I was just trying to clean the house and clear my mind. There’s an empty bowl of hair bleach in my sink that’s buried underneath unwashed dishes from a dinner party we had without you.

On one of our last good days you came over and had a sore throat. I quickly slid into my motherly role and began cutting vegetables for a soup to ease your throat. It helped that I could chop something into little pieces instead of look you in your dreary eyes that told me you’d had several nights of no sleep. You were excited about a writing competition you wanted both of us to enter, you didn’t want to show me how excited you were but I saw it when I finally did look in your eye. You had this prideful look, like you were going to win.

I wasn’t sure if the soup was going to turn out for some reason, I was so worried you weren’t going to like it. You’re such a fucking picky eater. You tell me you hate everything I make and then take second helpings in secret. I should have kept that in mind but I was just focusing on the current moment and the pressure that a good day had on me. I couldn’t fuck it up, I didn’t want to push too far for answers I knew you had but wouldn’t tell.

The soup started boiling. I sat down in my little dining room table, across from you, like a king and queen of trash with better things to do than love each other. I begged you to let me read your tarot, you said you didn’t want to know the future and I said I wanted to know, to keep it in mind. For when I wanted to help, when it wasn’t a good day.

According to the cards he needed to remove himself from the party scene and harness his untapped creative potential. Nothing he didn’t know, he was too smart to be swayed by something like that. Then a high priestess appeared, sensual and yet over worked, full of power and love to give to someone who doesn’t deserve it. Another card appeared that warned him to appreciate the people in his life, to tell him that they’re temporary but invaluable. Another card told him he was the third person in a relationship and was spiteful about it, it said he needed to talk about the feelings he was holding back.

I said, “Are there any relationships you need to evaluate, S? Is there anything that we need to talk about?”

He held up his hand in front of me, “I’m building a brick wall,” he said. “We’re not talking about this anymore, there’s nothing to talk about.”

The soup began to overboil and I ran over to the stove while you swiped the spread away. You have this way of creating so much havoc in my mind that sound slows down and everything in front of me seems untouchable; motion becomes irrelevant. All I feel is burning in my ribs from every marb black I’ve ever smoked with you ever and maybe the feeling of my heart breaking. What was going through my mind was everything you said we didn’t have to talk about when you asked, “Is this frosting?” I couldn’t hear anything until you screamed. I turned around, and you had dipped a spoon into the bleach and put it in your mouth and then you were spitting it all out. “You didn’t answer me, I thought it was frosting!” You were laughing and gagging and I was embarrassed and gave you a bottle of water.

I’m going to tell my roommate that I’ll wash every dish except for that bowl of hair bleach. She’s the one who was dyeing her hair in the first place. I can’t touch the metal or the soggy foam without thinking of his laugh and the wall he built that day that’s gotten higher since.

Journal Entry #2

April 14th, 2015

One aspect of this course I love is the richness of the subject matter and the depth that our collective analysis reaches. We delve into In Search of Lost time as if each page is a labyrinth of poetry waiting to be charted. We plot a course for each other through the complexity of its passages, lighting the way past twists and turns. Exploring the daunting vastness of this novel alone would be the literary version of crossing the Sahara without a caravan. Classroom discussions are an engrossing cacophony of diverse perspectives, and I often revel in the simple pleasure derived from discussing a thought provoking book. The classes are engaging, but I don’t want to lose sight of my own self-defined goals for what I hope to take away from the experience. I intend to use the study of these subjects as a means of honing my own narrative voice, and not just to develop myself as a writer but to find in the experience some inspiration. I have yet to determine just exactly how I hope to use my writing; either as a career, a career tool, or simply an art. I practice writing with the hope of ultimately using it to make the world a better place, one way or the other. Even at this stage in the course, by simply being exposed to so many new ideas I am beginning to use the material as a springboard for many reflections and  thoughts of my own.

