-I just figured he was more mature than me.

(Dan throws another ball-Splat!) Until one day I finally found out why Scott dressed the way he did. It seems that Scott had gone to an Angels game by himself at his usual four hours before the gates even opened. This was the time when many of the professional players themselves would be arriving at the stadium for their day's work.

(He throws-Splat!) And as Scott was walking up through the parking lot-dressed as he was- a group of young kids came running up to him and A S K E D H I M F O R H I S AU T O G R A P H ! Hal ! They thought h e was a major league player! Can you imagine? Being mistaken for one of your own heroes? Being looked at with the same admiration and respect with which you looked at the pros? Like, you were one of them. Like you were one of the chosen ones. Like you were on the inside. Like you were there! Yeah! This idea got me soooo excited! ! !

(He gleefully throws another ball-Splat!) Immediately I started thinking, "Okay, what shirt should I wear? What pants should I wear? How should I comb my-"

(Dan freezes as if looking in a mirror and suddenly noticing his reflection. His excitement evaporates as it dawns on him.) And then I realized-it didn't matter what clothes I wore or how I walked or how I combed my hair. No one would ever mistake me for a big league baseball player.

(He turns and fires one last ball at the trash can lid. WHAM! It smashes into the face, now completely obliterated. Blackout on Dan. He exits, leaving the


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obliterated face lit, still swaying from the impact of the ball. Spotlight slowly fades out on the face. We hear murky, creepy electronic music. Two text slides appear in sequence.) i ntern a l ized o p p re s s i o n , n . A co n d ition i n w h i c h a n y h u m a n , d u e t o accu m u l ated p a i n fu l e m oti o n , fi n a l ly agrees with t h e i nva l i d at i o n a n d d e h u m a n izati o n o f s e l f a n d gro u p . . . (h oweve r a ga i n st t h e i r w i l l ) . . . o p p re s s i o n beco m e s s e l f- p e rpetuat i n g as fu n cti o n i n g i s i n react i o n t o o l d pa i n .

(Text slide and music fade out. In the dark, we hear Dan's recorded voice with lots of echo effect, sounding like a ghostly radio announcer.) "It's a fly ball, deep in time . . . . Back, back, awaaaaaaay back!"

(We hear traditional Japanese koto music. A documentary slide sequence be gins with Dan's recorded narration and various period music. Old family snap shots from Japan and America along with historical images are projected onto the large screen. Dan enters dressed in traditional Japanese white gi jacket and black hakama pants/skirt, with Japanese sword in his belt. During the follow ing, he executes a series of traditional sword techniques in stop-action, period ically moving and stopping as the voiceover progresses.) Dan's Recorded Voiceover

Slide Images

"Kiro Nagano was my Japanese grandfather's name, but to everyone in America he was simply known as 'Papa.' Papa was born in 1896 in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan. His father owned a prosperous papermaking business in the capital city of Sapporo, where he and his wife raised their family of seven by the strict Presbyterian values adopted by the mother.

My grandfather in his sixties,

"As a boy, Papa was unusually strong and well coor dinated. He took up the sport of judo, and by age fifteen he had won first place in the Sapporo city wide tournament in which he competed against men much older and more experienced.

smiling. Map of Hokkaido Island.

Papa as a boy with his large family.

Teenage papa wearing judo gi, looking quite formidable.

28


Papa in his early twenties, posing with father.

G randmother as young woman in formal kimono.

G randmother with her family.

Mama's sister performing tradi tional tea ceremony.

"In traditional Japanese culture, the eldest son inher its virtually all of the family's wealth, leaving little to nothing for any other descendants. Papa was the sec ond son, and so his future was to be of his own mak ing. After attending college in Tokyo, he chose to seek a life in the land of opportunity across the Pacific America. He first went to Seattle, Washington, where he spent a year doing farm work and saving money. Returning to Japan in 1919, he married my grand mother, Ai Enoki, the eldest daughter of a kimono merchant in Hokkaido. The very next day after the wedding, they prepared to sail for America. "This photo was taken that day, outside the Enoki family home. Papa stands far left, while my grand mother-who came to be known as 'Mama'-stands on the far right behind her older brother. It was a sad farewell for my grandmother, who left behind a family and a way of life she loved dearly.

(We hear scratchy old recording of 1920s "Charleston" music.)

Papa wearing straw hat, pinstripe suit, Mama in long dress-nei ther is smiling.

Papa looking seriously studious in a western suit.

Papa happily working in the garden. Papa and family pose by his new American car.

Three young N agano children sit ting on the grass.

"While Papa wasted no time adapting to American ways, it was a much slower, more painful transition for Mama. Here they pose for a formal portrait shortly after arriving in Seattle. The dress Mama wears was once her favorite kimono, which she had reconstructed into Western style. "Papa's original intention had been to attend the University of Washington, but apparently, upon see ing Japanese students partying and carousing on campus, it so offended his strict Christian upbring ing that, with disgust, he decided instead to go to Los Angeles. There he began working in the pro duce-farming business, as did many Asians in Cali fornia, where his long hours of hard work slowly began to pay off. "Mama and Papa raised three children, my mother the second born. It was around this time he received


29

the nickname of 'Papa' from his fellow workers in the produce market, and soon he was known by no other name.

(We hear "Tin Pan Alley" music.) "The name 'Papa' not only referred to his relatively young parenthood, it also symbolized his reputation within the Japanese American community of Los Angeles-that of a warm, kind, honest, and power ful man of integrity to whom many people turned for support. "In coming to America, Papa had made it his coun try by choice, and even though discriminatory laws made it impossible for him to become a citizen (be cause of his race), he and Mama raised a very Amer ican family. "Living a lifestyle that was a blend of Japanese tradi tion and Southern California style, my mother and her two brothers were typical of many 'Nisei,' or sec ond-generation, American-born Japanese.

Papa tenderly holds his eldest son.

Papa and family having a picnic on the beach. Papa and family and friends on a leisurely drive.

My mother as a young girl dressed in kimono.

(More swingin: upbeat, and jazzy music.) ''As is common for children of immigrants, there were generational clashes as the values from the par ents' homeland ran head-on into those of the new host culture of the children. For the Nisei, the pres sure to assimilate into white American society, how ever subliminal or blatant, was so successful that within a single generation, many Nisei had lost touch with any sense of connection with their cul tural heritage.

Mom and brothers, pre-teen years. Papa and family gathered around a Christmas tree.

(Old nostalgic sentimental tune, "When My Dream boat Comes Home.") "Papa's success in the downtown Los Angeles pro duce market continued, as did his rise in the judo world. By the late 1930s, Papa was on his way to becoming one of the highest-ranking judo men in the United States. He now had his own wholesale

Downtown L.A. produce market, circa 1 93 5-a mob of activity. Papa posing in his judo gi, throw ing an opponent.

30


Papa's handsome youngest son leans against a stack of produce crates. Logo image.

produce market, 'Nagano Produce; and in Novem ber of 1941 he had bought a new fleet of trucks and new office equipment. His eldest son Daisuke had just designed a new company logo, and Papa's American Dream was becoming reality.

(Dan finishes sword movements, places sword in weapons rack, and exits.) Papa and family standing in front of their L.A. house.

A thoughtful-looking Papa sits on the front porch wearing fedora and coat.

Slide fades to black.

"On the night of December 6th, 1941, Papa and the family were out for dinner with a family friend, a Caucasian man. In uncharacteristic fashion, Papa spoke to him openly about his deepest desires as a Japanese American. Papa hoped that, through his positions of leadership in the community and the sport of judo, he might serve as a bridge between the country of his birth and the country of his choice. As an ambassador of goodwill between Japan and America."

(Music and slide fade out. We hear a huge explosion. Slide image of the Pearl Harbor attack appears, then fades to black. Recorded voiceover continues.) "Early the next morning, December 7, 1941, Japanese air and naval forces attacked Pearl Harbor. Japan and the United States were at war. With cruel irony, Papa's dream and the lives of his American family were sud denly torn apart.

(We hear ominous, droning electronic music, like distant airplanes.) "My mother and two of her girlfriends had ditched Sunday school that day, and when they heard of the Japanese attack their first reaction was, 'Where's Pearl Harbor?' Several of the neighborhood kids came over to the Nagano home and sat together in the living room all afternoon, nerv ously listening to radio news reports. "Papa arrived home. He had been returning from his morning game of golf and couldn't understand why so many people glared at him angrily as he drove by. He knew something was very wrong. Upon hearing the news, Papa went into the dining room and silently sat down, his elbows on the table and his head down in his hands. He sat there like that the rest of the day. At nine o'clock that night, the doorbell rang.


31

(Stage glows in a dark blue light. Dan slowly enters draped with an American flag, which covers his head and upper torso. He holds a lit candle as he wan ders about, blinded by the flag.) "My mother and her younger brother Aiji went to answer. Two men standing on the darkened porch identified themselves as F B I agents, flashed their badges and pushed their way into the house. One of them began searching the house, asking for anything written in Japanese, any cameras, weapons, or two-way radios. The other agent asked for my grandfather and immediately went into his bedroom. Papa was ordered out of bed and got dressed as the F B I man stood by watching his every move. 'You'd better take a coat with you-it'll get pretty cold where you're going; he warned Papa. "My mother watched as the F B I agents took Papa away, walking down the darkened street, disappearing into the night. It was the last time she saw him for two years."

(F L A G

MAN

exits.)

Voiceover Continues

"The next day my uncle Daisuke and a neighbor drove all over Los Angeles County, visiting different jails in search of Papa. For two weeks, his where abouts were completely unknown to the family. Fi nally a telegram arrived saying he was being held in Terminal Island Federal Penitentiary and was about to be transferred to a special concentration camp for 'highly dangerous enemy aliens.' ''As a community leader and acting president of the Southern California Judo Federation, Papa was one of many Japanese Americans who had been under surveillance by the F B I , Navy, and Army Intelli gence for years prior to the actual outbreak of war. His name was on a list of those to be arrested im mediately should war ever be declared against Japan. This was in spite of the fact that none of these intelligence agencies had ever turned up a single case of espionage or sabotage by any Japa nese American.

Slide Images

Federal prison interior.

Papa proudly officiating at a judo tournament.

Karl Bendetson, a vociferous pro ponent of imprisoning JAs.

Four imprisoned N isei men in camp.

32


Racist anti-Chinese cartoon from an 1 878 California newspaper. Hotel sign: "New Management White Americans."

Japanese farming woman and her N isei soldier son standing in a strawberry field.

N ewspaper headline: "Removal of all Japs to interior planned." N ewspaper headline: "Ouster of all Japs in California near!"

U . S. soldier tacks up a poster: "Instructions to all Japanese." Anxious JA mother holds her in fant, preparing to leave. Little girl sits by her family's be longings piled in the street. Weeping woman aboard a train. An elderly JA man being photo graphed for a police "mug shot." A dozen people walk from a train, their arms full of luggage. A hand-painted sign by a mailbox: "Evacuation Sale." A storefront with huge sign in window: "Closing Out-Evacua

''Anti-Asian racism has a long history in the United States, especially California. By this time, it was a well-organized force, ready to spring into action at this golden opportunity to get rid of the Japanese Americans. "Fear of economic competition has been a tradi tional excuse for oppression. The economic success of Japanese Americans in California's farming in dustry was no small factor in motivating the racist activity against them. "Within a month and a half of the Pearl Harbor attack, the sensationalist press, various economic interest groups, and exploitive politicians had fanned the flames of racism and hysteria on the West Coast into an inferno of hatred and paranoia. The move to imprison all West Coast Japanese Americans began to look like an inevitability. "When President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 in February of 1942, it gave the Secretary of War the authority to remove not only Japanese aliens but Japanese American citizens as well from all West Coast areas. Over 110,ooo Americans of Japanese ancestry, 75% of them citizens, were up rooted from their homes and communities and placed in twelve different concentration camps throughout the U.S. There they were held without being convicted of any crime, without trial, and without any charges being filed against them. "People were allowed to bring only what they could carry. Homes, businesses, and entire communities were wiped out. "Papa's produce market was closed down by the government immediately. He lost everything."

tion Sale."

(A faint blue back light comes up. Dan enters dressed as the SAMURAI CEN TER FIELDER, carrying a tray of ten small votive candles. He begins to ceremo nially place the votive candles along the edges of the grass "field.")


33

Voiceover Continues

Slide Images

"Japanese Americans were ordered to report to vari ous designated assembly centers in California. There they were tagged for identification and initially as signed to one of ten major relocation centers in different states, from eastern California to Wyoming to Arkansas."

A young Nisei boy looks at the feet of a soldier. A small Nisei child with an I. D. tag hanging from her coat. Rows of soldiers stand guard as JAs disembark from train.

(SAM URAI CENTER FIELDER exits.) "Upon arrival, they found hastily and partially con structed tar-paper barracks buildings awaiting them in some of the most remote and desolate areas avail able. A telling irony was that several of these loca tions were on land the federal government had once upon a time used to relocate another group of people-the Native Americans. "One common justification for the relocation of the Japanese Americans was that 'it was necessary for their own protection.' Looking up at the guard tow ers, more than one Nisei remarked, 'If we're here for our protection, how come the machine guns are pointed at us?' ''Another boy gazes out on the barren, dusty, barbed-wire enclosure in the middle of desert noth ingness and thinks to himself' 'Gee-they must really hate us."'

Wide angle shot of camp-end less rows of barracks.

Muddy, barren camp scene.

Two soldiers stand atop a guard tower, a machine gun between them.

View through the fence at the dis tant mountains.

(Slide and lights fade to black. The stage glows in the flickering light of the can dles. We hear low, solemn chimes ringing out. A lone trumpet in the distance sounds a faint call to rise up. A text slide appears.) Two outs , botto m of the n i n t h : H u m a n s p i rit e n d u re s fa r beyo n d o utwa rd a p pearances.

(Slide and music fade out. SAMURAI CENTER FIELDER enters and goes up stage center. He kneels with his back to the audience, head bowed.

34


We hear cheerful, happy, upbeat music-like you might imagine as back ground for a children's show about a frolic in the park. A slide sequence be gins. Dan's voiceover is equally upbeat-the juxtaposition with the images is deeply sarcastic. ) Slide Images

Dan's Recorded Voiceovers

A smiling Dillon Myer posing in

"Dillon S. Myer-the man appointed to direct the operation of America's World War II concentration camps. According to Mr. Myer, these so-called relo cation camps were merely innocent way-stations, places the Japanese-American people regarded as 'havens of rest and security.'

his office. Two grinning camp guards drag away a downcast N isei man. Two other guards carry a beaten JA man like a sack of cement. Smiling Dillon Myer posing by a large sign on the side of a barrack: "Welcome Great White Father."

"One can only wonder with whom Mr. Myer con sulted in reaching such a benign conclusion. Just whom did he ask?"

(A test slide appears in same cartoonish lettering as main title slides.) " H O W ' S CAM P?"

(The cheery music is suddenly interrupted by the sound of a record player needle scratching across a record. SAMURAI CENTER FIELDER jerks his head up as music suddenly shifts to a hard, funky, hip-hop beat. Text slide appears.) W i l d p itch , ru n n e r on seco n d base: O l d pain u n reco g n i zed re s u lts in r i g i d , co p i n g b e h av i o r.

(His back to the audience, SAM URAI CENTER FIELDER rises, gesturing his arms towards the text slide as if to embrace it. The vocals begin, and SAM URAI CENTER FIELDER suddenly whips around to face the audience. He begins to dance-athletically, aggressively, goofily-as we hear Dan's recorded voice singing the caustic lyrics, some of which are flashed on-screen as text slides [in bold] along with other visual images.) (Dan's recorded singing.) Tell me who in the house know about the camps? (We do ! ) I mean really. Really . . . If you know what I mean, say yeah! Yeah If you know what I'm talkin' say oh yeah! Oh yeah But if you ain't hip to the relocation, S H U T U P already! Damn! H OW'S CAMP?


Everybody jump up and down-H ow's C A M P? Well there's some brand new shit goin' down-H ow's In your funky town . . . In camp And the Man say it's your faultWe gonna lock your mother up !

C A M P?

' HOW s CAMP?

We gonna knock your brother down ' HOW S CAMP?

We gonna tell you-what to do We gonna put you-in the zoo You fuck up and you're done-are we havin' fun? Huh! Tell us' H ow s C A M P ?

Heyyyy-Question:

Does anybody know the reason why? Bullshit. You won't get outUntil we feed you more lies Now everybody hate your race, c'mon! Your turn now-don't laugh. Go ask any Indian-gonna get the shaft! Goin' to a camp . . .

There's some brand new shit goin' down In your city, in your town-IN CAMP And the folks say it's your fault ' HOW S CAMP? ' HOW s CAMP?

We gonna take your father . . .

'

HOW S CAMP? ' HOW S CAMP?

We gonna take your brother down, c'mon!

Now lemme tell you gonna bend your mind A little bit harder 'til you learn to hate your kind A little bit deeper 'til you see who runs the show A military need was a lie, you know Come on now, you got to choose Your country or your race? You might talk white but Can't change your face-Yeah!

35

36


Can't do nothing while you watch your dreams GO D OWN.

CA M P ! CA M P ! CA M P ! CA M P ! CA M P ! CA M P !

(MANZANAR- P O S T O N ) ( H E A R T M O U N TA I N - T O PA Z ) (T U L E L A K E - J E R O M E ) (G I L A - M I N I D O KA ) (GRANADA - R O H W E R ) (LE U P P - M OA B )

Everybody-everybody jump up and down H ow's C A M P ? It's the same old shit that's gain' down How's CAMP? In this country, in this funky town How's CAMP? Do you really think it's your fault? C H E C K IT

H o w ' s CAM P ?

I f you can't forget it, shut up already! Damn! You got to get out You know we don't want your kind When the Congress say, " H o w 's C A M P ? "

Talkin' about it, let m e hear you shout, say Ya-da . . . How's camp? Dah-meh . . . How's camp? Bullshit! Louder, say it! How's camp? Ooo-eee! How's camp?

Shocka -locka- boom! What was that? AT O M I C B L A S T !

Hiroshima Nagasaki

Teriyaki I gotta talk,

c'mon!

You're gonna fry, you're gonna die' Cause we don't like your color or the shape of your eyes So take a look now, you're never comin' back This is a rape, an A-1 stabbing in the back-and that's a fact H o w ' s CAM P ? Come on, tell it! Whoooo! Come on! You can't swallow it?

ouT


We got another scam in the plans Everybody shut up ! Listen to the man! HOW 'S CAMP?

(Song ends, and last slide fades to black. SAMURAI CENTER FIELDER freezes, hand cupped to his listening ear. He slowly spirals down to the floor, back to his seated position. Lights fade to black and we hear cold, repetitive, electronic mustc. Two text slides appear in sequence.) It i s trad it i o n a l t o b l a m e t h e v i ct i m s fo r t h e i r o p p res s i o n , as we l l a s fo r h av i n g i ntern a l ized it. This itself i s p a rt of the o p p res s i o n .

(Text slide and music fade out. The television monitor flickers to life with the opening credits and theme song from The Donna Reed Show, a classic 1960s TV show about an all-American family. SAM URAI CENTER FIELDER sinks down to the floor and goes to sleep. The episode begins with the all-American family sitting in their kitchen discussing some superficial nonsense. After a couple vapid minutes, the video ends and the screen goes black. We hear eerie music. The stage is awash in blue light. SAMURAI CENTER FIELDER slowly rises from the floor, eyes wide with wonder. He staggers to his feet and groggily begins removing his velcroed samurai armor, piece by piece, as we hear Dan's recorded voiceover with lots of reverb, sounding hypnotic and surreal.) "I dreamt I was on The Donna Reed Show-with Orel Hershiser, star pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers. It was 1961. We were standing in a quiet, cozy, upstairs bedroom of the Donna Reed home, and there was an other young fellow with us. The two of them were quietly talking, and I could tell by the intent expression on Orel's face it was something serious. They seemed to be discussing a specific task. Something of considerable complexity. Something requiring precise and exact coordination between many people. Something with broad and far-reaching implications for everyone-and I had no idea what they were talking about. There was a slight uneasiness in the room. An awkward tension. And as the three of us stood there, a peculiar feeling began to come over me. Like, maybe I was in the wrong place . . . Like, maybe I wasn't supposed to be in this quiet, cozy, middle-class, suburban, white-bread upstairs bedroom with Orel and his friend. Somehow I didn't belong here, maybe wasn't even wel come here, and maybe-M AY B E-it had something to do with-my race? Eeuuuugh. This feeling was an old feeling. An old, old feeling . . . . "

37

38


(Dan sinks to the floor, going back to sleep as lights fade to black. We hear the Donna Reed theme song again as a slide sequence begins. Throughout, Dan twitches in his sleep, as if having a bad dream.) (Image slide.)

