Memory 12

Week 12 of #TWmemorymondays! On the same wavelength of addressing microaggression- today's memory is one of my own. This one is a significant one for me, because it's one of the most agressive microaggression I've experienced. It doesn't hit race, but it is sexist from my own gender.

Background to the story: I began piano lessons at the age of 3, and was quickly very serious about it. I owned classical piano and training, and I worked really hard to perfect my technique and expression. For my highschool years, I got into a piano studio under a very high esteemed piano teacher. I did competitions, all sorts of piano exams, recitals every weekend, theory camps...all the things. It was my LIFE!

So every year I did Certificate of Merit, where you played ten pieces in different time periods by memory in front of a panel of judges. You get scores by a lost of criterias and then it all gets added up to give you an overall score.

One of those later years, I got the highest among the piano studio...even higher than one of the male students that my teacher obviously favored. When I have her the report right after the exam, she responded by saying how pretty and cute I looked in my outfit...and that's probably why the judges scores me so high.

My mom soon pulled me out of that studio.

That memory is seared into my brain! Because it was horrifying to have all your efforts and skills undermined by a "compliment." That was one of the most aggressive microaggression I have ever gone through. So so so many things have been said under good intentions, or a compliment, or a joke that are just lined with a toxic layer of sexism, xenaphobia, and racism. That sugary layer is the glue that keeps systematic dehumanization together. Doesn't that make you mad??
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 12/53. 'Cute' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 11

Week 11 of #TWmemorymondays! This piece is inspired by a conversation I had with my mom yesterday. A couple days ago I asked her to think of memories that were microaggression towards the intersection of being a woman and an immigrant (non-white and foreign born). Intersectionality is important to acknowledge because so many people aren't treated with dignity because of mutiple counts against of what culture says is "normal" aka white and male.

She started by telling me a beautiful story of kindness, inclusion, and experiencing another culture. (I'll write about it in another post). I was thankful for that story, but it wasn't exactly what I prompted her with! I told her I wanted a story that showed prejudice. And then the conversation changed into WHY I want to hear about it. It's not to ignore the good and beautiful. It's not to paint a pity worthy picture of my parents or myself. It's not to overemphasize the negative.

It is to shine light into the dark. It's to acknowledge that ignoring the demeaning tone, the microaggression, the white supremest atmosphere, the small "t" trauma is hurting us all. It's honoring to point out the darkness and name it. Giving dignity to all people is usually uncomfortable unfortunately. I want to learn how to live on that space because there's so much more hope of change in that space.

My mom then was reminiscing at when my parents moved to California from Hong Kong, it was my mom who was the breadwinner of the family while my dad was studying for his second degree. In the Chinese tradition, it was very uncommon and frowned down upon for the woman to be supporting the man/family. I mean, it's also looked down on now in America. She remembered how rare it was. Something that my mom was so thankful was that my dad wasn't negatively affected by...his "masculinity" was intact and it didn't bother him having my mom play that untraditional role.

It takes courage to do that and to have a strong sense of identity to go against the cultural grain. The Chinese culture had so many beautiful traits and tradition, but patriarchy is not one of them. I'm so proud of my parents for seeing that and not only seeing it, but taking action against it. Wow.

The next photo is when my dad graduated and my mom mom was supporting him.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 11/53. 'Breadwinner' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 10

Week 10 of #TWmemorymondays features a guest to the series! It is my dear friend Angela Ochoa @sieteochoa! Angela and Tony have three amazing daughters, and their love and intentionality for them is so inspiring to me. This short essay Angela shared with me about her youngest daughter, Robin. You're going to cry - it's so good. ❤️
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In many ways I just want to say goodbye to this calendar year and block it out of my memory. I was really on the fence about trying to get pregnant this time at all; I was finally getting the hang of having two kids while living overseas, work was great, there was relative predictability within each week. I didn’t know how another child would fit into that comforting picture.