Over the weekend, I finished Dora Bruder in one sitting. To be honest I was a little anxious to finish it and move on to other schoolwork that I felt creeping up on me. If that subtracted anything from the experience it was nice to at least form a singular impression of the work from reading cover to cover. I must say that on an aesthetic level I did not enjoy reading the book, as I did not appreciate the author’s style of writing. To me, the author’s employment of meticulous details amongst disjointed biographical tidbits came across as an incongruous mix that as a reader always felt slightly off putting. With my own critical review aside, there were many things about the book that impressed me. The author’s pioneering attempts at merging memoir writing or “narrative non-fiction” with historically factual information struck me as innovative and original. As we discussed in class, it even defies an accurate categorization by the publisher, which leads one to question the very concept of what constitutes historical truth in writing. What’s more, the author uses his attention grabbing style to bring a new twist in perspective to the subject of the holocaust, which it seems to me is often recounted from quite a predictably traditional approach.

As I was walking home from class today on the edge of the primordial forest which appears to be on the verge of enveloping most of our campus,  I could feel the stress releasing from my body just at the sight of it. It struck me at that moment how brave it was for the author of Dora Bruder to openly lay bare all of his imaginings and almost superstitious beliefs in a work of literature intended to portray history.  Patrick Modiano has the audacity to hint at an earnest belief that the souls of those lost in the holocaust have left a tangible mark on the world stemming from their presence, in a work that presents historical research meant to be taken seriously. In a similar vein, I personally believe that there is something intrinsically healing in the natural world that eludes scientific quantification yet exerts a tangible spiritual influence, but I’m not sure I would have the conviction to intimate that belief with the world on the level which Modiano did as an author.

It is an inspiring example that Dora Bruder is the work of a novelist clearly following his own heart. He has made an impact on the hearts and minds of his readers by approaching the subject of the holocaust from the unique perspective of dwelling on what it really meant to have lost the lives of so many individuals, and by raising harrowing yet thought provoking questions about how society remembers them. Although I may not be able to chose a creative path overnight by simply setting my mind to it and diligently plodding away at a clear goal as may be the case with some other professions, being exposed to the inspiring work of visionary and idealistic authors is a definite step in the right direction and a compelling example to follow.

I had spent the majority of my week debating how I was going to approach my memory project. I rewrote my proposal a few times and collected resources as I brain stormed interview questions. Finally it was Friday, my one free day of the week, and I was eager to begin my intellectual journey through the Wing Luke Asian Museum.

Upon my arrival in seattle I found parking in short supply, and was forced to leave my car a few blocks away. This actually allowed me to enjoy the sun and observe the community whose history I was to investigate.
After entering the Wing Luke Museum I went directly to the front desk. “Hi, I would like to purchase a year membership.” The young woman sitting behind the desk smiled at me.

“Sure,” she said “just sign this paperwork here please.” She handed me a clip board with a single form on it. I thanked her and went on to explain that she was likely to see a lot of me in the coming weeks as I was conducting research on how the museum presents the history of seattle’s Pan-Asian community.

The young women looked genuinely pleased with this, “Well we certainly appreciate your interest.” She told me that she could get me in touch with the director of educational outreach, and that they would make sure I got access to all the resources I would need. She then handed me a small map of the museum and gave me some information on the exhibits and upcoming oral history tour. I thanked her and decided to spend the 15 minutes I had before the tour looking at one of my favorite exhibits.

My favorite exhibit was designed by Suzie Kozawa and Erin Shie Palmer and titled “Letter Cloud.” To reach the exhibit I had to climb a flight of stairs which also served as a work of art. The stairs appeared to be made of old repurposed dock wood, which made up the portion on which you would step, while the panels visible to you as you ascended were made of brushed metal. The metal panels had names carved out of them which would light up successively, one after the other.

The stairs themselves lead up to a naturally lit landing. The landing was a hall whose walls resembled the exterior of an old hotel, with frosted artificially lit windows. The ceiling was a panel of glass, a window to the sky which was meant to symbolize the blue of the ocean. I could hear the sound of waves splashing onto a surf above me, creating the illusion of being under water. The room projected a feeling which I consider to be quintessential to the Northwest. Hundreds of paper letters are suspended overhead by fishing line, and dance in the wake of an artificial breeze. From the end of the hall comes the sound of a gentle voice, but the words are lost in the sound of the waves until you reach the bench at the back of the hall. The voice was that of a woman reading an old letter from a young man to his love across the sea. Other readings from other immigrants followed, often read by their children or grand children. The matters of which they wrote were so relatable and timeless that i couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of solidarity with them and their struggles and their successes.The letters were read in their original tongue as well as in english, increasing their accessibility. “A cloud of paper floats these letters across time and space…” reads a portion of the description on the wall.

