I Have Chosen to Stay and Fight (6 page)

Wayans puts together the ultimate racist minstrel show, presumably for the new millennium, with old stereotypes of black America, once banned following protests so many years ago, only to be replaced by new stereotypes brought to you courtesy of the music industry in the guise of corporate hip-hop. Not that all of that shit is bad. I love it myself, but I can see how the politics of rap get thrown over easily when the stereotype is familiar, easy to dance to and unlikely to change the status quo. The show depicted in
Bamboozled
stars Savion Glover and Tommy Davidson, who go from squatting in the ghetto to lofts overlooking midtown Manhattan following their television debut. They remind me of myself at that age, when I got suckered into the Hollywood system. When you're young and hungry and nobody's ever really accepted you because of your color and class, the hurt of your own family having cast you out in the first place still inside you somewhere, you dance hard because there is no other way to live, and when opportunity knocks it's more of an abduction than a housecall.

There was one thing that I was certain of, that blaze of exceptional talent, what Savion Glover has, not to say that I have the limitless, fiery body and ability that he does, an innate understanding of what it means to dance that transcends movement to become pure beat and
heart and soul, closer to lovemaking than a dance step, but I have something inside me that is rare, that has kept me alive and whole and given meaning to my life. Just as the two characters in the film were taken by showbiz charlatans in one fell swoop, so was I.

Swept up in the grand illusion that I might be able to eat, have a roof over my head, own some pretty dresses and realize, in a vastly heady way, that I could make a living doing my art, which was the only dream I had ever had, what could I say but, "Yes, where do I sign?"
Bamboozled
differs from my story because the show becomes an outrageous hit, while my show languished in relative obscurity before its innocuous death after just one season. We have in common the tremendous backlash from the communities that claimed us as their special representatives, then branded us traitors to the cause of equality and an insult to the civil rights movement, especially our own races' struggles. How hated I was, and as the
Bamboozled
duo fielded the onslaught of high-level politicos like Al Sharpton (who always is the best person to have in your movie) leading protests, blaming them outright for denigrating their race, I remembered newspaper articles reaming my parents' friends when they couldn't access my mother, trying to trace my race traitor roots from those school pictures from the '70s—you remember, happy in the foreground, pensive you superimposed behind, looking like your own ghost haunting you, or that the happy you is the presentable, public you, the pensive you is the backstabber of ethnic identity menacingly coming of age.

Never did I consider myself an Uncle Tom before being called one by numerous Asian, mostly Korean, activists who told the network
that they had their protest signs ready at the first infraction of any rule they themselves had made up about what was appropriate for the race and what was not. I wasn't sure then which I hated more, my skin color or my talent. Why did they coexist in this one body of mine? What the fuck kind of shit is that? I asked for neither and got both, in great abundance, and for that I am now grateful, but it wasn't so easy back then. When is it a compliment when someone says, "No matter what EVERYBODY says, I still think you're PRETTY good?"

I took the compliment, and the paychecks, and silently faded into the background when the network decided to give up on their pet "ethnic" project, which was just too much to deal with, what with the virulent op-ed pieces, the protests, the L.A. riots still so fresh in everyone's mind, and North Korea as unpredictable then as it is now. It was apparent that Asian Americans were not to be televised. Maybe here and there, like a nice bonsai tree or bamboo fountain, but, please, not an entire television series. TOOO MUCH!!!!! Like wasabi, we are good in small doses, but too much and people think they'll go up in flames. Mind you, this is still the case, and my ex–television family hasn't been on the air in over a decade. It's doubtful that you'll see
All American Girl
on DVD, unlike
My So-Called Life
, which had the exact same life span and launched its season on the same network at the same time that we did, because we were not considered something to be nostalgic about. Just like Japanese internment, it's better to let such things slide. I think there have been some shows on recently that involved martial arts, employing more than one or two Asian American actors, but I'm not really sure what happened to those shows. I
lost my numchucks ages ago, and I'm glad, because I was forever hitting my own head with them.