We came to America for Robin’s birth to be close to family. She was born in April, at home and accidentally briefly unassisted. In those few moments before our midwife arrived while I was in a post-delivery high, Tony said, “Angela, her eyes look small.”

“She doesn’t have Down syndrome,” my mother stated matter-of-factly when she came to visit the next morning. “It’s ok if she does,” I blurted out. My defense was automatic - I don’t think I believed it - but I needed to say it.

Sleepless nights followed in the NICU. I wondered if we had wasted the name we picked out for our third child. (I hate that I ever thought that, even if it was just passing.) We realized quickly that we would need to change occupations and move back to America permanently. I was angry that Robin had taken my dream job away from me. I was disappointed that Robin wasn’t the baby I thought she was going to be. These feelings clashed hard and strong with my exhaustion, guilt, and persistent desire to be holding the tiny girl attached to a thousand wires in a hospital room.

My friend gave me permission to grieve the loss of the child I thought would be mine. It hit me that almost every parent has subconscious expectations of who their child will be, and the parents who are not disappointed immediately will probably have their time in the future.
That’s when I knew that I was the problem, not Robin.

This year was so intensely challenging because Robin wrecked me and I was unprepared for it. I had no idea the deep prejudices lying within my heart. And I can’t just delete this ugliness within me; it’s intertwined throughout my worldview and I still continue to pick out pieces every single day.

At this point in time, I have more to say about fear than anything else because it so recently shook me. But let it be known: love was what dissolved the crisis I invented.

I am thankful Robin was given to me, because I don’t think the old Angela would have chosen her.
An infant taught me true love and grew my heart and mind. How miraculous.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 10/53. 'Robin' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 09

Week 9 of #TWmemorymondays: this is a continuation of my conversation with my parents from last week! I asked them what their experience is as Chinese immigrants - what memories stand out to them when it comes to race. My dad had a really specific memory that he shared with me that has stuck out to him after all these years.

If you haven't read my other posts, I'll give you a short background on my parents. My mom and dad immigrated from Hong Kong in their midtwenties, and they are ethnically Chinese. So my dad was getting his second bachelor's degree in California, and was in an English writing class. He told me that in the early days, his English speaking ability wasn't very strong, but his English writing skills was. Writing essays and grammar was something that he knew he could do really well.

During that English class, he turned in an essay that he felt really confident in. So when he didn't get a good grade for the essay, he was shocked, and the feedback of WHY he didn't get a good grade was even more shocking.

His professor wrote on the paper that my dad had perfect grammar and essay structure and content, but he docked off points for this reason: his style of writing wasn't "American" enough. It didn't use enough American colloquialism.

It was a small instant where all the unspoken assumptions and expectations came together: you must adhere to the majority white culture. It was incorrect and frowned upon to not immediately adapt to the white American culture...if you are a person of color. If you're white and British or Australian or European, that would be welcomed and admired.

Thanks to my dad for sharing! ❤️
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 9/53. 'Not Enough' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 08

Week 8 of #TWmemorymondays! I talked to both of my parents today! I asked them what comes to mind of how they were/are treated differently in America vs. Hong Kong (they are both Chinese and they grew up in Hong Kong. They first shared a couple encounters that happened in the past couple of weeks that are just unbelievable. The details are too sensitive so I'm not going to share about it here. This is what they were ok with me sharing:

They immigrated to California from Hong Kong in their midtwenties. My dad was hired to be a system analyst for California's gas and electric company, and my mom was a paralegal for a lawfirm. They both have many vivid memories of the encounters they had there because of their accent. Especially in the early days, they weren't fluent in English. Alot of the times, they had to ask their American coworkers to repeat what they said or say things slower. And so many times, the reaction was annoyance and impatience. My dad said that they would cut the conversation abruptly, and ask to communicate with the boss. Every day for so many years it was like that!

Under that impatience was a strong statement that said: your lack of English fluency combined with you being foreign is a direct link to your lack of intelligence. Yes lack of intelligence and also lack of dignity and value. All that was plainly understood with every encounter like that. That bled into many other work and non work situations. A constant layer of racism right below the surface.