An American fa m i ly s its i n fro nt of a TV set, ci rca 1 9 5 5 .

(Text slide.)

1 8 97 ca m p a i g n poster: The Ch i n e s e M u st G o-Vote fo r O ' D o n n e l l 1 9 07 c a m p a i g n poster: T h e J a p a n e s e M u st G o-Vote fo r O ' Do n n e l l

(Image slide.)

Ca rtoon o f a lynch m o b h a n g i n g a C h i n e s e m a n .

(Text slide.)

"The C h i nese a n d J a p a n e s e are not b o n afi d e citize n s . They a re n o t m a d e o f t h e stuff o f w h i c h American citize n s a re m a d e . . . " - M ayo r J a m e s P h e l a n S a n Fra n c i sco, CA, 1 9 00

(Image slide.)

A ste rn-faced wh ite wo m a n sta n d s p ro u d l y i n front of h e r h o m e

poi nti n g t o a l a rge s i gn read i n g: "J a p s keep m ov i n g-th i s i s a w h ite m a n ' s n e i g h borhood . "

(Text slide.)

"We can not m a ke a h o m o ge n e o u s p o p u l at i o n o u t of a peo p l e w h o do not b l e n d with t h e Ca u ca s i a n race . " -Wood row W i l s o n 1 9 1 2 pres i d e n t i a l ca m pa i g n

(Image slide.) (Text slide.)

Ca rtoon of a m o n stro u s m u lti-armed Ch i n e s e m e rc h a nt. "A J a p ' s a J a p . I t m a ke s n o d iffe re n ce whether h e i s a n American citizen . . . " - Lt. Co l . J o h n L. Dewitt We ste rn Defe n s e Co m m a n d , 1 943

(Image slide.)

A gri n n i n g wh ite m e rch a n t poi nts to a s i g n on h i s ca s h re gi ster:

"We d o n ' t want any J a p s back h e re-eve r ! "

(Text slide.)

" Ca l ifo r n i a s h o u l d re m a i n w h at it h a s a l ways been a n d w h at God h i m s e l f i nte n d e d it s h a l l a l ways be the Wh ite M a n ' s Pa rad i s e . " -T h e N ative S o n s of T h e G o l d e n West (1 920)

(Image slide.)

J a p a n e s e American b u s i n e s s storefro nt with a l a rge s i g n i n t h e

w i n d ow: " I a m a n America n . "


(Music and slide fade out. A light comes up on Dan, and he wakes up, startled. He staggers to his feet again and begins to speak.) Oh. Yeah . . . so me and Orel and his buddy, we're standing in this up stairs bedroom. Yeah. And they're still talking, and I still have no idea what the fuck is going on. When suddenly-! start to get another funny feeling . . . a different feeling . . . like, this guy Orel was related to me! Like, I was part of this household and that maybe even-we were cousins! Yeah, that's it! That's how I wanted it to be in this dream! After all it was my dream. He was actually MY c o u s i N -" Orel Hershimoto" ! And this was my bedroom . . . in my house! And yes, I belong here! Yes, I belong here! I belong here!!!

(Suddenly the stage lights come up bright. We hear the sound of a roaring sta dium crowd and an A NN O UNCER 's voice over the public address system.) "G O O D

EVE N I N G

LADIES AND " D O D G E R S TA D I U M .

GENTLEMEN, AND

WELCOME

TO

(Dan is shocked, looking around with amazement. ANNO UNCER continues.) "A N D N O W, H E R E I S T O N I G H T ' s S TA R T I N G L I N E - U P : L E A D I N G O F F A N D P L AY I N G R I G H T F I E L D , N U M B E R 1-MA N J I R O N A K A H A M A . "

(Image slide of Manjiro Nakahma appears with his name beneath his face.) Manjiro Nakahama? The first Japanese in America! Hey Manjiro baby, let's play some ball, dude! ! !

(Slide fades out.

A NN O U N C E R

continues.)

" I N L E F T F I E L D , N U M B E R 2-KWO N G F U N KWO N G ."

(Image slide of my great-grandfather appears, also with his name.) Great-grandfather! Hal Back in 1920 he was ready to buy a piece of prop erty in Los Angeles called Bunker Hill-in the shadow of Dodger Sta dium! But in those days they didn't sell to Chinese . . . Hey Kwong Fun, we gonna play some "D" now!

(Image slide fades out.

A NN O UNCER

continues.)

"A N D I N C E N T E R F I E L D , N U M B E R 1 2 - D A N KWO N G . "

(Crowd noise gets louder. Dan is stunned, then goes wild with excitement-it's his dream come true. He runs around blowing kisses to the crowd. He looks at his bare hands and has an awful realization-he freaks out.)

39

40


Hey! Hey, wait a minute! Stop! Stop this dream! S TO P ! ! !

(The crowd noise suddenly disappears. He sadly whimpers.) I don't have a glove.

(A baseball glove is thrown onstage. It lands at Dan's feet with a plop. He glee fully picks it up and puts it on.) Oooo, I like this dream!

(The roaring crowd noise instantly returns. Dan exuberantly pounds his glove in eager anticipation of the game.) Okay! Yeah! Here we go! Here we Go! Here we-

(Dan grows vaguely uneasy as he looks around.) Hey. There's something funny about this scene . . .

(Suddenly he realizes-) It's the crowd! Everywhere I look I see Asian faces . . . Thousands of them! How come there's so many of 'em here? I think I recognize-hey! Over there! It's Vincent Chin! The Chinese American who was murdered by two unemployed Detroit autoworkers who thought he was Japanese. Like a Toyota. Hey Vincent! It's a good thing you were a member of the Model Minority! Otherwise, people might've thought racism had something to do with it. Nahhh . . .

(Dan looks to his left and is shocked again by what he sees.) Hey! Over there behind the barbed wire-all those Nisei men and women! Must be the "reserved relocation section." And they're all look ing at something behind centerfield-the flag! The American flag! And every face has a different expression. Some of them look proud. Others, bitter. Some of them look ashamed! Others just look determined. Like a plumber facing a seriously plugged up toilet. And one voice cries out, "Go F O R B R O K E ! ! ! "

(The crowd noise swells as we hear the sharp "crack" of bat hitting ball.) Hey! It's a fly ball! Wow, that ball is a rocket! Hey, put a stewardess on that baby! Man, that ball is headed for deep centerfield- (Shocked, he • . . . ) To M E I. .! .! Hv v71..uoaaa sh It. ' I rea l tzes

(Dan turns and starts running in place, chasing after the fly ball.)


I can hear Manjiro and Kwong Fun yelling, "Take it! Take it, it's yours!" I know, I know . . . My god, I've never seen a ball hit so high and so far! It just keeps climbing higher and higher into the sky! I G O T I T ! I G O T I T !

(He turns and slowly circles underneath it, pounding his glove as he looks sky ward, muttering to himself with determination.) I have got to catch this ball . . . This ain't just a ball . . . it's something more. It's everything! Everything I've ever dreamed of doing with my life is riding on that little white ball! God, am I ever gonna catch this thing???

(Something is wrong. He slowly stops circling, looking puzzled.) But the ball is disappearing. Up into the blackness. And I see-a face . . . It's Papa's face! It's Papa, looking down from the heavens! And he's smil ing. He's laughing! He's cheering, "Get it Danny! Get it! It's yours! " Yeah, Papa, you watch me! I'm gonna catch this thing! I will!

(Suddenly he stops.) He's gone! And the ball . . . I can't see-

THE BALL!

I lost it! Where is it? Where is it!

(He desperately searches the sky. Suddenly he freezes with his back to the audi ence. He slowly turns around.) The entire left field bleachers are full of Chinese people! Thousands of Chinese faces. Faces of young men and women. And they're not making a sound.

(We hear the A NN O U N C E R 's voice over the PA . ) "LADIES

AND

GENTLEMEN, D O D G E R S TA D I U M . "

TONIGHT

IS

'sTUDENT

NIGHT'

AT

The ghosts of the Beijing students are here! And as they all rise en masse, the entire stadium falls silent-as if 56,ooo breaths were being held in UniSOn.

(The crowd noise fades out.) All these Chinese spirits stand silently, and slowly they point up into the sky. Pointing at-the ball! T H E B A L L ! ! !

(Dan steps forward and points commandingly up at the ball.) H E Y ! H O L D I T R I G H T T H E RE !

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(Lighting suddenly changes to a tight spotlight o n Dan. He drops his glove to the ground. We hear the sound of eerie, echoing, weirdly distorted piano notes. ) Up on on the giant video screen they're flashing tonight's Trivia Quiz:

(Text slide appears. ) Tu esday M ay 23, 1 9 8 9

Tuesday May 23rd, 1989. Do you remember? Ancient history! Before Hungary. Before Czechoslovakia. Before Poland, Berlin, Rumania, Bul garia, the Philippines. Tuesday, May 23rd, 1989.

(Image slide appears: M a s s ive c rowd of d e m o n strators i n Ti a n a n m e n (We hear sounds of the protest-chanting, cheering, singing.)

S q u a re.)

The Beijing students had been occupying Tiananmen Square for ten days since their hunger strike began, and they weren't budging. The govern ment had tried ordering them out, asking them out, threatening them out. Yet tens of thousands of them were holding fast.

(Image slide:

A yo u n g m a n gives t h e peace s i gn to a l i n e of yo u n g s o l d i e rs .)

But as the tension mounted, most of us had a pretty good idea of what was coming down the road. Yeah, we all know what happened . . .

(A slow, marching bolero begins faintly in the background. It builds quietly, heroically, under Dan's monologue.) Where were you that day-Tuesday May 23rd, 1989-when the news re port came out of Beij ing about a letter written by ex-generals of the Peo ples' Liberation Army and signed by hundreds of military officials? A let ter in open defiance of the government's "hard-liners." A letter stating that, "The Peoples' Army belongs to the people, and it must not stand against them . . .

(Image slide:

A C h i n e s e s o l d i e r fl a s h e s the peace s i g n .)

"The Peoples' Army will not shoot the people." Do you remember when you first heard that? I do.

(Image slide:

A truckload of h a p py, ch eeri n g students.)

All week long, friends had been telling me that, as they followed the news reports of the student protests-at times they would think of me. Be cause I'm Chinese . . . And what did I think about it all? Most of the time


it was sort of hard for me to answer that. But on that day something in me rang loud and clear.

(Image slide:

The god d e s s of d e m ocracy stat u e .)

That day I was just arriving home from work with the car radio on when I heard the news report: "The Peoples' Army belongs to the people. We will not shoot the people." When I heard that, something erupted deep inside me . . . YES ! ! ! Oh, there is hope for this world! And Chinese people were showing the world!

(Image slide:

A p e n s ive yo u n g s o l d i e r s its i n t h e back of an army tru ck.)

Something about the truth in human beings. Something about love. Something about real power. Something I had almost forgotten I could feel. I screamed, "YE s ! " I screamed as if they could hear me seven thou sand miles away! I wanted them to know I was proud of the Chinese people. I wanted to thank them for reminding me what it feels like to have hope. I G O T I T ! ! ! I GOT I T ! ! !

(Music and slide cut out and Dan's euphoric high deflates-he grows somber and melancholy. A Japanese shakuhachi flute plays a slow, sad melody.) I've got this crust of despair wrapped around my heart. And it's made of layers and layers of disappointment and discouragement. From every time I ever tried to stand up and make a difference-and failed. From every time I ever tried to reach for peace-and got stepped on for it. For every time I was ever humiliated for feeling pain. And with no place to go where tears and rage could wash away that pain, that crust grew thicker and harder. I buried my pain and with it my hope. And I became numb.

(Silence.) "The Peoples' Army belongs to the people. We will not shoot the people." That crust buckled. Cracked. And " H O PE" came up gasping for air! Along with all the pain that lay buried with it . . . M I N E ! M I N E ! M I NE ! ! !

(Dan, semi-delirious, begins laughing cynically. He staggers downstage to home plate, bends to pick it up. He tucks it under his arm and backs away from the audience.) Oh yeah, I have a little bit of despair. Just a teeny tiny little bit! Yeah. I mean, hey-what can you do, y'know? What am I? I'm nothing! A

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crummy, insignificant little cipher against an overwhelming machinery of cold-blooded, murderous, global insanity! Hey, take this granite boul der apart with a toothpick, will ya?

(Suddenly Dan flips home plate over, revealing an image on the other side-the famous newswire photograph of a young Chinese man standing in front of a column of army tanks. Dan refers to the image as he speaks.) See this? This is a picture of something very special. This is a picture you probably remember. This is a picture for you to carry in your hearts. Here we have tank number one, tank number two, tank number three, number four, number five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. And here, way down in the corner (you can barely see this little guy) , we have one Chi nese student. "Tank." Soviet model T- 69, the updated version of the old T-54, featur ing improved armor plating for protection against attacks of reason and human intimacy; 105 millimeter cannon and 12.7 millimeter automatic machine gun, capable of blasting through the toughest cotton t-shirts; laser rangefinder and infrared searchlights for locating those elusive liv ing targets that move; top speed of 74 kilometers per hour and a gross weight of 36 tons, enough to catch and squash any non-Olympic bicycle riders. T H i s -is not power. This is the physical manifestation of terror and pain. Conceptualized, engineered, mass produced, and marketed as a profit-making product! Hah! "Student:'

(Image slide appears:

The student sta n d s a l o n e i n fro nt of a l l the tan ks.)

One young Chinese man. One person. As this long convoy of tanks was headed for Tiananmen Square just two days after the massacre, this lone student on Changan Avenue calmly stepped directly in their path, raised his hand, and stopped them all.

(Image slide:

Close- u p of t h e s a m e i m age.)

All 720 , 0 0 0 pounds of armor-plated steel. Stopped them dead in their tracks. He walked up to the lead tank and called out to the crew mem bers inside: "Why are you here? You have done nothing but create mis ery. My city is in chaos because of you!" He tried to reason with the sol diers to get them to turn around and leave.

(Image slide:

Eve n t i ghte r clos e u p of t h e s a m e i m age.)


He tried to reach out to the humans inside the terror. That is real power. Look at it, let it burn into your brain so you never forget: T H I S-is real power!

(Image slide:

Extre m e close- u p of t h e l o n e stude nt.)

"I can do anything."

(Dan becomes the young boy who once chased an impossibly high fly ball.) " wATCH

ME

CATCH T H I S-! ! !

(A burst of machine gun fire erupts-Dan is blasted to the ground and the slide cuts to black. He lays motionless for a few awful moments. Suddenly he sits up.) You want a positive ending? You get to choose for yourself . . . (Rises to his feet.) Did they all die for nothing? Did that crust of despair around your heart grow another layer thicker? Did that bitter pain get shoved down into the cellar with all the rest? Did you fall another ten steps deeper into powerlessness? Then, yes-they died for nothing. But if the Chinese students at any time reminded you of how much hope, courage, and power are still alive somewhere in your heart, too-then they've done something no tank can crush. No bullets can destroy.

(Dan slowly goes over and picks up his glove, cradling it like a baby. He puts it on, then looks up into the sky at that elusive ball. He calls out-) HEY! ! ! I've been chasing you long enough.

(A real baseball drops down from above-Dan catches it. He slowly takes it from his glove, examining it like a precious gem. He brings it to his face, taking in its smell, his eyes closed in satisfaction. Slowly he extends his arm, holding the ball out towards the audience.) Take it. It's yours.

(He tosses the ball to an audience member and jogs offstage.)

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Ta l es fro m T h e Fract u red Tao with M a ste r N i ce G u y (1991 )

(There are two large screens onstage: a six-foot-square shadow screen [black frame stretched with a white bed sheet} stands on the floor to the left; a four teen-foot-wide projection screen for slides is on the wall to the right. The stage is dark. We hear music-like a mystical calling from some ancient land, as a series of text slides are projected onto the upstage screen. Ta l e s Fro m The Fractu red Tao with M a ste r N i ce G uy

Slide of a photo collage. A s m i l i n g boy on a tricycle m e r r i l y c ra s h e s t h ro u g h a broken y i n -ya n g sym b o l .

Text slides and music fade out. We hear spare, haunting music, as if distant memories were slowly emerging from the haze. The shadow screen on the left is illuminated from behind. We see the silhouette of a seated couple-it's Dan with a crudely shaped, stuffed dummy on his lap. They act out the following voiceover.) (Dan's recorded voiceover with music underneath.) "I was playing on the living room floor one night. Mom and Dad were snuggled up together in one of our living room chairs. They were happy. I was three. Looking up from my toys, I saw them there, so warm

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and tender with each other-and immediately I knew just what to do. Clearly and carefully, I instructed them further: 'Mommy,' I said, 'You give Daddy a hug.' She did. (The two silhouettes hug.) 'Daddy, you give Mommy a kiss.' He did. (The silhouettes kiss.) I was pleased. They were pleased."

(Music and lights slowly fade out. We hear upbeat 1960s rock 'n' roll music, loud and lively. A text slide appears. ) " H av i n g a fa m i l y i s l i ke h avi n g a bowl i n g a l l ey i n sta l l e d i n yo u r b ra i n . " - M a rt i n M u l l

(Music and slide fade out.) (A tight spotlight comes on at center stage. Dan is seated at a card table wearing blue and white striped t-shirt, raggedy cutoffjeans, old-fashioned low top sneakers and a blue schoolboy cap. He is deeply engrossed in building a balsa wood model airplane. He holds it up, admiring his work.) Awright! Okay, that part's done. Now let's see . . . (Reading instructions. ) "Holding sub-assemblies A and B in position, carefully cement cross member struts into place, taking care to avoid any binding between control-rod linkage and bell crank." Okay.

(He attempts to follow the instructions but can't do it-he drops the part.) Oops.

(He tries more intently this time-and drops it again. Annoyed.) Shit. C'mon.

(He tries again-still can't do it. Increasingly irritated.) Damn it!

(Muttering angrily under his breath, he fails again. He's mad.) C'mon, you fucking piece of shit!

(He tries even harder, repeatedly failing, growing furiously agitated until finally-) G O D DA M M I T ! ! !

TA L E S F R O M T H E F R A C T U R E D TA O W I T H M A S T E R N I C E G U Y

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(In a fit of rage he smashes the plane with his fist. A trembling moment as he calms down. He picks up the broken pieces, realizing what he's done. Lights fade to black. A sequence of text slides appear.) " M ay yo u r love gra nt t h e m w i n g s t o fly. M ay t h e m e m o ry of t h at l ove s o m e d ay g u i d e t h e m h o m e . " -An o n y m o u s " Ch i l d re n need m o d e l s m o re t h a n t h e y n e e d criti c s . " -J o s e p h J o u bert

(We hear music: a solo piano playing a gentle waltz for a carefree stroll down memory lane. A tight spotlight comes up far right. Dan stands at a micro phone. He narrates the following slide image sequence of old family snapshots with good-natured humor.) Dan's Live Narration

Slide Images

This was my first bicycle. It's still in pretty decent shape considering it's been in storage for the last few decades. For years, I begged and pleaded with my mother to have my own bike, and finally on my eighth birthday my wish came true. It was a modest, single-speed, coaster-brake model with a basket on the handlebars. Seen here in its glory days, my bicycle was a gleaming vehicle of liberation-and I rode that thing everywhere and anywhere. Learning to ride a bike was an important ritual in our neighborhood. It marked one's transition from pedestrian toddler to "mobile-kid -on-the-block."

A battered old red bicycle.

This picture was taken in front of our old house on 39th Street in central Los Angeles, where I first learned to ride a bike. My father Sam is in his mid twenties, my mother Momo thirty, Maria three and a half, and me fourteen months. My two younger sisters hadn't made the scene yet in 1956.

A happy young Kwong family in

Now, I know all these statistics because my mother always took care to write such facts on the back of EVERY snapshot ever taken of our young family.

Bike detail.

Old snapshot of bike when it was new.

the front yard.

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Copious and detailed documentation has been a long tradition in my gene pool-and with my mother's loving and obsessive devotion it was ele vated to new heights. Momo's college grad picture. Momo and siblings.

Momo with teenage girlfriends.

Momo in WW II Internment camp.

My mother was born and raised in Los Angeles-a "home-girl" all the way. The only daughter of immi grant Japanese parents, she and her two brothers were raised with the prototypical West Coast Japa nese American cultural influences: football, inari sushi, Glenn Miller, chicken teriyaki, 7-Up, neigh borhood dances, and American concentration camps-Oh, I mean, "relocation" camps. Excuse me.

(Music changes to classical Chinese.) Sam as a teenager in China.

Grandma and Grandpa's wedding.

G randpa wearing a neat suit.

A huge Lee family gathering.

Close-up of young Sam.