I had to leave the exhibit before I had time to listen to every letter, because the historic hotel tour was about to begin. The tour started on the ground floor in front of the biographical exhibit for the museum’s namesake, Wing Chong Luke. Only two other people were waiting for the tour, so the group was small. Our guide, Don, was incredibly personable; he asked where we were all from and chatted about his wife and where he was from. His casual conversational style lent itself perfectly to the tour. It kept us engaged and made the subject feel relevant. It also allowed us to question what we already knew, and recognize when we were learning something new.

Don’s parents, as it turns out, are actually from the same province of China as Wing Luke. He told us of his surprise at finding the people of China to be extremely warm and welcoming towards him when he visited, as there had been a times when American born Chinese were not well received back in China. Traveling for him had been a great learning experience. he encouraged all of us to travel there some day, saying that “travel transcends racial lines”

As Don covered the life of Wing Luke, the part of his story which seemed the most significant took place in his childhood. In primary school he was the only non-caucasian child, and he was picked on terribly. Wing, we were told, was also an incredible artist. Don asked us “So, if you could draw really well, and all of these kids were picking on you, how would you draw them?” i looked kind of bashful and hesitated. “I guess I would make them look pretty stupid.” I said. Don nodded, “Well Wing didn’t do that, he wanted these kids to like him, and so he drew them all as superheroes.” As it turns out, this worked, Wing became one of the most well liked boys in his entire class. A class photo with Wing standing at the center, with all the student’s smiling added a pleasant visual ending to the story. I feel that this story really supports the museums message that community and understanding is important, and that it can be achieved through compassion and education. It speaks to a larger message, that despite our differences, we are all in this together. Don says that the stories the museum tells are relevant to every one, because the majority of Americans are, or are descendants, of Immigrants. I am also able to make connections between the Asian immigrants of the late 1800s early 1900s, because just like them we are all struggling to achieve our goals, find our place in society while maintaining our own identity.

The tour moved to the front of the museum where we learned about the history of how the International District portion of Seattle was built and then to outside where we could look at the city directly. I feel this is a very powerful teaching tool, to look directly at the city while you learn about it. It makes you feel like you are a part of the community you are learning about. It also reminds you that the museum isn’t the only resource for learning about this vibrant portion of seattle, we can actually venture into the city ourselves and seek out answers independently. The wing Luke Museum web site and staff actually encourage you to do just that.

The tour then moved to the East Kong Yick Building which was donated to the museum after it closed. The store, which was rebuilt as a part of the museum is still filled with all the original jars of dried goods and account books. Don reveals that he used to some to the shop in it’s original location as a child. he would buy dried plums(his cultures version of candy) and help his brother carry the 100 lb bag of rice his mother would purchase there every month. Hearing about this history from someone who actually went to the store as a child, and who has a place in the history we were talking about made it a very personal experience. Listening to an oral history from someone who could provide a personal perspective to enhance the information we were receiving made me realize how relevant this topic still is to the seattle community today. Being able to walk through that shop, suspended in time, transported us back to the past and allowed us to adopt a different perspective far more easily than by looking at pictures in a book.

From there we moved on to the Freeman Hotel, which was one of the first resting places of many immigrants coming to Seattle from Asia. The hotel also contained meeting rooms for Family Associations. Family Associations were essentially clubs comprised of people who came from the same provinces in China, and wanted to recapture the sense of the community they had when living in their old villages. The Gee How Oak Tin Family Association meeting place was the first we visited, this association had actually been the largest in the nation. These associations are a testament to how important maintaining a sense of community was and still is in the early days of the international district. It also demonstrates the creative ways in which immigrant populations go about maintaining a sense of cultural identity and how they valued the roots of their past.