Doesn't it make you mad too??

It's insane how powerful white supremest culture is! It's in the air we breathe back then and now. Not much has changed unfortunately, but there is hope that it will change. 🙏🏼💪🏼

Watch my instastories to see my process.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 8/53. 'Wake Up' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 07

For today's #TWmemorymondays, I have part two of my parents' memory of their wedding day. My mom shared her memory last week! And today I chatted with my dad, and he told me about a moment that I haven't heard before. I asked them what was a small or unexpected memory from their wedding day that has stuck with them after all these years. This was my dad's response.

He told me that they (my parents) were driven to the church after they got ready by their good friend. So they arrived at the church and parked in the parking lot. My dad was feeling really excited and nervous for the ceremony, and felt like there were so many situations where he wasn't so sure what he should do. He didn't know what the protocol was! So they just sat there in the car. He didn't know if it was ok to get out of the car or wait. His best man finally knocked on their window and asked them why they are just sitting there in the car. Then, my dad got ut if the car and opened my mom's car door. (Swipe right to see my parents during their first dance and look at my dad beaming!!)

It's such a simple and funny story! I love it! I loved how my dad described how new everything was and just not being so certain about every detail of the important day.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 7/53. 'Backseat' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 06

This week's #TWmemorymondays is featuring my mom! I was just chatting with her today on the phone and I asked her what was one of the most memorable moments on her wedding day (that wasn't an obvious one like getting married to my dad).

Background to that moment: my parents got married in 1985 in the Bay Area in a Chinese community Church. Many relatives from Hong Kong and China traveled to California for their wedding. For many of the extended family, it was their first Western church wedding that they have every been to.

So my mom was telling me about the moment after the pastor pronounced my parents as husband and wife. Before they walked down the aisle, my mom gave my grandmother (her mom) a bouquet of flowers as a sign of respect and gratitude. It's not traditionally done in any ceremony, but my mom thought it was important to add that element to the wedding ceremony. At that moment, all her cousins that were sitting in the pew behind my grandmother started to cry because that gesture surprised and overwhelmed them. My mom and grandmother were also so touched by that moment. It was such a powerful memory for all of them, because my mom remembers her cousins mentioning the impact it had on them years later.

My mom also remembered how precious that bouquet of flowers was to my grandmother. It was in my grandparents' apartment (that I grew up going to every week to visit my grandparents) for years. I could tell how much it meant for my mom to know that it was so cherished by my grandmother.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 6/53. 'Bouquet' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 05

Today is week 5/53 of #TWmemorymondays! If you're new, it is a series of paintings I'm doing once a week for 2018 that are inspired by memories. Most of them will be mine, but I'm starting off the year with my parents'. Watch today's laintibg process via instastories!

This week is my mom's earliest memory, which I love. I can imagine my grandmother carrying my mom as a young girl to the market. It's really busy and people are chatting and picking out fresh Chinese vegetables. There are alot of colors and smells. Chinese herbs and incence. The atmosphere probably felt so familiar in the deepest way. I love going to Chinese markets with my mom when I go home, and it's fun to think that it's a small echo of my mom's experience in Hong Kong. The following is what my mom texted me about her memory:

"My earliest memory is that my mom carried me on her back to the open market to buy meat and veggies every day. People knew each other. I remembered the neighbors were all so closely knitted. My mom spent most of her days with neighbor friends, helping and supporting one another. I played with friends living next door and downstairs before I started to go to school."

If you swipe right, you can see photos of my mom when she was almost one years old. So cute!
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 5/53. 'New' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 04

Today is week 4/53 of #TWmemorymondays! I asked my dad what his earliest memory is, and his response is below. My dad, Stephen, grew up in Hong Kong. He was the middle child of 5 boys - in the picture be is the farthest to the left on the front row. (The young girl in the back was his cousin.) I loved what he shared! I love those memories where it's just an ordinary details of life that stick with you through each decade. Watch me paint this piece via instastories.