My father's upbringing was a bit more, uh, "exotic." Born in Canton, China, he was the third of seven children, the eldest son. As was the custom in those days, his parents were married by prior arrangement between the two families. Grandma was born and raised in Hong Kong to a wealthy owning-class family, while Grandpa was ac tually born in Los Angeles, growing up in the old Chinatown district now occupied by the downtown train station. He returned to Hong Kong to be married and start a family. However, by the time the youngest child was born Grandpa had returned to America, with Grandma and the family remaining in the Hong Kong region. During this period, my father often left his family to go stay with Grandma's father, Lee Sing Kwei, a successful Hong Kong businessman. In this formal family portrait, Lee Sing Kwei sits in the center flanked by five of his eight wives, their children, and their children's children. My father stands second from the right, center row, at about age ten.


In such an enormous household, aunts and uncles were identified by number and according to their ranking within the polygamous system: Number Three Uncle, Number Seven Aunt (always a favorite) . Certainly a much wider selection of adult male role models could be found in an environment such as this . . .

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Slide fades out.

(Music suddenly changes to melodramatic "danger" theme. Dan talks in fake Walter Cronkite-voice, as if narrating a WWII documentary.) "However, by that time the Japanese invasion of China was well underway. From Manchuria in the north, Japanese ground forces were advancing steadily through southern China, crushing all oppo sition in their path. Canton was the last major port city to fall to the Japanese, and with the ensuing Occupation came the separation and scattering of the Kwong family to various neighboring provinces. "The close of World War II saw a brief period of reunification for the family, although by that time plans for emigration were already taking shape. Again separated into small groups, the Kwongs even tually settled in San Francisco, leaving China shortly before the end of the Communist Revolution."

Japanese tanks in streets of a Chinese city. Japanese soldiers march through China. Occupied Canton harbor. Street battle scene.

Teenage Sam on ocean liner with three of his sisters.

(Dramatic music fades out, Dan goes back to normal speaking voice.) Uh-of course, my father being the family renegade, he soon splits for Los Angeles, where he would meet my mother working in an Asian import company. After a courtship period of a few months, the two decided to marry.

A grinning young man Sam on the streets of L.A. Slide fades to black.

(Music changes to a gentle Chinese flute melody.) Now, for a Chinese and a Japanese to marry each other at all has never been considered-kosher. And to do so just a few years after World War II was quite outrageous. I mean, we're talking about two different cultures

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with a long and often painful history of conflict, warring, oppression. Lots of negative energy. The end result being that Chinese and Japanese people have tended to mix like oil and water. Not surprisingly, my folks married without parental consent, dashing off to Las Vegas to get hitched. A very pregnant Momo.

Sam in army uniform.

Momo holding infant Maria.

Shortly thereafter Mom became pregnant with Maria. Dad was drafted into the Army and sent to Korea where he served as an interpreter for captured Chinese soldiers. During this time Maria was born-(fake Cronkite voice) "and the onslaught of loving documentation escalated further."

(Cool 1950s jazz music.) Soldier Sam aboard ship. Humorous portrait of the Kwong children. Another funny portrait. Five-year-old sister in a stiff pose.

After the war, Dad came back home and our family continued to grow. My father began to pursue a ca reer in photography, which meant we kids soon grew accustomed to numerous photo opportunities. For a while, I toyed with the idea of following in my father's footsteps. Here, youngest sister Poppy poses for some of my early character studies:

(In sleazy Hollywood-hipster voice. ) Poppy in another stiff pose. Another pose. Yet another.

Poppy's award certificate.

Didi's graduation photo. Her trophy. Another trophy.

''All right! Poppy-Gimme some action . . . Yeah! Beau tiful! I love it! Okay, now gimme some more relaxed, kinda mellow . . . Beautiful! Love it! Yeah, okay, now something introspective, kinda moody, you know . . . Beautiful! Love it! That's great! Love it! Yeah!" Later on, Poppy (whose real name is Barbara) was determined to be the bonafide "genius" amongst the Kwongs. According to those who test for such things . . . Hey, every Asian American family should have at least one. We, however, seemed to be some what overrepresented in the "genius" category. While Poppy kept on taking these 1 Q tests that put her in the top two percentile of the nation, middle sister Didi was doing things like winning the California state championship in "Latin Grammar." Two years m a row.


By the time older sister Maria was in high school, she had given up looking at her report cards out of sheer boredom. They were like, all the same! I tell ya, it was enough to warm the heart of any overachieving Asian American parent. I myself was an outstanding rock-thrower, showing early promise in shoplifting. Now, I don't wanna give you the wrong impression about my sisters-they were far from "bookworms." In fact, we kids really knew how to have a good time. For example, here we are rehearsing one of my favorite scenes from Lord of the Flies.

Maria's graduation photo. Straight 'A' report card. Another one. Yet another. One more. Dan looking like a tough seven· year-old James Dean.

Dan and sisters clowning around.

Happy Kwong kids playing at Lake Tahoe.

(Dan speaks with fake British accents, portraying each child in photo.) (Didi) "I don't think we'll ever get off this island!" (Poppy) "Oh, buck up Piggy! I've got enough stored fat to live for weeks!" (Maria) "That's right! And if we all work together, we're sure to be rescued!" (Danny) "Who wants to join my tribe? We'll all wear checkered shorts, shave our heads, and listen to jazz records at the wrong speed! Bleuuughh! "

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Ah, but we were not only good at playing, we were trained to be fierce competitors as well. "All or nothing! Victory or shame! Perfection or death! " Your typical Asian American family value system. We were typical Ameri cans too-we celebrated many traditional holidays in many of the tradi tional ways: birthday cakes, Christmas trees, turkey dinners. English was the language of our household since my father spoke no Japanese and my mother no Chinese-although we kids did learn a few basic Japanese terms from Mom.

(Mimicking an annoyed, disgusted mother.) "Kitanai! " "Yakamashii!" "Abunai, yo ! " "Urusai!" Translated that means: "Dirty! " "Noisy! " "That's dangerous!" and "You're buggin' me." Very handy vocabulary for those impromptu luncheons with the Emperor and his wife:

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(As noble Emperor.) "Hai dozo, omeshi agarimasenka?" (As Dan, crudely.) " u G H ! K I T AN A I , Yo ! ! ! " (Makes farting sound. ) While I do regret not learning the language of my heritages as a child, I have always been deeply grateful for one thing: my parents believed in giving us generous exposure to all forms of culture. Our home grew to be filled with literature, art, and music. They regularly took us on outings to museums of natural history and fine art, places of natural beauty, hos pital emergency rooms-well, actually it was me they kept taking to the hospital. I seemed to have this knack for falling out of trees, down moun tains, and off of bicycles. Bicycles! The best thing about having my own bike was riding to and from elementary school. That three-quarters of a mile just zipped by! There were two basic routes between Micheltorena Street School and our house, with various sub-routes along the way. One particular day in the fourth grade, I chose to return home via Route "B." This one originated at the corner of Micheltorena Street and Sunset Boulevard-which also happened to be the location of the most fan-fucking-tastic candy store around: "Soo-Hoo's." It was really just a typical little neighborhood gro cery store except that Soo -Hoo, an elderly Hong Kong immigrant, kept his shelves stocked with an awesome variety of American and Chinese sweets and edibles. Every day after school dozens of kids would come swarming in like lemmings, wide-eyed and salivating. We'd all cram into the narrow space between the ice cream freezer and the cash box counter, squished shoulder to shoulder and yelling at Soo-Hoo to fill our orders. A junior version of the Chicago Board of Trade trading pit. But instead of screaming for hog bellies and soybean options, we waved and hollered for Milk Duds and Abba Zabbas.

"Hey Soo-Hoo! Gimme two red licorice and some beefjerky!" "Soo-Hoo! Five Bazooka bubble gums, a Good 'n' Plenty, and some salty mays!" "Hey Soo-Hoo! Gimme a dill pickle and two packs of dried shrimp!" Man, it was a fucking jungle in there. The meek never even made it in the front door. Soo-Hoo would stand behind the counter, orchestrating this manic scene with a certain annoyed resignation.

"Wha you wan? Hah ? Wha you wan? Pi cent! Fitty cent! Twenny fi cent!" Somehow I always managed to get what I wanted in there. This particu lar day being no different, I wormed my way out of the mob, tossed my


sack of goodies into the bike basket, and pedaled out onto Sunset Boule vard, heading for home.

(Dan suddenly shifts off-microphone for a conspiratorial aside to the audience, a devilish gleam in his eyes.) Who knows why certain things happen when they do? Do you believe in "cause and effect"? Or do you go for "pre-destiny"? "Karmic return"? Or do you think things just happen? Anything bad ever happen to you? Any thing bad that was better than something worse? Anything you didn't understand but somehow you knew your life was changing in a deep and profound way? Ever been desperate? Enough? How did you get through it? What gets you by? Have you ever looked in the eyes of a child and wondered what was really going on in there?

(Lights black out. We hear weird outer space sound effects. Colored lights begin to flash all over stage. Then a woman's recorded voiceover like an airport announcement.) ''Attention, attention please. The Twilight Zone is for immediate loading and unloading of dilemmas only. No obsessing."

(Other women's voices repeat the announcement in Cantonese and Japanese. We hear a loud gong, and Dan comes stumbling onstage wearing the same t-shirt and cutoffjeans-except now they are ripped and tattered like some dis aster survivor. On the verge of hysteria, he falls to his knees, desperately im ploring to the heavens.) DAN: Oh, Master! Oh, Great and Powerful One of Divine Wisdom, In finite Compassion, and Brute Force-please hear the woeful tale of a boy in distress! Master, I need your help ! Please! Waaahhh! ! ! (etc.)

(Slide image appears of an old, white-haired, bearded man in a silver robe it's Dan wearing a cheap wig and fake beard, scowling fiercely. He speaks in a disdainful, pretentious voice like the Wizard of Oz.) M A S T E R N I C E GUY (Dan's recorded voice) : Silence! Little worm. Get up off your knees and address me with proper dignity and respect! Nothing sickens me more than to see such wretched groveling. Look at me, boy! Ugh. You disgust me, you little shit! Well then-(graciously) how can I help you? DAN: Oh, Master Nice Guy! Your O dious Omnipotence! Your Super Wonderfulness! I'm-I'm-I'M IN T R O U B LE ! ! ! ! Waaaaaahhhh! (Wild sobbing.)

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(voiceover) : E N O U G H ! Now, would you care to pro vide a little detail? Or am I supposed to read your scrambled little brain? Tell me, boy-what sort of "trouble"? MASTER N I C E GUY

(Dan slowly rises, composing himself He speaks in a pathetic little voice.) Well Master-it's my family. You see, we have much strife in our home. There is often a great unhappiness and a violent gnashing of teeth. My father, my mother, my sisters, mwaaaaaahhh! ! ! DAN:

(He falls apart again.) (voiceover): All right already, all right! Gawd. It is clear you are in no condition to provide the relevant facts necessary to handle your case. Very well then-I shall have to read your mind after all. Stand up boy! We will now begin the "Mongolian Mental Fax Procedure." Close your eyes and begin to breathe deeply. Relax. In a moment, your thoughts will begin to speak through me. (Joyfully) Here we go! MASTER N I C E GUY

(A large wok strainer lowers in on a string. Dan looks puzzled. We hear the fe male flight attendant's voice again. ) "Please pull the Mental Fax Headset toward you, place it on your crown chakra, and begin breathing normally."

(Dan follows instructions. We hear a burst of more weird space sound effects, and he begins jerking around spastically like a laboratory test animal hooked up to some nefarious device. Throughout the following slide sequence, images ofMA S TER NICE G UY create a crude animated effect as he reads Dan's mind.) M N G's Slide Images

Master Nice Guy Voiceover

Hand to chin, he muses.

''Ahhh! Mmmm! Ohhhhh! You live in one of those 'Model Minority' families! They don't have any problems, do they? Hahahahahaha!

He grins leeringly. Slide fades to black.

He's serious again.

He's impressed. A pleased smile.

(Dan gives him a dirty look.) Sorry, just a little humor. Oh, dear. I see. I seeeeee. Mm-hmm. Chinese father, Japanese mother-you're one of those hybrid types! Huh. No wonder things get a little confusing in your head! Oh. My, yes. Mm hm. Lots of yelling, lots of fighting, fighting, every body fighting! Mother, father, sisters-ah, and I see you're the only son! Lucky guy! Oh, but I see you are


also primary punching bag for some frustrated but well-meaning adults-your parents. Hmm.

He looks concerned.

You do realize of course that they are doing the very best they can, given the available resources? That they themselves have experienced even harsher mis treatment at the hands of their parents? That they are doing their best to pass on as few of their hurts as possible? That they love you deeply, and the only thing that keeps them from being there for you are the areas where they themselves have been hurt and unable to heal yet? Listen, you think it's easy being a parent?! They have their own oppression to deal with, you know! I mean, it's only the most impor tant job in society to raise a new human being, and do they get any respect? ! ? N o o o o o ! ! ! Look kid, you didn't come with an owner's manual you know, and if you think you-!

A bit annoyed.

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More annoyed.

Downright indignant.

Now he's pissed off.

He's snarling mad.

Slide cuts to black.

(Silence. Dan cowers as MA S TER NICE GUY regains his composure.) Sorry. Sorry, I get a little touchy around that one. (To himself) Knew I should've gone to that last sup port group meeting. Now-where were we? Ah, yes, "abused child." Oh. And not only that-no one must know about this pain! You must save face and not embarrass the family-it's a secret! Well, listen kid, I hate to tell ya this, but you blew that part as soon as you called on M A S T E R N I CE G U Y ! 'Cause I got a big mouth!!! Hahahaha! Any ways, you can't keep that stuff locked up inside you too long. It's bad for you, makes you crazy, gives you ulcers. That's old-country stuff, boy. You're an Amer ican Asian. Might as well take advantage of it . . .

Master N ice Guy reappears, contrite. Trying to look concerned. A look of surprised realization.

Laughing gleefully.

Gravely thoughtful. Slide fades out.

(Weird electronic s F x signals the end of the mind-reading session. Dan stag gers away from the wok strainer, drained of energy.) M A S T E R N I C E G U Y (voiceover) : Okay, I've seen enough. Upon reviewing the matter, I have decided to take your case. You definitely need some

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help. I shall assume an earthly form to come down there and see what I can do for your situation. D A N : Oh, Master Nice Guy! I knew I could count on you for help ! Oh, thank you! Thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you! ! !

(Slide of a n imperious MA S TER NICE GUY appears one last time just to shut him up.) (voiceover): S I L E N C E , B O Y ! Return to your world and your earthly matters. I shall be observing things incognito. This will be our final contact for now. You can leave messages on my machine. MASTER NICE GUY

(MA S TER NICE G UY vanishes, leaving behind an awestruck and grateful Dan.) (Flight attendant's voiceover.) "Please return the Mental Fax Headset to the location in front of you, where one of our attendants will pick it up. Thank you and have a pleas ant day." (Voice repeats in Cantonese and Japanese. The wok strainer is hoisted up into the heavens, and Dan scrambles offstage. We hear a loud gong, and lights come up, filling the stage with a warm, natural light. Dan enters, leisurely riding the same bicycle seen in earlier slides. He slowly circles around the stage as he tells the following story.) The late afternoon sun was dropping behind the hills along Sunset, throwing long shadows across the boulevard. As I leisurely bicycled homeward, my attention shifted back and forth between the surround ing traffic and that bag of candy in my basket. Yeah. Out of school for the day, a nice little sugar-fix in the bag, and cruising along on my trusty bike. No rush to get home. Nothing but more hell waiting for me there. It was getting worse every week. Something had to give. I didn't know what, but I was in no hurry. I pedalled along like this for several blocks, and I was just approaching the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and Westerly Avenue when it happened . . .

(Dan stops his bike, facing the audience.) Hey. Hey. One moment I was looking down at my bike basket-and when I looked up, everything was-different.

(We hear ominous, creepy, vocal sounds, getting louder and louder. A floor light comes on in front of Dan as he straddles his bike, casting a huge looming shadow onto the wall behind him. Dan's puzzlement slowly turns to fear.)


Hey . . . What's going on? How come everything looks so far away? Cars, buildings, trees, even my bike basket-they all seemed to be behind this thick wall of glass, moving further and further away from me. What's happening? It looked like everything around me was fading away into the distance-or like I was sinking deeper and deeper into my own brain. I didn't know! What is this?! Something's wrong. I shook my head-it wouldn't go away! I wasn't dreaming! Hey!

(Dan slowly walks his bike backwards as he grows more and more terrified.) I began to panic inside! Everything was slipping away from me, out of reach, behind this glass! I looked at my hand-it was like someone else's! What happened? Why is this happening to me? Did I do this? Did I do something? What's wrong? !? What's happening? !? Hey! H E Y s o M E B O D Y ! SOMEBODY HELP! HELP ! ! !

(Dan freezes in mid-panic attack. Then, softly.) But who to help me? No. I called out to no one. No cry for help came from my lips. Every pulse of that terror lay tightly bound and muffled in my veins. No clues. No signs.

(He resumes riding in slow circles around stage, rigid with fear.) "Keep pedalling," I told myself. "Just keep pedalling. You'll make it home. Just keep going. You'll make it. Just keep going. You'll make it. Keep going. You'll make it. You'll make it."

(He stops his bike at center stage. He is in a brittle state, as if ready to crack apart at the seams.) By the time I got home, it went away. But from that day on it began to happen again and again, for longer periods of time. And by age ten I was convinced I was "mentally ill:' Funny, the things you get used to.

(Lights fade to black. We hear a pop love song from the 1960s, "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do." The shadow screen lights up. We see the silhouette of a man. He is ferociously screaming at an imaginary child-first gesturing threateningly, then spanking. Gradually the movements of the yelling, flailing man transform into those of a cringing, screaming child. Shadow screen fades to black as music continues. A text slide appears.) " S h ut up o r I ' l l rea l l y give yo u s o meth i n g to c ry a b o u t . " - Traditional offer

(Music and slide fade out. A slide appears.)

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Slide Image Snapshot of Dan as a young boy, lying in bed holding a teddy bear. A cartoon "thought balloon" floats above his head.

"Maria, Maria! Mom told me her and Dad are gonna get a divorce! What are we gonna do? This is bad, this is really bad! There must be something we can do! I don't want them to get a divorce! I want our family to stay together! I want our family . . ."

(Slide fades to black, and lights come up onstage. Dan saunters out from be hind the shadow screen.) No way I ever would've said anything that lame to my older sister. Totally uncool. Besides, I knew better than to let my family know I cared. I mean, that's how you get hurt-and I'd had my fill of it, thank you. But in my gut, that's exactly how I felt. I knew I had to do something. By the time I got word of the impending divorce, my father had already moved out of the house and was rapidly becoming history. My mother now had the monumental task of raising four young children single handedly and working full-time. So one day when she was at work I crept into her bedroom unnoticed by my sisters. Taking a scrap of paper from the wastebasket, I carefully cut it into a dozen little pieces, each about the size of a fortune cookie paper. And on each piece I wrote my subliminal message, one that I was sure would make the crucial difference. On each piece I wrote: "Don't get a di vorce." I then hid them all over her bedroom! Under the pillow, inside her shoes, by the lamp, in the desk-everywhere! So that no matter where she turned or what she was doing in that room she would repeatedly find my message staring her in the face.

(We hear Dan's booming voiceover, as if echoing in one's brain.) "D o N' T GET A D I VORCE ! D I VO R C E ! "

D ON'T GET A DIVORCE!

D O N'T GET A

What a brilliant idea! And so discreet. Surely it would make a difference once my mother found out how much I cared about our family-fucked up though it was at times. And surely my parents' hearts would open up and surrender to love once they found out what was inside mine. (Sigh.) I was confident I had saved the family.

(Dan stands proudly, looking deeply satisfied. Suddenly we hear an irate woman's voice.)


" W H AT I S T H I S? !? D I D Y O U D O T H I S? H U H? T E L L M E , D I D YO U D O T H I S? D O N ' T Y O U E V E R L E T M E F I N D T H I S S T U P I D K I N D O F N O T E H E R E A G A I N ! I H AV E E N O U G H T O D E A L W I T H W I T H O U T T H I S , Y O U K N O W ! Y O U G O P I C K U P A L L T H O S E P I E C E S O F PA P E R I N T H E RE A N D S TAY O U T O F MY R O O M ! "

(We hear a gong-dozens of little pieces of paper come fluttering down on Dan's head, a frozen smile on his face. Lights fade to black. We hear a Japanese flute playing a slow, mournful melody. A corridor of light appears, crossing the stage from left to right. Dan slowly walks along the narrow shaft of light as a series of text slides is projected above his head, one at a time.) It was t h e n i nt h i n n i ng. I was p itch i n g fo r my fi rst tea m , t h e H o l lywood Dodge rs. We needed th ree q u i c k outs. Dad was in t h e sta n d s watch i n g. I th rew th ree stra i g h t " b a l l s " to t h e fi rst batte r. Th i n gs d i d n ot look goo d . Dad ca l l ed o u t t o m e , j u st l o u d e n o u gh t o h e a r: "C' m o n D a n ny. " I struck o u t t h e fi rst batte r with th ree p itch e s . I struck o u t t h e next batte r-th ree p itch e s . A n d t h e n ext-th ree p itch e s . We d rove h o m e i n s i l e nce. As I was gett i n g out of the car, h e tu rned and p ro u d ly s a i d , "That w a s s o m e fa ntastic p itch i n g."