Another type of association in the area was known as a tong, which was originally a secret business organization generally of ill repute. They were known to be involved in gambling, smuggling, and even prostitution once upon a time, but have since become merely places for older chinese people to gather socially. Don’s father was actually a member of the Bing Tong Association, which we could see from the window, and often kept that part of his life separate from the rest of his life. Yet Don does remember his father showing him cared tricks, and demonstrating how easy it would be for him to swindle and rube who tried their luck at gambling with the tong.

The tour ended where I began, at the “Letter Cloud.” Don left us with the message that the story the museum tells is a part of all of us and in turn I believe that we are an important part of the museum. Those who visit the museum aren’t only supporting it financially, but we are participating in keeping certain memories alive, and we are spreading that knowledge and insight to the rest of the community when we leave. “It’s Your Museum!” say the flyers sitting outside the museum entrance. I believe that it truly is a community museum, in that it preserves the history of a community, promotes communal memory, and creates it’s own community within and without it’s walls.

I am finding more connections between the Proust and my project than I anticipate, both in my research texts and in In Search of Lost Time, both oblique and direct. For instance, in Within a Budding Grove, the narrator says “adolescence is the only period in which we learn anything” (423), which I might use as an epigraph for my paper/memoir/project/thing. And of course Proust is used as a reference point in all my books on memory, and he’s either cited or should be in the book I’m currently reading, a psychoanalytic perspective on adolescence called Boy Crazy, by Janet Sayers. I didn’t realize how much the novel would focus on the narrator’s adolescence until it was happening. It’s good though. I’m very interested in adolescence (obviously, or I wouldn’t be doing the project I’m doing). I have second-guessed this interest a lot—like when I wanted to be an adolescent therapist, or when I’ve wanted to write about my own adolescence. I worry that I’m stuck in the past, some kind of semi-conscious refusal to grow up, a Peter Pan thing. My memoir is going to be about a moment in high school, a moment with a girl who was really important to me, but now we barely keep in touch. I can imagine her laughing disparagingly at me for still being stuck on this stuff that was so long ago now– seven and a half years, for the moment I’m thinking of. For me, three cities ago, at least a billion lives ago. For her, something similar. But she emailed me the other day, our first contact in ages, so I know I’m not the only one looking back. And Proust gives me real reassurance—that it’s okay to look back, important even, or at least worthwhile. This program gives me reassurance. Of course I still have questions—what is the importance of my own story, what is the importance of a story at all, or should I just give up those lines of inquiry and accept the soothing assumption that they are important for some unknown unknowable but totally valid reason? Should I just let go of thinking about it altogether, and let it be enough that in this program I am invited to read and write stories of time and memory? What else is there to do, really?

Journal Entry #1

April 8^th, 2015

I found today’s lecture fascinating on many levels. As a new student at Evergreen, I am impressed by the seamless transition amongst academic disciplines that we oscillate between in each class. The part of today’s lecture that really got me thinking was how Napoleon’s government reacted to the revolutionary instability of the period, and how his policies effused French society to such resounding effect. I am a firm believer that the past exerts an unseen force on each of us and on each civilization, and has the ability to project its influence far into the future, in much the same way that gravity prescribes the orbit of celestial bodies. This is a part of why I find the study of history fascinating: more than just a recorded story it is a portal into the collective subconscious and a practical tool for interpreting present and future events.

Often times drawing parallels between modern society and the past can be murkier than Proust’s most convoluted recollection, but the mark on the present which the past leaves can come to define society as a whole just as the lingering effects of distant and transient memories can shape us as individuals. This is the root of why, in my memory project proposal, I described my secondary project idea in depth despite ultimately deciding on another. The idea was to connect historical texts with my relationship to my identity, experience, and memory.  There may be something to be gained by further reflection on these topics even if I won’t ultimately be able to spend as much time exploring the concept as I would like to.

It’s interesting that today’s discussion focused on so many different aspects of that specific era in France in order to demonstrate the interrelated phenomena of that period’s history, arts, culture, literature, and society. The way I see it it’s the overarching influence of the prevailing political and economic forces of the time that set in motion a chain reaction so potent that their reverberations are still felt to this day. Although as a society we have largely “forgotten”, or misremembered, the behavior of the bourgeois middle class in French society, they paved the way for the middle class of America in the present day. The parallels are clear. The divestment of the middle class from the values of hard work, productivity, and labor created a void in the lives of the bourgeois that came to be filled with consumerism and a ceaseless quest to attain status in the public sphere. The connection between one’s sense of self-worth and their social standing created insecurity and a compulsion for self-promotion which seeped into many aspects of life as the boundary between public and private affairs grew increasingly blurry. This way of life was pioneered over a hundred years ago in 19^th century France and perpetuate to the present day.

