in a panel on identity: one talks-story about being born in the '40s to parents who had to skip to a different state to get married. Fair enough, she could pass for white; but also got told how lucky she was to get lead roles in school plays and musicals (when it was West Side Story or Pocahontas). Another shares that he's just gone through divorce (so American!) which doesn't sit well with the older generation of church-going immigrants—the same ones who tried to keep their children from learning their native tongue so they could become more American. (And let's have a conversation about something besides noodles and egg rolls.) The one in the middle chooses her words carefully, says it's taken her all this time (decades!) to arrive at an understanding: she has to seek out those like her—queer; or they don't tick the boxes, not even "other"— who refuse to be seen by their own. The fourth tells of the long, circuitous route to get away from stethoscope or scalpel, and instead to brushes and color swatches. Everyone in this town seems to have a maritime connection, a giant wooden spoon and fork, a saint in velvet and gold filigree taking up space on the walls. The youngest of them wants to write stories and poems about the in-between, where the light can glance off surfaces in so many ways and in so many beautiful directions, none of them merely resembling brown, none of them merely falling like leaves to be raked over, season after season.
One Reply to “Five compatriots”