I can't be claimed as a hundred percent American, even though by all rights I am. I was born here, I live here, I make my money here, I spend my money here, I pay my taxes here, I make my art for American audiences, yet my ethnicity precedes me everywhere I go. I'm always the "Korean comedian." My introduction, unless I or my posse somehow manage to intervene, always includes that disclaimer, as if to say that my achievements thus far are miraculously novel, since I can speak English so darn good without any trace of an accent and I don't bow all the time or nothing.

All I know is, inside me I have the seriousness and the maturity to say, without hubris or bravado, that I am the best at what I do, which is the plain and simple truth, undisputed by most people, argued over only by those who have never seen me and/or plainly can't stand to see a woman, especially a foreign one, take that much pride and such a vaingloriously unapologetic stance in the traditional American folk art of stand-up comedy. This is not a realm I was born to nor welcomed into, yet I forced my chinky bound foot in the door, and somehow kept it open by being so fucking good. How dare I? Watch me.

So to say Asians are all over the place, making bank at the box office, kicking cinematic ass. Over here, they are still fucking kicking.

No one ever called me to tell me my show was cancelled. At least in
Bamboozled
, there is a heroic and startlingly magical implosion in the final act, which illuminates the much hidden past but in the process produces grief, and sweet hope for the future, as far as the
Asian American impact on the entertainment industry. I'm still standing—writing, working, growing AND independent, albeit reclusive, and insanely dressed. Sometimes Asian American kids come up to me (when they can find me) and say that they grew up watching me on TV, and that that made them feel like they were okay. That they felt like they were Americans, too. I like hearing that very much, and it's enough for now.

A big thank-you, Spike Lee. You are a tremendous, important filmmaker. You are not only a treasure of the cinematic art but uniquely illuminating on how we view race in our culture—the real way, not some made-up, safe, stupid
Imitation of Life
way. You never pull any punches in a world where everyone needs to get slapped. Please feel free to throw me a right hook anytime.

imagine

I
magine being Anna May Wong at the premiere of your film
The Thief of Bagdad
(a title all too apropos to our times), as a Chinese American at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, then in its Chinarama phase, chockablock with faux orientalism, a chinkee apocalypse in plastic and red paper. And you, surrounded by an extraction of your own culture, are not allowed to put your hands and feet in the wet cement to commemorate your contribution. So piquant that you actually own all the imagery surrounding you, or you did at one time but it
was taken from you to adorn this theater, to make it magical, mystical even. Remember, you are a star of the film. People lined up for blocks just to catch a glimpse of you. But your hand- and footprints will not be here permanently for the future to see that you were part of the golden age of Hollywood, even though they borrowed the golden hues of your skin without asking. This honor was reserved for the white actors. You may be desired by all the white men up there on-screen with you, and by the ones leering at you from their empress red velvet seats in the dark, but you can't marry one because it's against the law. Imagine.

Anna May Wong left Hollywood in 1927 and sailed for Europe, where she made many films and had many fans. Following in the lively dance hall footsteps of Josephine Baker, she fed the Continent's wild taste for the exotic. Germany was host to a cultural renaissance, where the Weimar Republic was in full decadent swing. They absolutely went insane for anything that was different or unique. Anna May Wong was happy there, as she felt more acceptable there. She was quoted as saying that Europe had "acceptance for people of color," and I believe that is one of the first times that phrase had ever been used. In fact, the opposite was true. Intolerance and racism were so rampant, even flagrant. IMAGINE.

I admire the savvy and complete self-confidence of Josephine Baker, whose talent and charisma are iconic and revered. Anna May Wong came home for good after her brief tour of duty, but Baker stayed on, largely in Paris, after several disastrous attempts to return to the U.S. and establish a career—completely unacceptable during
the age of segregation. She got bad reviews just for being black! After being refused service at the Stork Club, she began a very open, public fight with prosegregationist columnist Walter Winchell, which the times and
The Times
dictated she could not win. She went back to the city that had put her name in lights, and she remained a tremendous star all over Europe for the rest of her life. Upon her death, in 1975, the French declared a national day of mourning, honoring her with a twenty-one-gun salute, the first American woman to be buried in France with military honors. Twenty thousand mourners turned out to grieve her passing, and the funeral blocked the streets. The NAACP subsequently designated May 20 as Josephine Baker Day.