Just as knowledge of history helps us to understand contemporary society, so too does understanding the past both through the narratives of others and our own introspection help us to pave a brighter future for ourselves. As much as I care for Isabella, the subject of my memory project, a part of what compels me to record her story is the somewhat selfish desire to use her example for self-betterment. I see her as an impressive figure that has the potential to enrich the lives of anyone who crosses her path, and I intend to widen that path. By not only recording her story but interpreting and synthesizing it as a narrative that incorporates my own voice, I can demonstrate to the reader the value of each person’s personal history by recording our interactions and the impact we’ve had on one another beyond the simple re-telling of events. I’m looking forward to this project with great anticipation.

Once a month I get a call from the United Way to check in with me about my “little”. Several months ago, after several elaborate background checks (the NSA has nothing on the United Way), multiple interviews, and majority of my friends and family being grilled as to what kind of person I was, I was given the all clear to protect the president, no, I was given the green light to be a Big Sister.

The phone call is always the same, what do you like to do with your little? How is she doing in school… It is the same series of questions and I generally give the same series of answers. Today, the woman I spoke with wanted me to start asking my little more serious questions about her friendships in school as well as asking her, “how does she like being where she is at in her life?”

My little, we will call her Jane, is 12. I am quite sure she does not know where she is at in her life. Jesus, I am almost forty, and besides the geographical location at any moment – like right now, I am in my living room at home – I don’t have the slightest idea where the hell I am in my life. I remember being 12, well kind of, and it was absolutely miserable. Would I have offered up this information to someone distinctly older than me, or any age, if directly asked about it? Absolutely not. I had a hard time not laughing at this woman on the phone. Perhaps she does not spend any time with teenagers, or pre-teens for that matter.

After getting off the phone, I found myself going down the rabbit hole, back into those god awful years as a pre-teen. The ridiculous outfits, the first time I got high, the first time I got drunk, the handful of middle schools and high schools I attended. It makes me uneasy. Writing about it now, takes me back yet again. But I am not that kid anymore, and I am grateful to be sitting in my living room as a fully functional adult.

An adult who will have ice cream for dinner – in some cases, those unexpected detours down memory lane warrant a treat.

I have always asked myself… “How can I do the bare minimum to get an A”? Not because I am lazy but because I have always done sports, music, and been involved in church. I would have to prioritize what assignments I have to actually do, what lectures I have to actually pay attention to, etc. etc. Because that’s what you do when your life is in a constant time crunch. And I wouldn’t have it any other way I suppose. Recently I just agreed to take on a new leadership position as Worship Leader at a churchJ I am so thankful for it but it also means less time to do homework. So I did what I know to do… which is sit down and reprioritize how I am going to be using my now limited time for school. But I don’t think that’s going to work (at least not the same as it did at other schools). Of course putting a list together of our assignments I could say that I should focus on the final essay, journals, and interacting during discussions. But truthfully, I want to interact with it all! I love the Proust book and I actually enjoy the discussions.

Evergreen, and the way it teaches one to critically think, to actually engage, to blend subjects (because that’s actually how life works)… I think it’s brilliant. Sometimes I walk away from class with something distasteful in my mouth… but I think it’s just a little dust on account of my walls falling down. I don’t think everything in my life needs to be so pleasantly tasteful (if you couldn’t tell from my incredibly untasteful prose).

As for the Proust… his work continues to move me. To confuse me. To challenge me. I find myself searching for the truth I perceive that Proust holds and so slowly reveals to us. It has been a healing book for me as I can personally relate to so much of it. Having anxiety and getting over someone I loved have been two of my biggest struggles in life. The narrator and Swann so accurately live these struggles; indulging in the moments of freedom from them and feeling every ounce of the uncontrollability and lack of control these struggles bring into one’s life. Proust, or at least the characters he has created, have been wonderful and relatable friends to me. It’s true that you get to know book characters on such a deeper level than most human beings. Unfortunately they don’t listen to me when I have something to say. Well at least you guys do.