"Honestly, I can barely remember the time we took this picture. I believe I was about 4 or 5 years of age. As I remember, life was simple back then. We were a very ordinary family of eight living in a small two bedrooms apartment. We didn't have much to play or to wear. The name of the game at that time was sharing. We shared food, toys, clothes and of course beds. But I never felt lacking. One funny thing I do remember until today is that one day my dad bought a wooden bench which could turn into a bed. That became my bed since then. We called it the "new" bed. Even after many years later, we still called it "new" bed. That's one of my childhood memories." - Dad
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 4/53. 'New' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 03

Close your eyes
Imagine the smell of an orange
Just as it's skin is being peeled off
Where does it bring you?

For week 3/53 of #TWmemorymondays, I'm exploring how the scent of smell transports us. Here is a poem I wrote yesterday. Watch me explain more in my instastories!
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Citrus in the morning

Those clementines, my Clementine
How the punch of sunshine
Fills my nostrils with laughter
As you peel away the petals
Forcing whoever is near by to
Partake in the waves of...
That one time my grandmother
Was peeling an orange with her nails
(Alway starting with a knife incision of course)
And I told her I didn't like the white parts
She said it's good for me and that
All the nutrients is in the inbetween
And that I shouldn't peel all of it off
That combo of the smell off citrus and
My grandparents brown scratchy couch
The sound of the knife sliding across
The plate on her lap as she hands me
A wedge of Love

TW
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 3/53. 'Citrus in the Morning' / 8x8 in / watercolor + crayon on paper

Memory 02

For today's #TWmemorymondays, this piece is inspired by my mom's @karenwongus' memory of her grandparents. I chatted with her for awhile today, and she told me what she remembered about the history of this photo. She started by sharing with me the customs of China in the early 1900's when this photo was taken.

Under the Qing dynasty, it was a tradition where a sign of wealth for women was small bound feet. If had a high social status, you had servants...so you didn't have to do any work...and that means you didn't have to be on your feet much. Many girls in wealthy families had their feet bound tight starting from a very young age. Their feet would be deformed in the bandage as they grew older. It was a sign of beauty and prestige. My mom said that the way having bound feet made you walk in a particular "feminine" way that was really attractive to men.

In this photo of my great grandmother, you can see she has these interesting shoes on. Back in the early 1800's and early 1900's, it was fashionable to have these tiny shoes on tiny platforms. My mom thinks that my great grandmother didn't have bound feet, but tried to disguise her feet as such - like in this photo.

Woah. Social status and the definition of femininity and beauty was powerful, and not much has changed.
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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 2/53. 'Bound Feet' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper

Memory 01

I'm excited to announce that this year's weekly project is called #TWmemorymondays! Every Monday of 2018, I will be painting a piece inspired by a memory. This will sort of be an autobiographical art project, where I'll share many visceral memories from my life - early childhood to now. I'm also hoping that I'll insert some of your memories this year too!

The reason I chose memory is that in the practice of being more present, it is helpful to be informed and thankful for the past. There are so many small details of growing up that I don't ever want to forget, and its crazy how much I can't remember. This project will hopefully remind me of those stories and details, connect me more to those who have shaped me, and help me process the specific experience as an Asian American. I also hope that it connects us in seeing our commonalties and differences.
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This piece is inspired by my first memory:
I remember being on my first airplane ride. I am 3 years old, and my mom is really pregnant with my sister. Somehow my dad isn't there...I think he was in Florida for business. In was nighttime, and the lights were dim. I remember there being alot of beige. The cabinets were beige. The seats were beige. The seatbelts were beige. The carpet was beige. So my mom tells me to go to sleep as she buckels me in horizontally while I lay across two seats. I can feel the plasticy zippy seatbelt straps. I was wrapped in the comfort of knowing my mom was there, and it surrounded my little body snugly.

And that's my first memory!

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#TWmemorymondays: A painting inspired by a memory every Monday of 2018. Connecting abstract art to real life. Week 1/53. 'First Memory' / 8x8 in / mixed media on paper