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M y fat h e r d rove away. And I t h o u ght my h e a rt wo u l d b u rst fro m joy o r l o n e l i n e s s .

(Music and lights slowly fade out. Stage lights up. We hear traffic sound effects. A s TAGEHAND enters with broom and begins sweeping up little pieces ofpaper from previous scene. MA S TER NICE GUY [Dan in costume] comes driving on stage in a child's pedal car. He is pissed off. He yells at S TAGEHAND for getting in his way; cursing, muttering, grumbling, etc. A phone rings. MA S TER NICE G UY stops and answers his cellular phone, snarling into it.) "Hello, Mobile Earth Unit One, Master Nice Guy here. Oh. It's you. Lis ten, I've been driving around this planet for days-I CANNOT F I N D T H I S s o y ' s H O U S E ! Just how the hell am I supposed to file a field report when you people in the office give me fucked up directions like this?!? Shit! I hate being lost . . . O F C O U R S E I WROTE I T D OW N ! You think I don't know how to take directions? Idiot!"

(He hangs up phone and drives offstage in a huff. Lights fade to black. A se quence of text slides appear with music.) " I n the Vo i d i s v i rt u e , a n d no evi l . W i s d o m h a s existence, Pri n c i p l e has existence, the Way has existence, -s p i rit is n oth i n g n e s s . " -Musashi Miya moto

" Ki d s do t h e d a rnedest t h i n gs . " -Master Nice Guy

(Slide and music fade out. We faintly hear "God Bless America" in the back ground as lights slowly come up. Dan wearily enters, carrying a short stool under his arm. He speaks in woeful resignation.) I tried. I tried. I tried soooo hard. I just was not-a "good boy." (Sets down stool.) I got good enough grades in school. I was a "B" student and for an Asian American, that meant you were a failure with potential! But the competition for "goodness" was tough. I mean, you had guys like Dale Minami, Frank Lee, Marty Amimoto-Michael Fukumoto ! Man, they were so good. In every way. They were straight ''1\.' students. They


were popular, well-respected, trustworthy, responsible boys. Yeah. Re sponsible. You could trust them. To follow the rules. The prescribed path. The way of the world. (Music fades out.) Me? I knew a lot. I knew I was "bad". Yeah, I knew I was a troublemaker. I knew I was a liar, a cheat, a thief, a mean, sick, disappointing boy. I knew about domestic violence, I knew about divorce-I knew about all this by the fourth grade. Knew it from my teachers, knew it from my family, I knew it from the boys who met my fists. Yeah, I knew a lot. But never did I stop trying. Never did I stop reaching out for acceptance. For redemption. For some way to prove to the world-and myself-that I was good. That I was not my pain. It's a little hard to articulate that when you're nine years old, so I did the next best thing. From the fourth grade on, just after the divorce, I began to develop a voracious appetite for lead ership and responsibility at school. I regularly volunteered to play auto harp for our daily songs of patriotism- "From the Halls of Monte-zuuu uma!" I became Class Vice-President in the fourth grade. I was Honorary Battalion Fire Chief in the fifth grade. And finally, in the sixth grade, at the pinnacle of my elementary school career, I was chosen to be "Official Flag Monitor" ! Now, Flag Monitor was not your run of the mill, rinky-dink student job like "Pencil Sharpener Monitor." No way. Flag Monitor had real respon sibility-and, as I was to later discover, real opportunity. First of all, you got your flags: United States Stars and Stripes and the California Golden Bear. U.S. goes up here, California down here. Here's the first thing they teach you: " T H E A M E R I C A N F L A G M U S T NEVER T O U C H T H E G R O U N D / NEVER !" If that happens, that flag has been dis graced. Sullied. Defiled. And if that happens you are supposed to destroy that flag. To like, put it out of its misery. And you know how? You are sup posed to burn it! Swear to god, that was the official protocol. As if some kind of holy magical vibe was invested in this musty-smelling piece of linen, and boy you better watch out! This is a symbol. And you're touch ing it! So don't fuck it up. Every morning I'd bicycle to school, arriving a half hour early, sacrificing a precious thirty minutes of my sleep to do my job. I'd go into the prin cipal's office, walk up to the secretary's desk, hold out my hand and say, "Mrs. Yee, can I have the keys?" Mrs. Yee would reach into her desk drawer, pull out an enormous wad of keys and hand them over without a word.

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(Dan reenacts the following scenario a t frantic high speed.) First: I'd run upstairs to Room n; unlock the door; open the window; and lower down the ropes. Then I'd run back downstairs; unlock the spe cial closet; take out the neatly folded flags in their triangular bundles and run outside to the flag pole in front of the school. There I'd carefully fas ten each flag to its appropriate snap hooks on the rope and hoist them up to the top, where they'd unfurl magnificently in the smog. Then I'd go back inside; lock the closet; run upstairs to Room u; close the window; lock the door; run back downstairs and return the keys to Mrs. Yee. At the end of the day, I'd repeat the entire process in reverse.

(He briefly begins to reenact in reverse but stumbles to a stop. He dolefully continues.) Well, after several months of doing this job, it began to lose some of its initial thrill. I started to get pretty casual about it. I'd arrive at school maybe fifteen minutes early instead of thirty. Couple times I accidentally put up the flags upside-down. And more than once they did touch the ground! Big deal.

(With sudden purpose, he turns to the audience.) I'll tell you what was a big deal in elementary

school-B E I N G A B O Y

This was a big deal for two reasons. Reason number one: the toilet stalls in every boys' bathroom had no doors on them. No doors on the toilet stalls meant, if you dared to drop your drawers and sit down to evacuate your bowels, you could plan on having an eager audience of laughing, jeering boys gathered before you in your most vulnerable position and taunting you without mercy. A N D WA N T I N G T O E L I M I NAT E S O L I D WA S T E F R O M T H E B O D Y.

(Dan becomes viciously obnoxious, pointing at his imaginary victim.) " H E Y G U Y S , c ' M ' E R E , L O O K ! B I L LY ' s G O T H I S PA N T S D O W N ! H E ' s TA K I N G A S H I T ! H A H A H A H A H A H A H A ! ! ! "

Reason number two: institutional toilet paper-as many of you know is fabricated primarily with economy in mind, not efficiency. We had these ridiculously little squares of slick waxlike paper. Came out of a dis penser one at a time. (Demonstrates.) Took about twenty of 'em before your hand felt safe. And mainly this paper served to smear the fecal mat ter around-rather than actually wipe it off. (Looks at his hand with dis gust.) None of the guys would be caught dead taking a shit at school.


(Proudly, verging on pomposity.) I, however, came up with a brilliant so lution to this problem! One which would ultimately serve to align me with certain cosmic principles of the universe, shaping my destiny to this very day. (He runs over to the stool and sits down.) I was sitting in class one afternoon. We had just come in from PE, and now we were getting down with some arithmetic. The air was hot and smoggy as usual, and after playing out on the schoolyard my lungs burned whenever I breathed deeply. I fidgeted uneasily in my chair. Then, it came"Oh . . ." My lower intestines shifted, and suddenly there came a familiar tugging sensation at my sphincter: "I gotta go-bad!" I tried to make it go away-(He makes a tortured face.) No use! "Damn! This never happens to me! I always have such good control! What am I going to do? I gotta go, I gotta go! "

(He is desperate, near panic.) Oh, the thought of pulling my pants down in those smelly, doorless stalls with their stupid little squares of wax paper repulsed me! No way would I submit myself to that indignity! "Ohhh, I gotta go ! " My little brain raced feverishly for an answer . . . "r G O T r T ! ! ! The auditorium!" I remembered there was a toilet backstage in the auditorium-where I could have complete privacy! And real toilet paper. And I, the Official Flag Monitor, knew just how to get in there.

(He raises his hand to get the teacher's attention.) "Um-1 have to go to the bathroom."

(He jumps up and begins stiffly pacing back and forth, trying not to shit in his pants.) I went straight down to the principal's office, and in my most casual, nonchalant, Flag Monitor voice said, "Can I have the keys please?"

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(He grabs an imaginary fistful of keys and continues his urgent journey, leav ing the stage and heading for the exit of the theater. A spotlight follows him down the aisle as he speaks.) I marched out of there down the hallway to the auditorium, clutching that huge bunch of keys in my hand-keys that gave me access to any where in the school! At the double doors of the auditorium, I fumbled nervously, trying key after key in the lock, praying that no teachers would come into view. Finally- "click"-the doors opened! And I was inside! Quickly I closed the doors behind me-KA - CH UNG!

(The entire theater goes dead black.) -and found myself in complete blackness! No lights! I stumbled down the aisle, groping along the drapes until I reached the backstage area.

(Dan clumsily makes his way back to the stage in the dark.) There I switched on a light (tight spotlight up on Dan), found the toilet, and sat down for a peaceful, meditative dump. (Squats on imaginary toilet.) Unnghhh! (Tense grunting, straining sounds as if he were in labor-then sudden, blessed release.) Oh god . . . being Flag Monitor was never more gratifying.

(His eyes widen as he sees something. He reaches out and unwinds a huge amount of imaginary toilet paper, wipes, flushes. We hear sound effects of flushing. He continues to stare at the toilet. He reaches out and flushes it again. He turns to leave.) Whew. I was pleased and relieved. I was just about to leave the backstage area when out of nowhere I heard a voice. Inside my head. It said:

(We hear a low, booming voiceover. ) " D A N NY. D O Y O U K N O W W H E R E Y O U A R E ? "

(Dan is puzzled.) Yeah, I'm in the auditorium. So wha(Voiceover.) " n A N NY. L O O K A R O U N D YO U . W H AT D O Y O U S E E ? "

(Still puzzled, he looks around in the darkness.) What? It's an empty auditorium! There's nobody here. I'm all-alone. In the auditorium . . . (It slowly dawns on him.) And nobody knows I'm here.


(The toilet light goes out and a tight spotlight comes up center stage. Dan rushes over to it and begins his "disclaimer of innocence.") Now, as I said before, I tried to be good. Really, I did! Whatever I thought people expected of me-whether or not I truly believed in it, whether it seemed to be in my best interests or not-I tried like hell to measure up ! I tried not to think those thoughts, I tried not to feel those feelings, I tried to do it their way, I T R I E D ! ! !

(A beat. He takes on a regal, noble bearing, like some Shakespearean actor.) But there comes a time when all that is cast aside. When all striving and struggling to reconcile the perpetual conflict between indomitable hu man spirit and social convention-simply become too much. One can only bear so much pressure before the sphincter of the soul must be re leased, the useless stool of social conformity flushed into oblivion, and all desire for worldly acceptance is wiped away like so much ca-ca! Un leashing the triumphant spirit within-the one that longs to soar with eagles! To call out its love song to mountains and valleys! To dance care free through fields of golden poppies!

(He pauses-a decisive moment of truth. He turns away and stalks upstage with fierce determination.) I went over to the lighting panel-switched on all the stage lights (lights up) and walked out in front of those velvet curtains. Stage left. I then proceeded to take off all my clothes (begins to strip) until I was as naked as a prepubescent jaybird!

(He takes off his hat, t-shirt, and shoes, finally dropping his shorts to reveal a flesh-colored jockstrap with a cloth prepubescent penis and scrotum sewn onto the pouch. With utmost dignity, he crosses the stage.) I paraded in front of the empty 300-seat auditorium as if I owned it!

(He demonstrates the following sequence with total abandon and delight.) Running over to the curtains I wrapped myself up in them, cool velvet caressing my skin! I danced fake ballet across the stage, enraptured by the cool auditorium air rushing past my naked limbs! (Leaving the stage.) I ran up and down the aisles, arms waving, as if somehow this uninhibited ecstasy might free me from gravity itself!

(He becomes dignified and sophisticated and approaches the front row.)

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I strolled casually over to the front row of seats (to audience member) and sat down- (in his/her lap) as if it were the most natural way in the world to visit theater! (Springing to his feet.) And finally, in what seemed to me the ultimate act of Emancipation Proclamation, I confronted-the piano.

(Enter PIANO-a square card table draped with a black vinyl plastic covering, cartoonishly painted to look like a piano. It scuttles out to center stage via stage hand hidden underneath. Like a lion on the hunt, Dan leaps back onstage. He slowly approaches the PIANO as if stalking his prey. There's no turning back for this boy.) Oh, that huge, magnificent, gleaming black grand piano that sat regally ensconced in the orchestra pit! Ooooh . . . Dragging myself onto its top, I sprawled my hot, naked, young body across it, rolling in sensual delirium.

(Dan climbs on the PIANo-lights crossfade to a dark green spotlight. We hear a wild, passionate piano solo. To the music, Dan flops around like a frantic, or gasmic, dying fish atop the PIANO. The song ends, and he goes limp. Lights slowly come back on as Dan recovers and rolls over on his belly, ''post-coital.") And then, I was done.

(He leaps off PIANO and quickly gets dressed, terrified of being discovered. ) I killed the stagelights and stumbled out of the auditorium, into the glare of afternoon.

(He dashes offstage. Lights change to a tight center spot. Dan sheepishly re enters. He speaks conspiratorially to audience.) Over the course of my last year at Micheltorena Street School, I contin ued to make these clandestine forays into the auditorium. Not often, mind you. No, that would have been-inappropriate. This was no mere exercise in defiance or "experimental children's theater." No. This was my self-created ritual of passage. One which indelibly marked my path in life-a path which followed no path. Which was neither inside nor out side; which understood nothing yet knew everything. Which separated me from the world and in return gave me-the universe.

(Lights slowly fade to black. Two text slides appear in sequence.) " B etwee n w h at i s seen a n d what i s u n seen t h e re i n l i es t h e d e l i ghtfu l puzzle of w h o yo u a re to m e . " -A nonym ous


" M a n rises out of t h e d a r k n e s s , l a u g h s i n t h e gl i m m e ri n g l i g ht, a n d d i s a p pe a rs . " -Lao Tzu

(Music and slide fade out. We hear the sound of cars whizzing by on the highway. Three slides ofL.A. city map details are projected, showing Dan's route from el ementary school to home. A tight blue downspot reveals MA S TER NICE G UY standing by his toy car, flipping through a Thomas Brothers map book-the Angeleno's bible of navigation. He is hopelessly lost. Music, slides, and lights fade out. We hear the gentle opening notes of "Amazing Grace" on a clarinet. Two text slides appear in sequence.) "Yo u may a s k yo u rs e l f, 'We l l-how d i d I get h e re ? "' -Da vid Byrne

"Th e re i n o u r s i l e n ce, betwee n fat h e r a n d son A h i story of As i a n m e n . "

(Slides and music fade out. We hear the sound of cars in a busy parking lot. A text slide.) TO M YS E L F J u ly 1 9 8 1

(Slide fades out. Lights come up, bathing the stage in a dreamy blue light. We see Dan sitting in the child's pedal car, his back to audience. He reenacts the fol lowing scene.) (Dan's recorded voiceover.) "Traffic is heavy in the parking lot of Savon Drugstore, and I'm ready to back my car out of the parking space. Just then a large grey sedan whips up behind me, poised to take my space. I stop. He's blocking the way-I can't get out. At the same time, the driver is really pissed off. He's impa tient, and he wants my space now. He starts honking and yelling angrily out his window at me: 'C'mon goddammit! Hurry up and get the hell outta the way!' I cringe at the sound of that angry voice-an old reflex of terror jerks through my body, and suddenly I feel as if on eggshells. I know that voice. From long ago . . . I knowDad! It's Dad! Hal He doesn't recognize me! He thinks it's just some dorky stranger! Wait'll he-(Voice grows cold.) No. No, he does know it's me . . . He's yelling at me like that-his own son! His grown son . . . "

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(Something comes over Dan-a lifetime of being fearful of his father's wrath is finally overwhelmed by outrage. Blood boiling, Dan leaps out of the car and turns to face his imaginary father.) P U C K YO U , M A N ! D O N ' T Y O U T A L K T O M E L I KE T H AT ! I ' M N O T YO U R L I T T L E B O Y A NY M O R E ! Y O U S H U T Y O U R F U C K I N G F A C E A N D B A C K O F F, A S S H O L E ! ! !

(An alarm clock rings. Lights cut to a dark red spotlight on Dan as he spirals down to the ground. In a daze, he stares wide-eyed into the darkness.) (Dan's voiceover.) "Drenched in sweat, I woke up." (Lights fade to black. Text slides appear in sequence.) " M y fat h e r was fri ghte ned of h i s fat h e r, I was frightened of my fat h e r, a n d I am d a m n e d we l l go i n g to see to it t h at my ch i l d re n a re fri g htened of m e . " - King George V

"Th u n d e r a n d Ra i n a rrive with the i m a ge of D e l ivera nce. Th u s the S u pe r i o r Act i o n Pard o n s m i stakes a n d fo rgive s m i s deed s . " -Lao Nai-hsuan

(We hear the sound of a distant thunderstorm. It gradually builds in intensity throughout the next story. The narrow corridor of light appears again, crossing the stage from left to right. A text slide.) At age 1 9 I left h o m e fo r t h e fi rst t i m e a n d m oved t o C h i cago t o atte n d a rt s c h oo l .

(Slide fades out, and Dan runs across the stage i n the corridor of light from left to right, disappearing into the wings offstage. A series of text slides appear in sequence.) (Slide.)

N ot l o n g after arrivi n g , I rece ived a p h o n e ca l l o n e n i ght.

(Slide.)

I t was my fat h e r.

(Slide.)

We exc h a n ged t h e u s u a l :

(Dan's voice, offstage.) How's school? How's work?


(Slide.)

Fine. Fi ne.

(Dan runs across stage from right to left and disappears offstage.) (Slide.)

Afte r a wh i l e he c l e a red h i s th roat a n d s a i d ,

(Dan.) Well, the reason I called is because I just wanted to tell you(Slide.)

H i s voice fa lte red .

(Dan.) I just wanted to tell you(Slide.)

T h e re we re tears com i n g u p i n h i s wo rd s .

(Dan.) I just wanted to tell you-I'm sorry. (Dan runs across stage from left to right and disappears offs tage.) (Slide.)

H e bega n to c ry, re peati n g t h o s e word s :

(Dan.) I'm sorry. (Slide.)

T h ey s p o ke fo r m a n y ye a r s .

(Dan.) I'm sorry. (Slide.)

I h a d n ever h e a rd my fat h e r cry a n d t h o u ght I s h o u l d get h i m to sto p .

(Dan runs across stage from right to left, disappears. ) (Slide.)

So I kept re peati n g to h i m ,

(Dan.) It's okay, Dad. It's okay. (Slide.)

B ut he we nt o n a s i f h e h a d t o fi n i s h e m ptyi n g h i s h e a rt.

(Slide.)

Befo re we h u n g u p we to l d each oth e r,

(Dan starts to run across the stage-but stops at center.) (Dan.) I love you. (Slide.)

Th i s was n ot typ i c a l p h o n e ta l k fo r u s .

(Dan slowly walks offstage, disappearing into the wings.) (Slide.)

Afte rwa rd s I went to my bed roo m

(Slide.)

And I cried fo r the fi rst t i m e i n e i ght yea r s .

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(Slide.)

I cried l i ke a you n g c h i l d w h o s e b roken h e a rt h a s fi n a l ly b e e n s ee n .

(The thunderstorm cracks open, and we hear the sound of a heavy downpour. Lights fade to black with final slide. Thunderstorm fades out. We hear a heav enly vibraphone arpeggio, shimmering like sunlit leaves fluttering in a soft breeze. Two text slides appear.) "There i s a sacred n e s s i n tea r s . They a re n ot t h e m a r k o f wea k n e s s , but of powe r. They s pe a k m o re e l o q u e ntly t h a n ten t h o u s a n d tong u e s . " - Washington Irving

"Wh at i s th i s l ove t h at so e n d u re s ? G iv i n g voice t o w i s d o m a n d beauty, L i ke t h e a n cient Seq u o i a tree Beari n g witn e s s to o u r p a s s a ge . "

(Slide and music fade out. We hear Satie's "Trois Gymnopedie:' A text slide appears.) "To My Fat h e r"

(Slide fades out, and the shadow screen light comes up. We see Dan's silhouette. He begins slow, graceful, tai chi movements. We hear a very young child's voice reciting the following poem, the music underneath the dialogue.) "To My Father May the sun shine in his heart. May the stars smile in his eyes. May rabbits sleep in his bed. May his clothes glow in the air like a bee wandering for honey; like a butterfly going up and down a tuxedo of black and white. May his mustache crawl up his chair. May his hair melt like ice cream:'

(The child hiccups and breaks into uncontrollable giggling. Dan's silhouette gently finishes the tai chi movements as lights, music, and giggling slowly fade out.)