It bothered me when we had that discussion about the pay-off of Proust. Or maybe bothered is the wrong word… I just don’t relate. “It’s the climb” people! Cause I know Miley Cyrus is a credible source. But I guess I am just getting SO MUCH out of Proust so far… I can’t even imagine that a hurrah moment at the end could be better than the several little hurrah moments I have already experienced throughout.

So yeah… I guess I am going to keep going. No doubt I will have to compromise things and stuff but I’m going to give it my best.

To giving it our best! Cheers classmates.

Last week in Seminar we discussed Swann’s obsession with Odette. At the beginning of the novel he thinks her ugly. As he falls in love with her; he begins to construct or see her as beautiful. After she falls out of love with him, becomes more aware of her past, and recognizes that his love for her has turned into an obsession, he finally admits that this is hurting him. The last part of Swann’s way is Swann making a conscious effort to stop loving Odette. I applaud his efforts but they don’t seem to heal much of his inner turmoil.

One thing he attempts to do is to “reconstruct” her into his first glimpse of her. If he could just view her the way he had originally maybe he could break the enchantment. So he tries to dwell on her negative physical features. The problem with this is he knows that his love for her goes far deeper than physical attraction.

The conclusion I have come to is that whoever we love becomes our “type”. Love breaks our assumptions.

Dear Ryan,

Hello! How are you? I’m glad to finally be writing you. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits. Haha, isn’t hope a funny thing? Though I can know with my entire rational being that you are certainly miserable and, by all legal definitions of the word, deceased, I still have these strange, vibrant visions of you laughing and lifting heavy objects above your head, surrounded by a inexplicably racially-diverse group of smiling 19-26 year olds. Oh wait, I confused the memory of you with the Coca-cola commercial I was just watching. Anways since we’re already on the subject of you and how you’ve been, my mouth sure is dry and I could really use a refreshing pick-me-up. Ugh, but instead of enjoying a delicious coke, I’m writing this stupid fucking letter to somebody who could very well be dead for all I know. I mean seriously, what am I doing with my life? I know for a god damn fact that  sweet, effervescent happiness awaits me, beads of condensation dripping off the icy cold bottle, and HERE I AM! writing to a fucking phantom, a ghost of a shell of a husk of a wretch of a man.

Well enough about you, I’m sure you’re eager to hear about the amazing life I’ve been leading since you died. Olympia is the same as you remember, a shining pinnacle and testament to mankind’s benevolence, ingenuity, and scientific achievements. I believe we’ve finally mastered ‘the wheel’; we were able to reverse-engineer the technology from half of a skateboard that somebody left lodged in The Reef’s toilet. Personally, I spend most of my days strolling along the boulevard, REDACTED The friend group is a black hole of incest, degeneracy, and repulsion, just as you left it. To be honest though, the rate at which we have been retrograding into fiendish vermin bent on cannibalizing the emotional well-being of others has increased exponentially since you’ve left. It really has gotten to the point where it’s not okay for everyone to be in the same room at once. My personal take on it is that our friends would benefit from anesthetizing their souls with dangerous narcotics for a good few months, but they insist on clinging to their emotional attachments.

Megan and I are well. REDACTED I may as well tell you here that if I were to get married, I would be honored if you would be my best man.

Sincerely,

Kekoa Hallett

In the middle of my work shift I’m helping out a client purchase all of her make up, (I work in sephora) and as I’m doing so I hear a familiar conversation with my co workers and see what I am doing a lot closer than usual as if I had done this exact thing sometime before. I have had many experiences like this but this experience was so real, like I have dreamt it before, and maybe I did. Any time I have déjà vu I always think if it’s just something that Ive literally done before but just from a different day and it brings up those old memories or if it’s an experience I have dreamt of and I’m finally experiencing it in real life. Maybe it’s both. Its always random déjà vu memories too, nothing that I would think of ever again. Involuntary memory for sure.