Even though Anna May Wong has no official day, I adore her. And I like to think that I look a bit like her. I do, but not in the same way people say Asians "all look alike." We have the same kind of head, like, you know, when you see people around and you realize they have the same shape dome you do, and you kind of either love them or hate them right off the bat, depending on the relationship you have with yourself. I did a reading of a play, a biographical melodrama, which was absolutely true to life in being somewhat underplayed emotionally, for intense feelings are generally kept to oneself in most Asian cultures. I was the star, or at least I read the part of the star. The playwright was a friend of mine, Elizabeth Wong, one of the writers of the ill-fated
All American Girl
. She had written this play just for me, and hoped to garner attention for the work by putting together a group of actors and giving a reading at a building right across the street from the Ahmanson Theater in Los Angeles, not so far
from Hill Street, in Chinatown, where the real Anna May Wong had grown up.

One of the actors, David Dukes, was a beautiful man in his fifties. He's one of those guys that you see in movies or on TV forever; you never know their names but you expect to see them. Your eye always makes room for actors like him, because you know his face, his motivation; because he is incredibly familiar and that familiarity is comforting. This is an everyday kind of acceptance that we have for white heterosexual male archetypes. They have every reason to be there; they populate the world, and the world exists solely for them. No, they are not to blame individually for this imbalance, but that's the real truth of the matter. It's one of those things that we, as non-white, non-heterosexual, non-male archetypes, accept, and we've been accepting it since antiquity. No big deal.

Anyway, David Dukes played my lover in the play. In between scenes, we talked about his chinchilla farm, which he was very proud of, and the production of
Bent
he had been in. I marveled at the fact that though he was not particularly famous, I knew every plane and surface on his face from memory, most recently from the ambitious Marilyn Monroe biopic with Mira Sorvino and Ashley Judd, the one playing Marilyn, the other playing Norma Jean. The best part about this film is when Marilyn is joined by Norma Jean on the therapist's couch, and they cry together as only a Gemini can. David played Arthur Miller, and he was too handsome for the part, but of course he made a fine made-for-the-screen Miller. David died unexpectedly soon after this reading.

What is strange to me is that in biopics, they always cast someone finer looking than the original, as if the reality of life must be tidied up for the camera's gaze. Nowhere is this more poignant and outrageous than in Anna May Wong's own life. She knew that there was a good film brewing in the Hollywood Hell's Kitchen. Pearl S. Buck's
The Good Earth
had been optioned, and there was a huge part—the indisputable lead, in fact—for a sympathetic Asian character. It was for O-Lan, a mother, who was sacred and not profane. This was far better by miles than the
Daughter of the Dragon
parts Wong had grown so used to. Though when she played such characters, she would always rise above them, so that you cheered for her even as she poisoned everyone. Her evil-ese was mind altering, so much so that she became good.

The historical accounts differ on the real feelings Anna May Wong had about this role. Some say that she knew she wouldn't get it, that there was no way that the Hollywood she knew so well would possibly accept her, the most famous and talented Asian American star, as the real-deal O-Lan, the most endearing Asian portrayal in Western literature to date. Others tell a different story, that she rallied and begged for the part, even arriving one day at the studio in a rickshaw dressed up as O-Lan—like Sean Young's Catwoman stunt, or Madonna's plea for Alan Parker in her video "Take a Bow" to cast her as Evita Perón. Our play centered around this particular time in Anna May Wong's life. In the third act, it is revealed that the truth is somewhere in between. Wong had hoped against hope that she could land the part, but she knew that it wasn't possible because she was, in fact, really Asian.