Co m m e nta ry: �� cente ri n g "

Since childhood, Dan Kwong has been madly in love with baseball. His fa ther took him out to catch batted balls when he was six years old, and, a dedicated athlete, Dan has played ball ever since. He joined the Li'l Tokio Giants in 1971, when he was a junior in high school, and he recently began his fourth decade with the team. The Giants were founded in 1954 as part of the Nisei Athletic Union (NAU), an organized Japanese American sports league in California. Throughout his life, Kwong has exhibited a deeply felt desire to be a member of groups (or teams or communities) without sacri ficing his hard-won individualism. The dynamic connections between the two-on the one hand, an awareness of the individual's contribution to the group's overall achievement; and, on the other, the need for an individual not to be marked solely through group identification-are central motifs firmly grounded in his personal life and artistic output. The baseball diamond is the setting for Kwong's first solo piece, Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder (1989 ). Within this familiar space, a kind of second home that he occupies seemingly effortlessly, Kwong takes the audience on a transformative journey through his life-a panorama that incorporates his ancestry, his youthful adventures, and the outer worlds beyond himself. The performer has secrets to tell, and he wants us to know them. For him to re veal secrets is a crucial step toward self-knowledge; in turn, the audience gets to know him more intimately, which is also his wish. But to feel comfortable releasing secrets he must be in a "center" position, as close as possible to the exact location of insight that resides at the heart of a story, at the soul of a history. In order to accomplish this, Kwong places himself on a baseball field, ready to play the defensive position of center fielder-the position between 73

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home plate and the home run wall, between the batter and the spectator. He is the mediator, the one at the center of it all, the one who can see, hear, and feel everything. The performer soon realizes that the central position can be a deceiving one. While it reveals insights, it also demonstrates that many centers coexist at any given moment. Stories overlap, histories collide, identities blur-no one story can capture it all. For there is no "all," after all. The best one can do is to tell his or her own story, to experience-however briefly-the cen trality of that phenomenon and be aware, ever so vigilantly, that multiple stories with their fluid foci coexist alongside one's own. In the United States, the floating centers that characterize one's multiple stories, and those of others, are among the most vivid manifestations of a living democracy. A pertinent, repeated secret, or center, critical to Dan Kwong and his budding self-consciousness is his pleasure and dismay at what it means to be a boy and then a man in the United States. At the age of nine, he became the unofficial head of a household after his father divorced his mother and left Dan with his mother and three sisters in central Los Angeles. Dan's nar rative in Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder begins with the variety of every day activities that he shared with his sisters. In his world, sewing, cooking, and playing with dolls were not considered emasculating activities. Indeed, it was as common for him to engage in them as it was for him to play base ball. But Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder is not a play about the women in his life. While they contribute to the composite picture, in this perform ance they are far from its center. In his first solo, Kwong is compelled to speak about men-especially the dreams he shares with many men, juxta posed with the marginalization that he and his ancestors have experienced within white-dominated social and cultural institutions. In revealing ways, Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder provides a gener ational portrait of some of the males who have affected Kwong. Whereas his Chinese American father put a baseball mitt and ball in his hands, men other than his father are the source of his inspiration and storytelling. These boys and men evoke strong memories in the artist. As a teenager, he was in awe of Scott Miller, his high school buddy, soon to be a college ballplayer. He idolizes Los Angeles Dodgers greats Sandy Koufax and Willie Davis, whom he faithfully follows at Dodger Stadium. He even imagines his own "field of dreams" in a dream in which all the ballplayers and the roaring crowd are Asians. Shifting perspective, Kwong relishes thoughts about Manjiro Nakahama, the first Japanese to settle in the United States in 1843; he speaks admiringly of his great-grandfather, Kwong Fun Kwong; and he memorializes Vincent

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Chin, the Asian American who was brutally murdered in 1982. From within his immediate family, the solo performer weaves an elaborate historical ac count of his grandfather, Kiro Nagana-his mother's father-a prominent Japanese American community leader in Los Angeles and a recognized ath lete in his own right as a titleholder in judo. It is Kiro Nagano who becomes the lens through which the artist confronts the complexities of what it means to be Asian American in the United States. Kwong has placed his war rior "samurai"-in some ways, his Kiro Nagana-inspired alter ego-in the center field of his performance/text. The history of Asians in America is forever marked by the internment of Japanese Americans in western states soon after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the United States' subsequent declaration of war against Japan. Kwong's grandfather, despite his widely recognized contributions as a highly respected citizen, was among the thousands of Japanese to be interned and was held prisoner against his will for over four years. The existence of these Japanese American concentration camps is one of the most horrific epi sodes in America's history. As a secret now made public, it is a raw, open wound on both Dan Kwong's marked (ancestral) body and the body of the United States. Importantly, Kwong's first solo performance moves from his desired identification with the all American male persona as mythic cultural "hero" to his recollection of racist America's injustice to his family and racial community-captured through the artist's focus on an older Japanese American man. Using a dramaturgical feature that is not practiced by many other solo performers, Dan's narrative reaches from the past of his grandfather into the immediate present of the day's headlines, extending the borders of his story beyond the personal, local, and national to the global. Fashioning a politics that roots racism in inhumane institutional structures that work to ward obliterating difference by forcing assimilation, Kwong heightens and complicates Kiro Nagano's story of interracial injustice by complementing it with an account of one of recent history's most vivid incidents of in traracial combat-the moments when a lone Chinese student faced a flank of Chinese military tanks in 1989 during the pro-democracy demonstra tions in Beijing's Tiananmen Square. This action is destined to remain for many in the United States one of the indelible images from the twentieth century, capturing the formidable axis of authoritarian power in confronta tion with the individual will to pursue freedom. The inherent courage, elemental horror, and sheer might of this real event are a source of potent analogy for Kwong. No one-not Kiro Nagano, Vin cent Chin, the Beijing student, Dan Kwong, or the spectator-ever escapes

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confrontation with forces that are determined to crush one's spirit, one's hope, one's visions of a harmonious life among others. This insight does not obliterate race in racist America. Nor does it minimize the immensely pow erful political hold that communism maintains over China. Rather, it serves as a transformative agent-a link between narrative and image of past and present-through which one imagines how to "reach out to the human in side the terror" in order to come closer to manifesting one's own soulfulness and to understanding the depth of one's connection to communities outside the self. For Kwong, performance is a process of "centering" (or locating or positioning) his stories and images within a history that is constantly un earthed and under revision as connections are made, unmade, remade, and solidified, only to unravel again as time passes and the process begins anew. Kwong asks spectators to witness a rise in the consciousness of the protago nist and thereby couple their judgment with compassion in order to see the links between the personal and the political: to understand how the individ ual bears some responsibility to the members of the various communities of which he or she is a part-not least of which is the human community. Baseballs-real, imaginary, metaphoric, and symbolic-abound in Se crets of The Samurai Centerfielder. At the end of the performance, Kwong hands a baseball, a single "perfect . . . little white globe;' to the audience. He does so, anticipating that through his storytelling he has generated some catharsis, some knowledge, some vital links between this Chinese Japanese American boy/man and his spectator by expressing and embodying his per ception of American baseball, the Japanese internment camps, the Chinese students in Tiananmen Square, and his own selfhood. Here the perform ance shows itself as a revelatory journey through which the actor comes to terms with the various meanings of the ball as suggested by its use in sport, as the object of his erotic desires, as a reminder of (white "glob [ al] ") racism, and finally as the world. Kwong flirts with the temptation and attraction of white assimilation, as he sees, smells, and comes to know the white globe for what it is. But he freely chooses, in the end, to toss the baseball to the spec tator-for the audience to examine, discuss, and meditate on. He chooses to live in his own skin and to play a game that involves two (or more) players, not a solo engagement. It is a choice that he encourages others to recognize and contemplate. Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder begins with a sustained movement section, demonstrating much skill, poise, and coordination, as Kwong trans forms the rhythms of the Japanese warrior into those of the American base ball player. Kwong himself is an accomplished athlete, with a toned, lean, muscular body; his movements are sculptured, balletic, and visually engag-

C O M M E N TA R Y

ing in their grace and control. He complements the wide variety of move ment choices he makes in this piece (and throughout his canon) with a per formance aesthetic varied in its use of layered, multimedia techniques and production features, from choreographed, physical movements (including jogging and "meditative tai chi-gathering exercise" ) to text and image slides (ranging from family snapshots taken in Japan and Los Angeles to intern ment camp photos), props ( Japanese sword, baseball glove, baseball, home plate, television monitor) , prerecorded music (including guitar, shakuhachi flute, koto music, chimes, and "cold, repetitive electronic" sounds), re corded voice-overs, sound effects (such as thunderstorms, machine gun fire, and roaring stadium crowds) , lighting (from baby spots to full stage lights, candlelight, and total darkness), and costumes (including a baseball uniform, a samurai outfit, and a traditional white gi jacket with black hakama pants/skirt) . Physical movement is a central feature in all of Kwong's solos. Within his body, the artist locates alternative stage languages to spoken and written texts for dramatic expression. Whereas Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder opens with full bodily movement, Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy (1991) builds toward a conclusion of "slow, graceful tai chi move ments." It is as though all of Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy anticipates the liberation of the narrator's body from the piece's initial onstage image of Kwong sitting intensely, dutifully, at a card table, where he eventually flies into a fury and smashes a model airplane he cannot com plete. Moving through restriction and rage to flexibility and assuredness, Kwong submits to the languages of his body to convey what he calls the "self-created ritual of passage" that grounds his profound, deeply autobio graphical performance. The ritual, one that Kwong engaged in while a stu dent at the Micheltorena Street School (discussed in detail later in this essay) , is "one which indelibly marked [ Kwong's] path in life-a path which followed no path. Which was neither inside nor outside; which understood nothing yet knew everything. Which separated [Kwong] from the world and in return gave [him] -the universe." Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy is, in fact, Kwong's per formance of passage into the heart of auto performance. The secrets that re side at the core of Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder are most often re vealed through the stories of those "outside" Dan Kwong-that is, those who are not Dan Kwong. These secrets, in turn, are presented as resonating fibers that have contributed to the narrator's maturation. Yet not until his second solo work does Kwong the actor confidently tell the "tales" from his "frac tured Tao," while occasionally relying on an "old, white-haired, bearded"

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sage/character who can read his mind, Master Nice Guy. Master Nice Guy is a surrogate for Kwong's unconscious who speaks with the authority of an inconsistently reliable therapist; he suggests possible meanings for feelings the narrator experiences. This fantasy figure is captured onstage through a handy visual, aural, filmic device. In Master Nice Guy's presence, Kwong revisits specific relationships in troduced in Secrets of The Samurai Centerfielder, most notably the one he shared with his mother when he was a child. Unlike his three sisters, he was not the "model minority" Asian American child. While his siblings were A students, Dan was a solid B; while they embraced feminine behaviors, he was a tough guy jerk. To a greater extent, he addresses his lifelong, compli cated relationship with his father. To explore the roots of his own feelings of inadequacy, which in Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy are centered in his "fractured;' dysfunctional family, the failure of his parents' marriage, and the physical abuse he suffered as a child, Kwong chooses not to speak about the pain he lived with until he turned nineteen and left Los Angeles for Chicago. Master Nice Guy reiterates the fact that Kwong grew up with the restriction that "no one must know about this pain! You must save face and not embarrass the family-it's a secret! " But, of course, the auto performance itself might be viewed as the most horrific embarrassment of all for the Asian American performer, since it publicly reveals the family's secret. Yet shame is not the outcome of Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy; on the other side of the release of secrets, vis-a-vis the per formance of one's history, is a kind of personal freedom and spiritual ac ceptance of Dan Kwong by Dan Kwong. Kwong's fractured tales, first performed when the artist was thirty-six years old, span remembrances from his childhood to the end of his teen years. The spectator witnesses Dan's secular "ritual of passage," during which the ancient Chinese philosophy and texts of his ancestors' Tao are rendered useless to the young Chinese Japanese American in navigating his way through postmodern fissures and fractures of daily life in the United States. Kwong experiences his racial identity as incoherent in its fusion of three na tional cultures (commenting about his parents, the soloist remarks, "a Japa nese and Chinese married [in the United States] -you've got to be kidding" ) . H e sees his family life as smashed t o pieces, a direct correlation with his own selfhood. Following his parents' divorce, the author remarks in his solo, "never did I stop reaching out for acceptance. For redemption. For some way to prove to the world-and myself-that I was good." He experiences his re lationship with his father as hostile, a betrayal, and filled with deliberate de nial on the parent's part. Kwong makes sense of the absence of visible signs

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of family normalcy and racial equality through the creation of his own pri vate rituals. Most of them are simple acts. He rides his bike, hoists the flags at his elementary school, plays baseball, and assumes a leadership role among his classmates. The young boy individualizes his own journey. Eventually in the piece (after telling stories of his parents' personal history and their court ship) , he places his own body in motion in the world, and through these ac tions he finds an easing of psychic, familial, and cultural pains. At an early age, he learns the significance of being able to control one's own choices, if one has a choice at all. In performance, he also realizes that Master Nice Guy is a powerless entity. While he voices his opinions, he cannot change Dan, nor does he desire to. Only Dan himself can exercise his free will to activate and articulate the desired change. Kwong concludes Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy with text slides, voice-overs, and in-the-moment speaking that capture an un expected telephone conversation that he had with his father shortly after he moved to Chicago to study art. In the course of their halting talk, the father repeatedly tells his son that he is sorry-without identifying specifically what he is sorry for but rather "as if he had to finish emptying his heart." Once the heart is emptied, it fills again with the capacity for the men to tell one another "I love you." This is an extremely rare moment on the U.S. stage. What marks this double portrait as dramatically unique is that two heterosexual men, albeit a father and son, voice their love for one another. Such expression between and among American men onstage is still uncom mon. Kwong builds his performance to this precise moment of articulation, for without the words one can deny to both the "inside [ and] outside" world(s) that this emotion, this bond, this recognition of one's Other, ever existed. Kwong leaves us with the knowledge that we risk the loss of power when truth is spoken, but through truth, as the narrator concludes, "the broken heart [is] finally seen." Only then, can healing begin and, quite pos sibly, hope be restored. Theatrically, however, Kwong centers Tales from The Fractured Tao with Master Nice Guy in an amazing stage image slightly past the midpoint in his piece. This image, which precedes the articulation of love between father and son at the conclusion of the work, captures the activation of a self created journey, one that necessitates not self-love as much as it does the embodiment of self-recognition and pleasure gained through this recogni tion. Recalling a vivid memory of an incident that occurred when he was in the fourth grade at Micheltorena Street School and was overcome by an ur gent bowel movement (which, if done in the school bathroom, would hu miliate any boy under similar circumstances) , Kwong used his authority as

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the "official flag monitor" to secure keys from a staff member, which, with out her knowing it, gained him access to the school auditorium, where a private bathroom, with a door and decent toilet paper, was located. After an extremely gratifying expulsion of waste (a hilarious, priceless story in and of itself) , nine-year-old Danny Kwong found himself at the site where he could fulfill a strong fantasy: to strip naked, wrap himself in the cool, velvet stage curtain, and finally slither his nubile body along the top of the lacquered grand piano. And so, with full stage lights up, he fulfilled his dream. That which had previously only been imagined was now realized:

Who knows why certain things happen when they do?. . . . [Something] you didn't understand but somehow you knew your life was changing in a deep and profound way? Naked except for a "flesh- colored jockstrap with a cloth pre-pubescent penis and scrotum sewn onto the pouch," Kwong climbs onto the piano, "flops around with the music," telling the spectator how he "sprawled [his] hot naked young body across [the piano] , rolling in sensual delirium." In this clever, telling moment of metatheatrical fun, Kwong's adult enactment of his childhood memory before the audience centers the solo piece. Kwong's hybrid body, vulnerable and open to and on the stage, is the entity from which all else emanates. Words will follow, Kwong seems to suggest, once the self can live with its own body, within its own skin. For Kwong, the stage is the site for retelling this most ancient of knowledges. In the theater one must know nakedness if one is to tell stories truthfully.

M o n k h ood 1 n 3 Easy Les s o n s (l 993)

(A bare stage with a projection screen upstage left. In blackout, we hear the sound of mysterious gongs and gentle bells tolling. The stage is lit with a deep blue glow. A hooded, robed M O NK enters from the left carrying an antique lantern. He slowly crosses the stage during the following voiceover, pausing after each line to turn towards the audience, as if checking for their obedience. We hear slow, deep, breathing sounds, then a hypnotic, recorded, whisper ing voiceover.) "Breathe in. Breathe in, and experience the oneness of the unknowable void." (More breathing sounds.) ''Allow your mind to detach itself from all worldly concerns." (More breathing.) "Let your hand resist all desire to touch that dial. We'll be right back, after a word from our sponsor." (Breathing fades out.) (M O NK exits, lights fade to black. We hear the NBC news theme. A large video projection appears of a Tv news anchorman at his desk. It's Dan in a suit, wearing a cheap gray wig. On-screen title reads " T H E EV E N I N G N E W S W I T H B I L L O N I G I R r . " Looks like a cheesy, homemade version of a typical news show. Theme fades out. Bill speaks in typical authoritative, overly confident news re porter style.)

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M O N K H OO D I N 3 EASY LESSO N S

(on videotape) : "Hello, I'm Bill Onigiri. Coming up next on Chan nel 4 News Sports, Tracy Toobright reporting live from Queen of Angels Hospital maternity ward. Tracy?" B I LL

(We hear the sound of many crying babies; it's the nursery from hell. A very tight spotlight comes up downstage right. We see DAN 's face at a microphone. Hang ing from his neck is a cloth muppet-style baby body. His real body is hidden be hind a black cloth; his arms and hands are cloaked in black and manipulate the baby's arms throughout the scene. BA B Y DAN looks a bit bewildered . . . ) (recorded voice) : That's right, Bill-I'm here with newborn Asian American baby boy Daniel Kit Kwong, who's just been delivered at "Queen of Angels Hospital" in Los Angeles. Daniel, welcome to the human race. Tell us, how was the delivery? T R ACY

(B A B Y hesitates, looking around with uncertainty. He answers in a low mono tone voice, very flat and emotionless, like a typical athlete in the postgame locker room interview.) (live): Uh, thanks Tracy. Uh, delivery went pretty smooth. Mom had a "saddle-block;' so I wasn't all drugged up when I came out. Uh, I been working real hard preparing for this and, uh, I'm just really glad to be here. DAN

(B A B Y makes faces and wild arm movements-not quite in control of his body. This continues throughout the interview.) T R ACY (recorded voice) : You've been training for this for nine months now, and now that you've made it to the pros can you tell us what your hopes are for this new phase of your career? DAN (live) : Well, Tracy, my goal is just to contribute to the family any way I can. I have a latta faith in management to do their best as my primary caregivers, although, y'know, it's no secret they've had less than adequate preparation for the job.

(B A B Y starts flapping his arms up and down in front of him, beating his tummy.) T R ACY (recorded voice) : You had a very strong showing in your last trimester. How do you think this will help you going into the 1954 season?

(live) : Uh, that's right Tracy, my intrauterine kicking was coming along real well, I was getting good extension, and, uh, I was very much in touch with my inherent sense of power. But, uh, initially I expect I'll be DAN

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coerced into playing the position of "puny, powerless cog"-in a desper ately oppressive social structure. But, uh, I think we've got some really outstanding talent in the gene pool, and, uh, I'm looking forward to a long career with this typically dysfunctional family.

(B A B Y starts chewing his left hand.) (recorded voice) : What about your position as the only son with three sisters? Any thoughts about the upcoming series with oppressive attitudes directed specifically towards males? T R ACY

DAN (live) : Well, uh, being the only son, I know I'll be expected to drive in a lot of sexism on my sisters. But, uh, I'm really confident I'll get used to the special mistreatment and brutality reserved for us males. Coach ing staff here is really excellent at developing numbness, which, y'know, will really help me deal with all the homophobia, violence, and isolation. But, uh, y'know, I think the human beings here are just the greatest and, uh, I'm really looking forward to being part of this sub- species.

(B A B Y waggles his arms up next to his head, yawning.) (recorded voice) : Dan, one last question: What about the insidi ous effects of racism in conjunction with the oppression of males? How do you anticipate handling that challenge? T R ACY

(B A B Y punctuates this last answer with wild, spastic, jerky arm movements. ) (live) : Well, Tracy, I know it won't be easy. Uh, probably get pretty confusing at times. Uh, I'll probably have to endure some feelings of shame and humiliation about this exquisite Asian male body of mine primarily in regard to secondary sexual characteristics as defined by northern European male standards . . . As well as having to deal with an ugly history of sexless, dehumanizing stereotypes of Asian men, propa gated by racist attitudes in popular culture and institutions. But, uh, I'm really confident I can ultimately overcome any racist emasculation as an Asian man in this country and uh-uh-uh-contribute. DAN

(recorded voice): Well, Dan, congratulations on your post-partum debut, good luck to ya, and I hope we'll be seeing a lot more of you in the coming lifetime. T R ACY

DAN

(live) : Uh, thank you very much.

(recorded voice) : This is Tracy Toobright reporting live from Queen of Angels Hospital in Los Angeles. Back to you, Bill.

T R ACY


(Spotlight blacks out on D A N . Videotape begins again as crying babies fade out.) (on videotape) : Thanks, Tracy. Sounds like a pretty weird baby. Well, that's it for Channel 4 News. Coming up next: more performance art. Stay tuned . . . B I LL

(NB C news theme returns. B I L L shuffles papers on his desk as video fades to black. News theme segues into a fast, high-energy, percussion jam. D A N enters to upstage center dressed in a gray tie-dye t-shirt with a large yin yang symbol on the front, cutoffjeans, and black high-top sneakers. The stage is lit with a bright overall wash. DA N begins a high-energy stylized dance/ poem-running, leaping, spinning all around the stage with wild enthusiasm as he proclaims his poem. His physical gestures plus live percussion from an off stage musician accent various lines of the dance/poem.)

DAN: I was a boy born in the winter-deeply loved-in a hurry to play! I was a boy with a brown skin body. I was a boy who liked to sweat! I was a boy on a mission from Mars: find the earthlings, initiate talks . . . I was a boy with a smart mouth attitude-I was a boy W H O BACKED I T U P. I was a boy who played with fire-I was a boy who played with himself! I was a boy who played the fool. I was a boy who thought he was white. I was a boy who watched Tv-who watched Tv-who watched TVwho watched Tv-and still read books. I was a boy who liked to throw rocks, who broke your window and stole your fruit! I was a boy who tortured bugs. I was a boy who tortured himself. I was a boy who played with babies. I was a boy who never ate mochi gashi. I was a boy who never cried-except for kittens. I was a boy who often lied-under pressure. I was a boy who loved dried shrimp, salty moys, and cuttlefish sticks! I was a boy who went for the throat-ready to strike, quick to kill! I was a boy NO O N E c o u L D C RU S H ! I was a boy no one could touch. I was a boy with gentle hands. I was a boy with one sad eye. I was a boy who just said "yes" ! I was a boy who lived downstairs, under the kitchen, stereo L O U D .

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I was a boy proud to be numb! I was a boy proud to be weird! I was a boy with Olympic dreams! I was a boy with so much "potential." I was a boy trying too hard. I was a boy nobody knew-nobody knew-nobody knew-nobody knew-nobody knew. I WA S A B O Y I N E V E RY WAY !

(On his final words, he leaps in the air; the stage goes black as he lands. Music begins: a slow, steady, ascending, three-note marimba phrase repeats through out. Faint blue backlight comes up. Two s TA G E H A N D S enter carrying a free standing, vertical, ten-foot-square metal frame, stretched with heavy netting. It is placed to the left, facing the audience. S TA G E HAND enters with basket of baseballs and kneels behind netting. DA N enters wearing red tank top, loose black pants, Chinese shoes, and carrying a baseball bat. He stands behind the netting near S TA G EHA ND and baseballs. He whacks the bat on the floor three times, and a spotlight comes up on D A N as he swings the bat in preparation. A large video projection appears to the right of the netting, roughly the same size as the netting frame. We see three separate actors, each telling a different story and intercut with each other. Where indicated by an X, a baseball is tossed up and D A N sharply bats it into the net. The netting is illuminated with a white light when a ball strikes it, creating a flashing, strobe effect. As the three stories progress, his swings become increasingly violent. Videotape continually cuts between actors.) A C T O R 1 (a storyteller) : Long, long ago, in a time when anything could happenACTOR

2 (a boy) : It was 1958, and kindergarten was getting weirder all the

time.

(a female news reporter) : Now it was just a week before his wedding. On June 18, 1982, he and a friend were headed for a topless bar in East Detroit. A C T RE S S 3

1: There, in a small fishing village at the base of a great volcano, lived a naive but spirited young monk. ACTOR

ACTOR

2: At age four, there were still a few things I didn't understand yet.

He wouldn't listen to his mother when she said, "Vincent, you will be married soon. You shouldn't go to those places." A C T RE S S 3:

X

-

-


Everyone who lived there knew they did so at great risk, as the volcano often shook the earth, sending clouds of foul gas into the air.

A C T O R 1:

Like central Los Angeles-! never saw so many kids in my life! Playing on the schoolyard was usually the best part, but I'll never forget this one day . . . A C T O R 2:

"Don't worry, Mother," he said. "It's the last time." They were out for one final celebration.

A C T R E S S 3:

-XA C T O R 1 : It was the end of the monk's training, and he was given a spe cial task: "Go to the Sea Spirit and ask for protection for our village:' The young monk went down to the ocean, trembling with anticipation.

I was all by myself when I saw two boys walking by the school yard outside the fence. They saw me and stopped. A C T O R 2:

In the bar, they sat down near two other men, both recently unemployed Detroit autoworkers.

A C T R E S S 3:

-X-

"We must have proof of your manhood, and this will be your final test!" His heart was filled with dread as he called out loud over the roar of the pounding sea:

A C T O R 1:

"Ching chong Chinaman sittin' on a fence-Trying to make a dollar outa fifteen cents! "

A C T O R 2:

Unpleasant words were exchanged: "It's because o f you little motherfuckers that we're out of work." Chinese, Japanese, they all look y'know. A C T R E S s 3:

-X-

"One and Only Sea Spirit! I have come to ask you to protect our village. We will make the usual offering." A C T O R 1:

A C T O R 2:

Fifteen cents? What? I don't get it. I'm not sitting on any fence.

A fight broke out. Afterwards, the two men tracked him down at a nearby McDonald's. Following are police eyewitness accounts: A C T R E S S 3:

-XA C T O R 1: Up from the depths of the ocean appeared the Sea Spirit: "You must gather the bones of ten thousand men and with them construct a

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dam at the end of the valley. Then you must wave this magic staff, and you will be protected." With that, the Sea Spirit descended, a strange smile on its face. X

-

A C T O R 2:

-

Why are you laughing at me like that? What does that mean?

"They cornered him up in the phone booth here. Mr. Nitz grabbed him in a bear hug while Mr. Ebens swung a bat, repeatedly strik ing Mr. Chin."

A C T RE S S 3:

X

-

-

Again and again he practiced waving the magic staff, and just as instructed he built a huge dam from the bones of their men.

A C T O R 1:

X

-

-

Sure enough, soon came an eruption bigger than any he had ever felt. Down below, he could hear the frightened voices of the village people.

A C T O R 1:

X

-

-

"Ching chong Chinaman, beat that rat! Hit 'im on the head with a baseball bat!" A C T O R 2:

X

-

-

"Mr. Chin broke loose and ran out here to the middle of the street. He stopped and slipped."

A C T R E S S 3:

-XA C T O R 1: He knew he didn't have much time left. Lava began to ooze from cracks in the earth, flowing down to the dam. Frantically he waved the magic staff, but nothing seemed to happen.

-X-

I don't understand-it's something about being Chinese. They walked away, laughing to each other. Where was the teacher? A C T O R 2:

-X-

"Mr. Ebens was standing over him with a baseball bat. He had it in both his hands, and he was hitting him on top of his head." A C T RE S S 3 :

-X-


Again and again he did as he was told, praying the Sea Spirit's words were true. But the lava continued to flow, causing the dam to buckle and groan under the strain. ACTOR I:

X

-

A C T O R I:

-

Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes from the futility of his

efforts. X

-

-

What could I do? There were two of them. They were bigger, and older. And the way they said that-like "Chinese" was something stupid to be laughed at. A C T O R 2:

-X-

3: "He swung the bat as if a baseball player were swinging for a home run-full contact, full swing."

ACTRESS

-X-X-X-

With a sickening "crack" the dam burst, and out poured a river of molten lava heading straight for the village. People began to panic.

A C T O R I:

-X-

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before! Why did they do that? My face was hot. My head hurt . . . A C T O R 2:

-X-

3: "His skull was obviously fractured . . . there were brains lay ing on the street. He wasn't dead yet, but the man was a goner."

ACTRESS

-X-

In anguish, they watched as everything they had was destroyed in a single firestorm. The poor people wept and wailed, shaking angry fists towards the sea. A C T O R I:

-XA C T O R 2:

I was crying. "You're not going to get away with this!"

3: Four days later he was dead. In a plea-bargaining decision, both Ronald Ebens and Michael Nitz received three years probation and a $3,000 fine. ACTRESS

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go


X

-

-

1: In bitterness, the young monk vowed never again to be fooled by such misplaced faith. "The bones of our manhood will never again be sacrificed like this!" ACTOR

X

-

-

2: Someone should stop things like this from happening! But when I told the teacher about it, she acted like it was nothing. ACTOR

A C T RE S S

3: In fact, neither man ever served a day in prison. X

-

-

1: And never again did the village people make offerings to the Sea Spirit. Instead they gathered up what was left of their lives, and set ting out for the unknown . . . ACTOR

ACTOR

2:-They just walked away.

A C T RE S S ACTOR

3:-They just walked away.

1:-They just walked away. -X-

(No swing.)

(The final baseball drops to the floor and rolls away. D A N drops the bat and stands motionless. We hear a single, sustained organ chord as S TA G EHAND S hang a white sheet over the entire netting frame, hiding DA N behind it. The sustained chord slowly fades out. D A N walks around in front of netting over to a small nearby platform where an old tan-colored suitcase sits draped with an indigo blue hapi coat. He picks up the hapi coat and puts it on, then softly speaks.) From the early 1930s on, my Japanese grandfather was well known as a leader in the Japanese American community of Los Angeles. He was one of many immigrants in the produce market who ran their small busi nesses like extended family operations. Everyone called him "Papa;' and he was known as a man of impeccable character and integrity. But you knew he'd really made it big in the community when Papa found out he made the "/\' list. For the F B I . He discovered this honor the night of December 7th, 1941. The F B I didn't just mail him an invitation; they sent him a private escort right over to the family house on West 31st Street, corner of Jefferson and Western. His F B I chauffeurs took Papa down to the "/\' list beach party being held on Terminal Island, in the fed-


eral penitentiary. Over the next two years, he was sent on an all-expenses paid prison tour to Fort Missoula, Montana; Fort Sill, Oklahoma; Camp Livingston, Louisiana; and Santa Fe Detention Station in New Mexico.

(Dan picks up the suitcase.) Contained in this old family suitcase are Papa's neatly kept journals and notebooks, with nearly every piece of mail received or written by him during this period-correspondence with family, friends, business asso ciates, and federal government officials. Every single letter he received WaS rubber-stamped, " D E TA I N E D A L I E N E N E M Y M A I L ," to certify its examination by government censors. Anything suspected as possible es pionage, even cartoon drawings, was thoroughly blotted out with gov ernment ink. -

(He kneels with suitcase, opens it, and removes a two-page letter. He slowly rises.) But there is one document in particular, the carbon copy of a letter from Papa to a Los Angeles friend, which expresses most eloquently this ''Amer ican" situation. Spoken by Papa, it was typewritten by my mother, trans lating his thoughts into English. ''August 25,

1944.

Manzanar, California."

(Begin music: a gentle, slow, repeating harp phrase with strings softly playing steady chords. Throughout next section, slides are rear-projected onto the white sheet: constantly shifting images ofPapa, ofactual ww n correspondence show ing government-censored letters, postmarks from prisons and internment camps, letters from family, friends, etc. As DA N begins reading, he slowly be comes his grandfather.) "Dear Mr. Gallagher, Please excuse my not writing you for a long time. I have not even thanked you yet for the diary too. Nowadays I am an enemy alien, but I think about old times. I often recall my many happy years in Los Ange les. Eight months have already passed since I have rejoined my family here at Manzanar Relocation Center after being released-or rather, paroled-from Santa Fe Detention Station. As you know, considered a dangerous enemy alien, I was interned at the outbreak of the war and separated from my family for about two years until, with the help of some friends, I was cleared and released by the F. B . I . A 'dangerous' enemy alien though I was once considered, I am now tendering my only two

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sons-one a draftee, and one a volunteer-to fight for the United States: to fight side by side with more than 10,000 of their fellow citizens of Japanese ancestry. More than s,ooo of them are across already, and I am sure you have read or heard of the unparalleled gallant actions of the 1ooth Infantry Battalion and the 442nd Combat Team, as they march up Italy. "We Japanese have been taught to return favors, from childhood. I have lived in this country for twenty-eight years, did business, made money, and maintained a happy home. I have always appreciated the country's favors, but I have never been able to do anything much in return. But now, when America is in this crisis, I am tendering two of my dearest possessions, my sons, to the United States. Could anyone give more? "When the war began, as you know, I lost my business which took me many years to build. Nagano Produce was one of the financially strongest stores in the Los Angeles Market. But now, although I am financially broke, my wife and I still have three jewels-our children. I still have a happy home, and that means more to me than any amount of money. Money is only important as a means to keep alive and not much more than that. "I truly feel that the Japanese were doing well in California not at the ex pense of the Caucasians, but were doing well because they worked hard to succeed. I firmly believe that the Japanese have proven the democratic principle that all people are created equal: equal in every sense to develop to their fullest capacity. They had combined initiative and hard work to do well, maybe to some persons' envy. Is this being attacked, and is it the cause for racial prejudice and discrimination? ''Also, was our evacuation really for reasons of national defense and se curity, or was it caused by the aforementioned racial discrimination? It could not be caused by cases of espionage nor sabotage, for there has been no such case, then nor now. If it was for the latter reason, I certainly feel we were treated unjustly. ''As I wrote before, I have lived here for twenty-eight years. Before that, I lived in Japan for twenty years. And of the twenty-eight years I have lived in the United States, twenty-five have been spent in Los Angeles. My hometown is not Tokyo nor Nagasaki. It is Los Angeles. "During the twenty-five years here, I made friends all over the city. I still have a place to live in Los Angeles. No matter how broke I am now, I am


confident that I will be able to support my family there. Is there anyone who does not want to return to their hometown? I want to return to my home. I know Seattle, San Francisco, and many other places in this coun try, but I dream only of L . A . " I have lived in this country all these years because I like it, and my wish is to remain here until I die. But if there are people who do not want me to return to Los Angeles, I will be like a sheep who has no place to graze nor to lie down. I am hoping I have not bothered you by writing such a long letter, and am wishing the best of regards to your wife and my old friends. Take care of yourself during the present hot spell. Sincerely yours, Kiro Nagano."

(He extends his hands out, holding the letter. It falls from his hands as lights fade to black. We see a final slide image-a grim-looking PA PA-slowly fade to black. The sound of chimes blowing in the wind. Video projection appears of the same suitcase, sitting open in the empty California desert at present-day Manzanar.) (Video fades to black. In the dark, we hear a low, pounding sound, like heavy industrial machinery whomping away. Two text slides appear in sequence on the white sheet.) S o u n d o f t h e a o rta, T h e m a i n a rte ry of t h e h e a rtRecorded i n t h e ute rus of A wo m a n 8 m o n t h s pregna nt.

(Slide fades out, the netting frame is moved offstage, and we hear another grinding mechanical sound. Upstage center, the black curtain splits open. Spot light on DAN, walking on a treadmill, wearing a white Japanese fundoshi loin cloth. His voice is amplified above the sound of the heartbeat and treadmill.) Listen! You heard this. Long, long ago. In a time when anything could happen. You heard it. I heard it. The sound of our mothers' lifeblood, pumping to the womb. Listen! It's the sound of history. Before we were born. I was born in the year of the Horse. I'm a Horse Man, and I am built for speed. "Don't look back; something might be gaining on you." I heard Satchel Paige say that.

(A S TAGEHAND slowly pushes treadmill and DAN to downstage center. The heartbeat sound fades out as DAN continues walking and talking.)

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So I keep moving onwards, trying to get somewhere, trying to make some progress. Return to the womb? It's good reference material. But history has a way of becoming so distorted and so invisible, who knows whose womb I might end up in?

(Treadmill is in position.

DA N

speeds up the treadmill to a small jog.)

Listen! I heard all about "relocation." From my mother. Outside the womb. Me, eight years old, and I did the classic Sansei thing. Eight years old, did the classic Sansei thing! I attacked her. Not physically, mind you-she could still kick my ass back then. But I let her have it. Because I couldn't stand to hear we were rejected by our own country. The same country I pledged allegiance to every morning in school? I was royally pissed off when I heard that story! Pissed off at her and her whole gen eration- "How could you let them do that shit to you?!?" As if the Nisei were personally responsible for America's ongoing legacy of racism. And I got hung up on this image of wimpy JAS, meekly shuffling off to camp like sheep. Talk about emasculation.

(Speeds up treadmill.) Oh, but hey-I'm moving onwards. Yeah, I'm leav ing it all behind! Come on now, let's pick it up ! (More speed.) Hey, how'm I doin'? How's my form? How do I measure up? I'll show you. (More speed.) Hey! Uh, am I assertive enough for you? Am I sensitive enough for you? Am I angry enough for you? (Treadmill is up to brisk jogging speed.) wo o o o o o ! I raged at my mother! Because F D R and John J. McCloy and Karl Bendetsen and Gen. John L. DeWitt were already dead. They were the real architects of relocation; they would've made much more appro priate targets for my neophyte political outrage. But I didn't know enough to conjure them up on the living room sofa that night. And Mom was so handy. Talk about blaming the victims.

(More speed.) Hey, how'm I doin', huh? How'm I doin'? Am I ethnic enough for you? Am I inscrutable enough for you? Am I Japanese enough for you? Am I Chinese enough for you? Am I authentic enough for you? How'm I doin', huh? (Treadmill is now up to a fast pace.) Listen! I heard about the 442. Oh yeah. They were some bad- ass Nisei men! The Four Forty-Second Regimental Combat Team. All Nisei, they chose to prove their loyalty in war. Not something I would personally recommend. But they fought World War II like it was a personal grudge match, while their families sat in American chicken coops eating dust.


Over 18,ooo individual decorations for valor, the Japanese American men of the 442 were the most highly decorated combat unit in U.S. military history. HEAR T H AT, MARGE S C H O T T ? The most highly decorated. H E A R T H AT, G I L F E R G U S O N ? In U.S. military history. H E A R T H AT, M I C H A E L C R I C H T O N ? They proved with their blood something they never should've had to prove: "We are not 'the enemy' -so don't lay that shit on us." Oh yeah, I heard about the 442!

(DA N is running faster and faster. Monologue begins to build to an orgasmic climax.) (More speed.) C'mon, let's turn it on! Time to cook! Time to fly! Turn me loose! Show 'em what you're made of! Show 'em how it's done! Oh yeah! H E Y ! AM I B U F F E N O U G H F O R YO U? AM I E S O T E R I C E N O U G H F O R YOU? AM I M T V E N O U G H FOR YO U? H OW'M I D O I N', HUH? (More speed.) Oh yeah! We're lookin' good! We're gonna win this race! We're gonna make this grade! (More speed.) Oh yeah! C'mon baby, LET I T ALLLLL HANG O U T ! (Treadmill going full speed. ) O h yeah! O h yeah! O H YEA H ! O H ! O H ! O H ! OHHHHHHHHHHHH ! ! ! (Spent and exhausted, D A N suddenly slows down treadmill. A few moments to catch his breath, then:) Oh, but hey-I never heard about Min Yasui. I never heard about Gor don Hirabayashi. I never heard about Fred Korematsu. They fought against American concentration camps all the way to the United States Supreme Court. Wound up doing prison time in solitary confinement. But I never heard. I never heard. (Slows down treadmill.) I never heard about the Heart Mountain Fair Play Committee: the 85 Nisei men who refused to be drafted out of a Wyoming camp? Theirs was the largest mass trial in the history of the state of Wyoming. They did prison time too. But I never heard. I never heard. (Slows down more.) I never heard about the "No-No Boys". Questions number 27 and 28? A 1943 U.S. government questionnaire had the nerve to ask them to swear allegiance to a government which denied them equal rights as citizens. Asked them to fight for a country which considered them genetically dis loyal. Had the nerve to ask them through barbed wire. And the No-No Boys answered: "Excuse me, but fuck off . . . " And they were segregated, isolated, repatriated, thoroughly hated. Cursed and spit upon by their own community because they wouldn't jump through the hoop. But they were just as courageous as the men of the 442. (DA N is delirious with fatigue.)

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But I never heard. I never heard. I never heard. I never heard.

(Treadmill is now back to original slow walking speed. Heartbeat sound re turns. DAN looks up in a daze.) Hey, Hey, how was I? How was I?

(He suddenly steps off the treadmill belt, his feet straddling it. It grinds away between his legs as he slowly staggers backwards, stepping off the machine and walking upstage, leaving the treadmill behind. His weariness is from the idea as much as the exertion, as he continues to ask:) How was I? Was I good? Was I good enough? Good enough for you? How was it? Was it good? Was it good for you? Was it good for you? Was I good enough? Good enough for you? Enough for you? How was I? Was I good? Good enough? Enough for you? How was I?

(DAN walks back through curtain split. Curtain closes, leaving the empty treadmill running by itself Lights fade to black. Heartbeat sound fades out. Treadmill stops. We hear DAN's recorded voice echoing in the dark, as the treadmill is moved offstage.) "During adolescence, I found myself on a quest for truth regarding the nature of sexual relations between men and women. Naturally, I sought out the most reliable sources available to me: Playboy and Penthouse magazines. Penthouse had a regular advice column on sexual matters, written by a woman named Xaviera Hollander-also known as 'The Happy Hooker.' One day I read one of her columns on the subject of male organ size. She went to great lengths reassuring her male readership that quite probably their genitals were okay. But at the very end she had this comment: 'The only men I find unsatisfying as lovers are Oriental men. Their penises are generally too small to provide the necessary friction to get me off' "I was a virgin at the time. I pulled out a ruler. And I became very concerned."

(We hear happy, jaunty, pizzicato music like a T v game show theme. Projected video images appear of various newspaper ads for penis enlargement, with DAN's voiceover sounding like newsman BILL ONIGIRI. ) "Perhaps you've noticed their ads popping up recently in your local news papers. Some companies advertise to men with the offer to 'enhance self esteem, confidence, and performance,' charging thousands and thousands


of dollars for their services. Yet how much is really known about the prac tice of 'penis enlargement'? Are there any hidden dangers being kept from the public? And what does this say about the direction of our society in its attitudes regarding sex, beauty, and the human body? "Here in the studio with us is Doctor Richard Bonus, renowned surgeon, whose shocking revelations about this increasingly popular form of cos metic surgery have rocked the trade. Doctor?"

(Enter D O C T O R B o N u s [Dan] wearing white lab coat, thick glasses, and blood stained rubber gloves. He talks kind of nerdy.) Thank you. (Snaps off his rubber gloves.) Living in a culture which re lentlessly bombards females with pressure to conform to so-called stan dards of beauty and sexual attractiveness, cosmetic surgery has long been considered a viable option for the modern American woman. Thus, it is not surprising that the surgical alteration of natural, healthy female bod ies has become a billion dollar business-one which primarily benefits men, who in fact make up the vast majority of these surgeons.

(Music changes to funky, sexy, ]ames Bond-like theme.) Traditionally, men have been able to consider themselves exempt from these particular societal pressures. However, it seems that those days are no longer . . . (He chuckles at his lame joke.) Nowadays one can find advertisements for pectoral and calf implants for men-along with those ads which offer a larger organ. A more prodi gious member. A heftier tool. A wider load! A prouder piston! A fuller frank! And a deeper dingus.

(D o c T o R demonstrates with graphic gestures.) "Penile enlargement" involves the extraction of lipo cells (i.e., fat cells) taken from the patient's own abdominal region and injected into the pe nile shaft, providing the desired increase in shaft diameter. A second pro cedure, known as "penile advancement;' involves severing the suspen sory ligament (sawing motion on his shoulder), which attaches the base of the penis to the pubic bone, thus allowing the penile shaft to drop down from the pelvis, adding length. This procedure does tend to make the penis more pivotal at the base, with less of an upward thrust to the erec tion . . . (He waves a rigid arm wildly in the air, simulating a directionless erection.)

(Theme changes to melodramatic soap opera organ [no pun] music.)

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However, recent studies have turned up some shocking side effects to these procedures. The following case studies are not pleasant viewing, but we feel the American public should be properly informed as to just what can happen when you fool with Mother Nature. Slide, please. Image Slides

Dan's Live N arration

Cartoon drawing of a penis

Excessively fluid lipo cells led to this unexpected condition. This man's penis now functions as a barometer, with sudden changes in atmospheric pressure frequently leading to embarrassing social situations. Next slide, please.

swollen like a water balloon.

Cartoon of a penis rippling with bodybuilder muscles.

Cartoon of penis with shark-fin like protrusion on one side.

Cartoon of penis with a grumpy old man's face on shaft.

In a laboratory mixup, lipo cells were contaminated by anabolic steroids. This man's penis was once mis taken for Arnold Schwarzenegger. Hounded by rabid fans for weeks on end, it was deeply traumatic for this man and his entire family. Next slide. Uneven lipo dispersion and hardening resulted in what has been called the "Dorsal Fin Reaction." In a truly ironic case, this man was once an Olympic caliber breaststroker who now has great difficulty simply swimming in a straight line. Tragic, indeed. Next slide. Finally, in perhaps the most mysterious and fright ening case of unexpected side effects this man had the face of Jimmy Hoffa appear on his member, leading to a massive lawsuit by the A F L - C I O later settled out of court. Thank you.

(Slide gone, music changes back to happy pizzicato.) In conclusion, perhaps this simple presentation will encourage people to appreciate the body parts they do have. And remember: it matters less the size of your wok than the meal you cook with it. Thank you.

(DOC TOR exits. Blackout.) (A videotape is projected. We see a friendly THERAPIS T in her office. In the lower-right corner of the screen, we see DAN's head, as if he were laying on the therapist's couch. Both actors are on the videotape.)


So, Dan-what's your earliest memory in any way con nected with your penis? THERAPIST:

D A N : Uh, well, sometimes I get these really weird sexual feelings, and I think they must be connected to some old memories of being circumcised. THERAPIST: DAN:

Oh. Well, that's not SO weird.

Whaddaya mean?

Well, I mean it's not unusual for old memories which in volve some kind of traumatic experience with the genitals to contain sex ual feelings. One theory is that the mind makes a very complete and lit eral recording of any distressful experience, including the physical and sensory elements as well as the emotions. This "distress recording" can then become reactivated any time the present situation is similar enough to the old memory. Oftentimes a person will feel compelled to reenact the old distress experience in the present, thus re-creating the old sensations and emotions. One assumption is that this compulsion to reenact is an in tuitive attempt to somehow resolve the old trauma. However, the contin ued repetition of the compulsion tends to have the reverse effect, driving the distress recording in even deeper. THERAPIST:

DAN:

So?

THERAPIST: DAN:

Well, shall we take a look at your old memory?

You mean my circumcision?

Yeah! Just tell me how you remember it. And if you can't re member, then tell me how you imagine it might have happened. THERAPIST:

DAN:

You mean just make it up?

THERAPIST:

Yeah!

(Camera holds on close-up of DAN's face. As he talks, camera slowly zooms out, revealing more of DAN until we can see he has the same baby body from the birth interview puppet scene. At the same time, various objects begin to lower down on strings from above the stage: a large stone, a fake plastic stone, a giant latex scrotum, a faceless rag doll, three large books-all suspended waist high and spread around the stage. As DAN recounts his memory, the baby puppet arms are moving around.) D A N : Okay. (Harp glissando.) Well-I'm naked. Lying on my back. The room is very warm and bright. I'm relaxed. I'm being gently touched.

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Then someone is wiping the tip of my penis with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol. It feels cool as the alcohol evaporates, and I start to get an erec tion. It feels really good! Then, someone is holding my penis very firmly. Then I feel something pinch . . . And then-

(A piercing scream as DA N charges onstage wielding his Japanese sword. Lights up. He wears a traditional Japanese white judo gi jacket and black hakama pants/skirt. Video image freezes and fades out. DA N stops upstage center. He turns to audience, re-sheaths sword and strides towards them. His manner is very formal and ceremonial. The following movement/poem is punctuated by various sword techniques tightly choreographed to the text. He approaches the hanging stone.) The first lesson. In the beginning was harmony. Connection. We were to gether, in perfect union of spirit and flesh. (He draws sword.) "Mom, will you come tuck me in?" (He cuts down stone. Clunk.) The original state of mind is peace. (Re-sheaths sword.)

(He moves to the fake stone.) The second lesson. Falling from grace. (Draws sword, cuts down fake stone. It bounces.) Strange talk intrudes. (Second cut.) "Go back where you came from!" "Teach me Chinese, Dad-I come from here." Scorn your tears. Ridicule your fears. Become a good liar. Kiss my melting pot. I begin to forget who I am. (Re-sheaths sword.)

(He moves to the giant latex scrotum. It's as big as a large shopping bag.) The third lesson. Confusion blooms in isolation. (Half-drawn sword.) "Step aside son, this is a job for a real-" (Full drawn sword.) "Is it true what they say about Asian men?" "Don't take it personal, it's just a movie! " (Cuts down giant scrotum.) "I broadcast, therefore I am." Soon I have forgotten who you are. (Re-sheaths sword.)

(He moves on to rag doll.) The bonus lesson. "Sorry I get into so many fights at school! " (Draws sword, cuts down doll.) I am so ashamed-but I never lose. "How's that for achievement?" No schoolboy could match my rage. (Stab move.) You taught me rage. I taught myself how to be alone. It sure beat "trying to get along."

(Re-sheaths sword, then sudden quick draw of sword, facing audience. He shifts into a more wacky, wild, freewheeling attitude.)


"I wonder, ooom badoom-boom-boom-who wrote 'the book'?"

(He moves to the three hanging books. Each has a title on its front and back: Q UICK & EA S Y IDENTIT Y/NO BRAINS REQ UIRED; BIG BOYS DON'T CRY/ IT ONLY H UR TS WHEN I LIVE; BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE/KILL OR BE KILLED . ) And what would happen if we just threw it out the window? What would it be like if we could cut out all the bullshit and start over again, from scratch? I'm talking about subtractive measures, I'm talking about back to the bone, I'm talking about carving out new identities! (Cuts down first book-it makes him slightly giddy.) Oooooh, I feel better already! Just a little bit of relief! Some enchanted evening!!! Everybody just sit tight. 'Cause this is your lucky night! I wanna point us in some new directions, I wanna open up some minds here among us. I wanna dump all the marbles on the table, sort 'em out all over again. But this time we choose for ourselves. Choose what kind of a "you" and "me" we want to be. See, I just wanna look at-I wanna ask you to look at-I want to ask you to ask-one simple question: What would it mean to really be free? No one can answer that question for you. But can you imagine? Free. Free from toxic nostalgia. Free from victim mentality. Free to fuck up and try again, free from endlessly cutting each other to pieces and saving the worst for ourselves. F R E E F R O M A L L P E R S O NA L H YG I E N E C O M M E R C I A L S !

(He cuts down second book. Another rush-he's getting high from it.) Oooh that's much better! Yeah, what a load offa my mind! See, I'm talk ing about "free" ! Imagine. What would it be like? What would happen? What would happen to me and you and a dog named Roo? What would happen to all of us? All of this? (Like an affected simpleton.) Gee . . . I guess we'd have to completely transform ourselves and society as a whole. Well- (He becomes demonic.) W H AT T H E H E L L !

(He cuts down the last book-suddenly we hear the ominous rumblings of an earthquake, growing in intensity until it becomes a horrendous roar. DAN is terrified and begins running about the stage shouting apologetic warnings.) "Oh shit! Wait-I didn't mean it! This is the big one! Quick, find a doorway! "

(Large foam chunks fall down onto the stage, like debris from a collapsing build ing. A video projection appears of a "Richter scale," a giant cartoonishly-painted

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cardboard ''gauge" with a needle that spins around and around the face. The image shakes and shudders, like those scenes in Star Trek when everyone gets thrown around the bridge of the Enterprise. At the peak of the earthquake, the stage goes black. Finally the rumbling dies down. Silence. Then we hear DAN's haggard voice in the dark.) In my last semester of high school, I discovered marij uana.

(A tight red spotlight comes up, and we see DAN lying on the floor, buried under a pile of debris, telephone books, the giant scrotum. With great effort, he slowly sits up, like a hung-over drunk, phone books spilling from his chest.) And I got stoned after school on a regular basis.

(He staggers to his feet and begins removing the sword costume while talking, revealing a blue tank top and red sweat pants.) I was looking for escape from the miserable loneliness of my petrified so cial life, and there was no alternative I could see. As with many Asians, for me alcohol produced a mild allergic reaction, turning my face bright crimson and filling me with a strong desire to sleep. So I got stoned.

(DAN gathers armfuls of costume and debris and unsteadily walks offstage to dump it. He walks briskly back onstage. Full stage lights up.) Later on I remember hearing a story about my Chinese grandfather, Kwong Kwok Hing. Born and raised in Los Angeles, just like me. Seems he had the same after school routine as me-except he got stoned in the biblical sense, white boys pelting him with rocks as he ran home to Chi natown. No student of martial arts, he. Could've used Bruce Lee! Even Brandon would've been nice to have around. He was a lonely one, too, my Grandpa. I must've been about five years old when he came to live with us. He was the kind of man who could sit in his room all day long reading newspapers or autobiographies of fa mous people. Scarcely a sound ever came out of that room, except for maybe an occasional soft belch. Grandpa tried to make himself useful every morning at breakfast time.

(In old Chinese man voice.) GRANDPA : ''Ah-Danny! Ah-Danny! You go brush yo teeth, an' come eat yo oh-meal!" Now, this did not make sense to me. "I brush my teeth now and then I eat the oatmeal???"


G R A ND PA :

" D A N NY, Y O U GO B RU S H YO T E E T H RYE NAW ! ! ! "

Grandpa could get in your face. Used to drive me nuts that he pro nounced margarine with a hard g: G R A ND PA :

"Naw Danny, you pass the marGarine to Maria."

He was a classic "Chinaman": a thin, wiry, round-shouldered man wear ing cardigan sweaters, round horn- rimmed glasses, and a wispy goatee. Kinda looked like Mahatma Gandhi waking up from a bad dream. Peri odically Grandpa would emerge from his bedroom for trips to the kitchen or bathroom-his spindly body barely disturbing the air as he shuffled along in his plain brown leather grandpa slippers. He would pause along the way to dispense lectures on his latest reading material. His long slender hand-like a spider monkey's, I thought-his hand would point an endlessly bony finger at you, jabbing at some invisible el evator call button as he talked: G R A ND PA : "Naw, dit yoo know haw much money he was making when he was only twenty fi yeers of age? Ahhh!"

What kind of man was he? Growing up in Los Angeles, Grandpa's En glish was quite well formed. He was sent back to China for an arranged marriage, fathered seven children, came right back to America, almost never lived with his family-alone for most of his adult life. Believed everything he read. What was it that lay deepest in this man's heart? No body knew- and nobody asked. There was an emptiness in his life that I could sense even as a child. Not the kind of meditative emptiness that brings "enlightened peace" or "freedom from worldly desire" but an emptiness born of dislocation of the spirit, of bent mental framework and too many rocks upside the head. We used to laugh at my Chinese grandfather. My three sisters and I found him genuinely amusing-he used to sing for us! Yeah, Grandpa used to sing the white pages of the phone book. He would sing The Golden Book Encyclopedia, especially volume 6, "Erosion to Geysers." This is the one my two younger sisters would specifically request because it contained "Fruits," "Flowers," and "Flags"-lots of pretty, colorful illustrations.

(He implores like an excited little kid.) D I D I : "Grandpa! Grandpa! Sing the encyclopedia!" Didi and Poppy would parade into Grandpa's bedroom brandishing vol ume 6, in preparation for the Sacred Ritual of the Tome of Knowledge . . .

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(Like a slick Hollywood announcer.) "Yes, America has long marveled at the Oriental People's long tradition of educational achievement: 'Those academic whiz kids! How do they do it?"' (Back to normal voice.) Well, for the first time, one of our most closely guarded ethnic secrets will be revealed here tonight. That's right! You want a class valedictorian in your home? Pay close attention, America! GRANDPA : "Ha-ha! Awright, Grandpa sing for you!" Before he even uttered a note, we'd be giddy with anticipation, because Grandpa was gonna get weird. He'd open his mouth, and suddenly that wheezy, tentative voice of his transformed into a rich, resonant sound heavy on vibrato-filling the room.

(GRANDPA sings in a big, full- throated voice.) GRANDPA : "Watermelon! Pineapple! Pomegranate! Cherry, apple, coconut!" DAN: Then he'd turn to the page of flowersGRANDPA : "Dandelion! Goldenrod! Poppy, tulip, daffodil!" DAN: Then on to the national flagsGRANDPA : "Denmark! Sweden! France! Ha-ha! Canada, Peru!" And no matter what he sang it always came out like Chinese music. "Grandpa, sing the phone book! Sing the phone book! "

GRANDPA : "Smith, Mariann! Smith, Martin R. ! Smith, Max and Judy! Smith, Monica . . ." And we laughed. We laughed so hard we'd be falling on the floor. We al most peed in our pants it was so funny to us! "He thinks he's actually singing!" Hal Grandpa would laugh, too, from the contagion of our hys teria, but he sang on unperturbed, even though I wasn't laughing with him, I was laughing at him!

(DAN's hilarity suddenly takes on a derisive, scornful edge.) Because that's what Grandpa was. Something to be laughed at! A kooky old man. An oddball eccentric. The "yellow sheep" of the family! Lost in some sorry-ass world of sensational tabloid delusion. He was a Chinese version of Don Knotts! Grandpa!


(DA N steps closer to the audience. In a complete shift in tone, he speaks sincerely.) I believe, no matter how contradictory outward appearances may seem, everyone has something of the heroic inside them. Somewhere in every one there is courage. There is dignity. There is spirit. A voice that says, "Yes, I am somebody. I am alive and my life has meaning." And looking back I wanted so much to find that something in my Grandpa. My oldest personal link to Kwong men. To find that in us, my family, because his life looked so pathetically empty through and through. And I thought surely this must reflect on the rest of us Kwong men-my father, my uncles, my cousins, and I.

(Ashamed, he tries to discretely plead with his grandfather.) "Please-give me something manly to be proud of! Isn't there anything, anywhere in my Chinese blood? Somewhere?

(His pleading turns resentful, eventually erupting into rage.) "Give me something. Father of my father, be a man. Be a hero. Be a stud. Be something, anything, but don't be some wimpy C H I N K ! Don't be E V E RY T H I N G they say is WEAK about US ! D O N ' T BE E V E RY T H I N G T H E Y S AY W E A R E ! Everything they say.

(Bitterly sarcastic and despairing.) " 'Cause when you're young it gets under your skin, Grandpa. Gets under your skin and into your brain. I think you know. It's real gradual and sneaky, it oozes into your consciousness like some kind of slime mold and then one day you suddenly find yourself incredibly uncomfortable around any Asians who even remotely resemble the stereotypes. Hating not only them but all the ones trying so hard not to be like them."

(Dan becomes a cool tough guy, referring to an imaginary nerd with disgust.) Oh, wow, man. Hey, check it out! The dude actually has one of those plastic pen holders in his shirt pocket! Oh jeezus! (He calls out to his imaginary peers.) "Hey, man, like, I'm not like these nerd types, okay? Like, I'm a real guy, y'know? I'm a jock, man. I'm a dude! Yeah. Uh . . . I H AT E M AT H ! Yeah. Uh . . . I G E T L A I D , R E G U L A R ! " (Suddenly he turns sneeringly hostile to the imaginary nerd.) "Hey creep-you stay the fuck away from me, okay? I don't wanna get hit by any shrapnel when they blow your sorry little yellow ass away! "

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(He turns away from audience and screams to the heavens.) G R A N D PA !

(He quickly turns back, enraged with venom and scorn.) "Grandpa, what was it like for you when those rocks were bouncing offa your head? I'm sorry I couldn't be there to stand by your side, Grandpa. I was a helluva good rock thrower. Arm like a bazooka. I would've fired on those punks so hard and fast they'd never know what hit 'em. We would've fought 'em off Grandpa! We would've kicked ass and stood tall, and I would've told you how proud of you I was! I would've helped you find your COUrage and K E E P Y O U R S E L F - R E S P E C T !

(As his anger vents, the underlying sadness begins to reveal itself He is on the verge of tears.) "I would've helped you. I would've held you when you felt scared and alone, let you shake and cry, and I would've told you how brave and strong you were, and no one would laugh at you, Grandpa . . . No one would laugh at us. They would treat us right. They would see our humanity.

(Begins to grow fierce again.) And they would respect us. 'Cause we got nothing to prove to anyone. And we don't take any shit." (Pause. His fierceness breaks. ) Nah.

(Gently, to audience. He is defeated. ) My Grandpa lived a strange and lonely life. He died a strange and lonely man. I couldn't find any hero in him. No "right stuff" to make him more studly. (DA N picks up a phone book left on the floor. As he speaks, he slowly opens up with hope.) I finished high school. Went to college, art school. Got a degree, got a job. Traveled to Asia. Hong Kong, China, and Japan, every year for five years. Began to explore the unknown, the forgotten, the ignored. Listening to unheard voices of culture, family, self. And around that time I finally de cided to try and deal with my "feelings."

(He drops the phone book.) And I quit getting stoned.


(Music begins very softly, barely audible: clear, slowly ascending harp notes ac cented by a delicate bell, as if a veil were being lifted revealing a most simple and beautiful truth. The lights slowly dim until DA N stands in a single warm spotlight surrounded by a deep purple glow.) And I remembered my Grandpa's singing. Now, I remember a man who delighted in the sound of his own spirited voice, completely uninhibited. A man who, though he knew we were laughing at him, allowed himself to sing out loud, said "Yes!" to a song-songs that had never been sung before and would never again be repeated. And I thought, "How many could do that very same thing? How many of us willing to sing our song-even in the face of ridicule?" Because the simple delight of singing is too great to be denied. Because the moment calls for a song. Because your life is a song. And what a rich and wise lesson from a funny old man.

(DA N looks to the sky, searching for his Grandpa's spirit. He smiles gratefully and sings out in a full and joyous voice.) "Watermelon! Pineapple! Pomegranate! Cherry, apple, coconut!"

(Lights and music slowly fade to black.)

1 0]

Co r res po n d e n ce of a D a n ge ro u s E n e m y A I i e n (l 995)

The stage design describes the piece as performed at Japan America Theater in Los Angeles, a large proscenium space with a hydraulic orchestra pit. This enabled scenes to rise up and disappear magically.

NOTE:

(In blackout. We hear peaceful sounds of crickets and distant coyotes with ethe real "space music." A huge slide image of stars and galaxies is projected all over the ceiling above audience and performing area. A tight spotlight comes on downstage center. We see DAN laying in a red mummy sleeping bag, reclining on a hidden slant board [45° angle] facing the audience. Looking up toward the stars, he ruminates dreamily.) Mmm, there's nothing like camping out in the desert. Sleeping under an open sky, alone but for coyotes, crickets, and stars. Ah, the stars! I love it when the night is thick with them, covering me in a blanket of milky lu minescence. Tiny glittering diamonds sprinkled endlessly across a heav enly black astro-dome. I love the desert. It's a place of great extremes, where life persists in spite of harsh conditions. Plants and animals survive here through com binations of strength, clever adaptability, and "natural intelligence." There is no excess. And yet great beauty can be found in the desert-if you know where to look. The desert is one of my homes. I mean, it's a place where I feel at home. And I've always felt that way. See, I come from a family of desert dwellers-a legacy of desert living. To be at one with hot, dry winds blowing down the eastern slope of a mountain range, far from Pacific moisture; to be still and allow the desert sun to bake my body to the 1 09

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bone; to gaze into a night sky so heavy-loaded with constellations I can feel the depth of space. And know my place in the Milky Way. Mmm. The desert's good for that, you know. Some of those stars out there could be anywhere from four to four million light years away. Take Capella, for example. Binary star system, roughly fifty light years away. Which means the starlight we see tonight left Capella fifty years ago. We're seeing the way it looked back in-1945. And conversely, if you were standing on that star (wearing asbestos zoris*) and looking back here at Earth through some super telescope, you would see scenes from-huh . . .

(He chuckles at the irony.) ''I'll take 'World History and Events' for four hundred dollars, please."t And beneath these same stars my grandfather and his family slept, under another desert sky. And these stars will be here long after we humans have returned to dust. Will they remember us? They help me remember where I come from. They remind me where I am. The desert's good for that, you know.

(Lights, sound, and slide fade out. Slant board and sleeping bag disappear below stage.) (A pool of orange light appears downstage center. A small stack of 4 " X 6" yel low cards sits on the stage. DA N enters, kneels down, and begins to carefully construct a house of cards. Documentary slide sequence begins-Dan's recorded narration and period music, old family photos from Japan and U. S., plus historical images, are pro jected onto a large screen upstage as DAN builds house of cards. N O T E : portions of this section are excerpted from Samurai Centerfielder.) (We hear traditional Japanese koto music.) Slide Images


My grandfather in his sixties,

"Kiro Nagano was my Japanese grandfather's name, but to everyone in America he was simply known as 'Papa.' Papa was born in 1896 in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan. His father owned a

smiling. Map of Hokkaido Island.

*Japanese sandals. tphrase from

Jeopardy, a popular American

Tv

game show.

CO R R E S PO N D E N C E O F A D A N G E R O U S E N E M Y A L I E N

prosperous papermaking business in the capital city of Sapporo, where he and his wife raised their family of seven by the strict Presbyterian values adopted by the mother. ''As a boy, Papa was unusually strong and well coor dinated. He took up the sport of judo, and by age fifteen he had won first place in the Sapporo city wide tournament in which he competed against men much older and more experienced. "In traditional Japanese culture, the eldest son inher its virtually all of the family's wealth, leaving little-to nothing for any other descendants. Papa was the sec ond son, and so his future was to be of his own making. After attending college in Tokyo, he chose to seek a life in the land of opportunity across the Pacific-America. He first went to Seattle, Washing ton, where he spent a year doing farm work and sav ing money. Returning to Japan in 1919, he married my grandmother, Ai Enoki, the eldest daughter of a kimono merchant in Hokkaido. The very next day after the wedding, they prepared to sail for America. "This photo was taken that day, outside the Enoki family home. Papa stands far left while my grand mother-who came to be known as 'Mama' -stands on the far right behind her older brother. It was a sad farewell for my grandmother, who left behind a family and a way of life she loved dearly.

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Papa as a boy with his large family.

Seven-year old Papa with his older sister and parents. Teenage Papa wearing judo gi, looking quite formidable.

Papa in his early twenties, posing with father.

Grandmother as young woman in formal kimono.

Grandmother with her family.

Mama's sister performing tradi tional tea ceremony.

(We hear scratchy old recording of 1920s "Charleston" music.) "While Papa wasted no time adapting to American ways, it was a much slower, more painful transition for Mama. Here they pose for a formal portrait shortly after arriving in Seattle. The dress Mama wears was once her favorite kimono, which she had reconstructed into Western style. "Papa's original intention had been to attend the University of Washington, but apparently, upon

Papa wearing straw hat, pinstripe suit, Mama in long dress-nei ther is smiling.

Papa looking seriously studious in a western suit.

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F R O M I N N E R W O R L D S TO O U T E R S P A C E

Papa happily working in the garden. Papa and family pose by his new American car.

Three young N agano children sit ting on the grass.

seeing Japanese students partying and carousing on campus, it so offended his strict Christian upbring ing that, with disgust, he decided instead to go to Los Angeles. There he began working in the produce farming business, as did many Asians in California, where his long hours of hard work slowly began to pay off. "Mama and Papa raised three children, my mother the second born. It was around this time he received the nickname of 'Papa' from his fellow workers in the produce market, and soon he was known by no other name_

(We hear "Tin Pan Alley" music.)

Papa tenderly holds his eldest son.

Papa and family having a picnic on the beach. Papa, family, and friends on a leisure drive. Papa and family gathered around a Christmas tree. Mom and brothers, pre-teen years.

"The name 'Papa' not only referred to his relatively young parenthood; it also symbolized his reputation within the Japanese American community of Los Angeles-that of a warm, kind, honest, and power ful man of integrity to whom many people turned for support. "In coming to America, Papa had made it his coun try by choice, and even though discriminatory laws made it impossible for him to become a citizen (be cause of his race) he and Mama raised a very Ameri can family. Living a lifestyle that was a blend of Japanese tradi tion and Southern California style, my mother and her two brothers were typical of many 'Nisei; or sec ond-generation American-born Japanese.

(Old nostalgic sentimental tune, "When My Dream boat Comes Home.") Downtown L.A. produce market, circa 1 935-a mob of activity. Papa posing in his judo gi, throw ing an opponent.

"Papa's success in the downtown Los Angeles pro duce market continued, as did his rise in the judo world. By the late 1930s, Papa was on his way to be coming one of the highest-ranking judo men in the United States. He now had his own wholesale pro duce market, 'Nagano Produce,' and in November of


he had bought a new fleet of trucks and new office equipment. His eldest son Daisuke had just designed a new company logo, and Papa's American Dream was becoming reality.

1941

On the night of December 6th, 1941, Papa and the family were out for dinner with a family friend, a Caucasian man. In uncharacteristic fashion, Papa spoke to him openly about his deepest desires as a Japanese American. Papa hoped that, through his positions of leadership in the community and the sport of judo, he might serve as a bridge between the country of his birth and the country of his choice. As an ambassador of goodwill between Japan and America:'

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Papa's handsome youngest son leans against a stack of produce crates. Logo image. Papa and family standing in front of their L.A. house.

A thoughtful-looking Papa sits on the front porch wearing fedora and coat.


(Music fades out. We hear a huge explosion. Slide image of the Pearl Harbor attack appears, then fades to black. DAN freezes. We hear ominous, droning, electronic music, like distant airplanes. A text slide appears.) Dece m b e r 7 , 1 941 Yo u - k n ow-w h o does yo u - k n ow-wh at at yo u - k n ow-w h e re

(Text slide fades out. From below the stage, the orchestra pit slowly rises. Lit from below, three large, gray rectangular shapes [8 foot long, 6 foot high scaf folds wrapped in heavy paper] appear, spanning the stage like horizontal monoliths. When the pit reaches stage level, they slowly begin to roll upstage. DAN stands and slowly walks upstage, like a doomed man. As the central monolith follows him it crushes the house of cards. The other two monoliths slowly roll to stage left and upstage center and stop there.) (DAN's recorded voiceover continues with ominous music underneath the dialogue. ) "My mother and two of her girlfriends had ditched Sunday school that day, and when they heard of the Japanese attack their first reaction was, 'Where's Pearl Harbor?' Many of the neighborhood kids came over to the Nagano home and sat together in the living room all afternoon, nerv ously listening to radio news reports.

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(DA N walks in a large circle around stage, the monolith following.) "Papa arrived home. He had been returning from his morning game of golf and couldn't understand why so many people glared at him angrily as he drove by. He knew something was very wrong. Upon hearing the news, Papa went into the dining room and silently sat down, his elbows on the table and his head down in his hands. He sat there like that the rest of the day. ''At nine o' dock that night the doorbell rang. My mother and her younger brother Aiji went to answer. Two men standing on the darkened porch identified themselves as F B I agents, flashed their badges, and pushed their way into the house. One of them began searching the house, asking for anything written in Japanese, any cameras, weapons, or two-way radios. The other agent asked for my grandfather and immediately went into his bedroom. Papa was ordered out of bed and got dressed as the F B I man stood by watching his every move. 'You'd better take a coat with you-it'll get pretty cold where you're going,' he warned Papa. "My mother watched as the F B I agents took Papa away, walking down the darkened street and disappearing into the night."

(D A N exits. The monolith stops stage right. Lights fade to black. Text slide appears. ) With i n a week after Pearl H a rbor, the F B I a rrests 1 , 500 j a p a n e s e natio n a l s

(Text slide fades out, slide image offederal penitentiary appears.) (Voiceover continues.) "The next day my uncle Daisuke and a neighbor drove all over Los An geles County, visiting different jails in search of Papa. For two weeks, his whereabouts were completely unknown to the family. Finally a telegram arrived saying he was being held in Terminal Island Federal Penitentiary and was about to be transferred to a special camp for 'highly dangerous enemy aliens."' (Slide and ominous music fade out. We hear a Japanese flute, like a breeze of spring air. A small tan-colored suitcase slowly lowers on a slender rope from high above, landing on the stage left scaffold. DA N climbs up onto scaffold, un fastens rope, and opens suitcase. He takes out a stack of old papers, examining them with care.)


(Voiceover continues.) "Contained in this old family suitcase are Papa's neatly kept journals and notebooks with nearly every piece of mail received or written by him during this period of isolation: correspondence with family, friends, business associates, and federal government officials. Pages and pages of letters bearing the rubber stamp: ' D E TA I N E D / E X A M I N E D / C E N S O R E D : A L I E N E N E M Y M A I L' to certify Uncle Sam's approval. Anything sus pected as possible espionage was thoroughly blotted out with govern ment ink or surgically removed by the censor's blade."

(Two text slides appear in sequence with koto music.) T h e Lege n d o f Prote st The F B I swooped in early ta k i n g o u r e l d e rs in t h e p roce s s fo r s u bve rsive t h at a n d t h i s . Peo p l e a s k: "Why d i d n ' t yo u p rotest?" We l l , you m i ght s ay, "Th ey h a d h o stage s . " -Laws o n Fu sao l n a d a

(We hear a gong-slide and music fade out. We hear a military drum march.) (DA N stands up and narrates live.) December 15, 1941. Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox returns from his in spection of Pearl Harbor damage. Reporting to the major news bureaus, he blames Japanese American "treachery" and "fifth column work" that's sneaky spy stuff-for the success of the attack.

(Text slide.)

Th i s was a d e l i b e rate l i e .

(Slide fades out, he continues.) At the time, Knox had in his possession military intelligence reports which completely excluded any Japanese American espionage.

(Text slide.) (Slide fades out.

The myth of " m i l ita ry n ecess ity" i s born. DA N

takes a letter from the suitcase. He continues.)

Excerpts from a letter to Papa from Eddie Meyers. Dated December 22, 1941, Los Angeles. It was fifteen days after the attack on Pearl Harbor and Papa's arrest by the F B I . Eddie had worked for Nagano Produce as "floor boss," and he and his Chinese wife were devoted friends of Papa.

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(Giant slide projections of the actual letter appear on-screen behind Dan as he reads. We hear a sentimental 1940s song, "We'll Meet Again," in the background. ) (DAN reads live.) "Dear Mr. Nagano, How are you? Hope you are okay. So sorry everything happened the way it did. We all miss you so much. Also, we know you are loyal. Take good care of yourself. Everything will be all right. Your family is all right so don't worry, we will do all we can to comfort them . . . . Things are a lot different now. Market is opening at 7 A . M . on ac count of blackout precautions. Sure hope war comes to a close soon with a grand victory for our America. We are all fighting for our free dom and freedom for our children in years to come. But Nagano, we will do it sure as hell. All the boys are working hard and they are all loyal to this country. After all, that is the main thing in our life. All the people in the market are doing business as usual. All were surprised that you were taken away. Everyone believes in you as a grand man. Everybody I talk to, talks about how good you have been to all your friends and fam ily. I, for one, think of you as a great man. You have been so good to me and my family. Well that's all for this time-answer soon as possible. Your friend, Eddie Meyers." (We hear a military snare drum-slides and music fade out. Lights up on a 15 foot tall ''guard tower" (constructed of pipe scaffolding) at extreme stage left. VIDEO TECHNICIAN dressed in military uniform sits atop the tower at his desk with video camera set up to show close-ups of letters. DAN approaches tower, salutes, then yells.) Sir! Request additional electronic enhancement of documentation! Sir!

(Giant live video projection offollowing letter appears on-screen, showing de tails. We hear the sound of someone struggling to practice scales on a piano. DAN's live narration.) Excerpts from a letter from daughter Momo. Dated December 19, 1941, Los Angeles: "Dear Papa, How are you? I am fine and so is Mama, Daisuke and Aiji. I am writing to you in my piano class. Today is the last day of school and we get two weeks vacation for Christmas and New Year's Day. Is there any snow in


Montana yet? I hope it isn't too cold. It is getting colder at nights here . . . . Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Yours truly, Momo. P.S. I am (trying to be) very good. I am 16 yrs. old, 5 'f' tall, 99� pounds."

(Live video fades out. We heard the sound of a ticking clock. A text slide appears.) I n it i a l ly, the p u b l i c in ge n e ra l i s b a s i ca l ly s u p p o rtive o f J a p a n e s e A m e r i ca n s a s " l oya l , u p sta n d i n g America n s . "

(Slide and sound effects fade out. DAN's recorded voiceover with sound of tele type in background.) "January 25, 1942. The Roberts Commission Report is released to Con gress. It correctly reports that incompetence was a major factor in Pearl Harbor disaster. It incorrectly reports that Japanese American espionage aided the attack and implies that F B I counter-intelligence was inhibited by paying too much attention to the Constitution. "The release of this report, along with more false testimony by Frank Knox, marks a decided shifting of public sentiment."

(We hear ticking clock again. Another text slide.) T h e o utcry fro m t h e press a n d p o l i t i ci a n s fo r " re m ovi ng" J a p a n e s e America n s fro m the We st Coast i n crea s e s d ra m atical ly.

(Slide and sound effects fade out. Cut to live video projection of next letter. DAN stands stage right and reads the next letter live.) Excerpts from a letter from eldest son Daisuke, age twenty. Dated Febru ary 15, 1941, Los Angeles: "Dear Father, How are you? I hope you are getting enough exercise! I suppose you know already that we have moved: 3201 West 27th Street. Lou, Dick and Techy are living with us . . . . Everybody is in the best of health, we eat enormous meals and our house interior is always sunny. Today I went to register for the draft at 36th Street School. . . .

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Nagano Produce Company will open in one or two weeks and I will be one of the employees. Mr. Quinn will take your place in the office and Eddie will take care of the floor. I am very glad to see Mr. Quinn in your store, for I believe there could be no better man to take your place . . . . I understand that your hearing is coming up. I know you'll come through all right, we're not worried. In closing let's hope for an early vic tory! For U.S.A. ! Your son, Dike."

(Live video and lights fade out. We hear DAN's recorded voiceover.) "Daisuke 'Dike' Nagano wrote to his father up to four times a week for over two years. He was Papa's most prolific correspondent by far. Daisuke developed the habit of ending all his letters with the same basic expres sion of confident patriotism, 'Hoping for a quick American victory:"

(We see five slides of different letters, all with the same ending: "Hoping for a quick American victory." Text slide appears with military marching music ac companying its presentation.) Fe b ru a ry 1 9 , 1 942: Yo u - k n ow-w h o s i g n s yo u - k n ow-w h at.>'

From Inner Worlds to Outer Space: The Multimedia Performances of Dan Kwong

Outer Space, Inner Lands

Vampires From Outer Space

They Came From Outer Space

It Came from Outer Space

Flying saucers from outer space

Empress of Outer Space

The Outer Space Mystery

Shape of Inner Space

Shape of Inner Space

The Boundaries of Inner Space

The Shape of Inner Space

Jim Wynorski - They Came From Outer Space

Jim Wynorski - They Came From Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

Evil in Outer Space

Kids Wild Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

The Inner Mind and the Outer World

Axes In Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

Cafe at the Edge of Outer Space

Mind Monsters: Invaders from Inner Space?

Earth's outer atmosphere: bordering space

Where Inner and Outer Worlds Meet: Psychological Research in the tradition of George W. Brown

Mr Monk in Outer Space

It Came from Outer Space: Everyday Products and Ideas from the Space Program

Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits

Spinal Breathing Pranayama - Journey to Inner Space

Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits

Tales From Outer Suburbia

From Inner Worlds to Outer Space: The Multimedia Performances of Dan Kwong

Outer Space, Inner Lands

Vampires From Outer Space

They Came From Outer Space

It Came from Outer Space

Flying saucers from outer space

Empress of Outer Space

The Outer Space Mystery

Shape of Inner Space

Shape of Inner Space

The Boundaries of Inner Space

The Shape of Inner Space

Jim Wynorski - They Came From Outer Space

Jim Wynorski - They Came From Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

Evil in Outer Space

Kids Wild Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

The Inner Mind and the Outer World

Axes In Outer Space

Operation- Outer Space

Cafe at the Edge of Outer Space

Mind Monsters: Invaders from Inner Space?

Earth's outer atmosphere: bordering space

Where Inner and Outer Worlds Meet: Psychological Research in the tradition of George W. Brown

Mr Monk in Outer Space

It Came from Outer Space: Everyday Products and Ideas from the Space Program

Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits

Spinal Breathing Pranayama - Journey to Inner Space

Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits

Tales From Outer Suburbia

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