The Garden of Eden

Here's my take on the Garden of Eden story; namely, that Adam was too pussy to eat the apple, when it was just him and God it was all "Yessir, won't touch the fruit of good and evil, no knowledge for me, Lord," and when it was him and Eve and God it became "Nossir, won't let her touch it either, yessir, I'll keep an eye on her, can't leave women alone, never know what they'll get up to." So when it was Eve alone plus the snake she bit into it, and actually it was a fig, not an apple, so you can't blame her, figs are pretty damn delicious, especially when they flush a dark purple with ruby red labia meal on the inside, and because Adam hadn't the curiosity to try it, nor the balls, she offered it up, pushed it in his mouth. "Damn girl that's good," he said. And so when it was gone they sewed fig leaves up and put them on their bodies, to remind them of it, and Adam thought, "Damn Eve never looked so good, leaves flowering all over, like she might sprout some figs." So he licked her breasts and then God came along and said What are you doing and Adam said "Nothing" and God left and then Adam licked her lower and God said What the hell are you doing and Adam said "Eating a fig" and God grew angry and threw them out and the fig leaves wilted so they had to grab some animal skins, which didn't smell half as nice. All this for eating a fig.

Men haven't changed much these days, they're just as scared to try anything themselves, but Lord, how I do wish for a fig (or two) these days.

Wanted: Libido for Normal People

Not for animated characters that don't exist. (Spike Spiegel)
Not for creepy characters in movies. (Kevin Spacey)
Not for dead people. (Heath Ledger)
Not for wondering what they look like when sexing. (a variety of people, none of which will be named)
Not for brief amounts of time for no one in particular. (10 minutes)
Not for wanting to try a particular stunt in bed, but with no one to try it on. (photography, new sexual positions, voyeurism fetish, threesome)
Not for anyone, but for someone I could possibly meet somewhere. (unlikely)

On Writing a Polemic

Writing the personality driven polemic was very hard because it inherently betrays emotion. In order to write about affirmative action angrily, I have to be angry. I have to be shrill and hysterical if I am to pretend that I am "a voice in the wilderness," as Cathy my professor says. Polemics are biased, providing only one view because they argue against the held "universal wisdom," and it is taken that the opposition already speaks for itself, everyday.

Polemics also lets me be judged in a different way than a normal piece of writing would. In a polemic, the reader can (rightfully) be annoyed at my whiny tone or wild tone or enraged tone, hate my personality, and then stop reading solely on that. There are not as many facts to disagree with (in the personality driven polemic), and the thought of someone attacking my personality (ad hominem!) as a critique is painful to acknowledge. Writers like to hide behind "the speaker" "the narrator" "Oh it's not really me." A polemic strips away that barrier, oh hell yes the writer is you, these are your feelings, these are your thoughts.

Now anyone can read my polemic and laugh at the fact that I'm some over-achieving Asian that failed to get into Harvard, or that I am some whiny bitch that couldn't make it. But polemics are meant to raise attention to the issue, not convince the reader. I'm supposed to have "won" if someone merely has a reaction to my piece. And that's my sole consolace for putting myself out there.

Why I Hate Affirmative Action

There are few things in the world that make me feel like another “goddamn chink” but one of these things is affirmative action. The official definition of affirmative action quickly taken off of Wikipedia is:
Affirmative action in the United States is intended to promote access to education, employment, or housing among certain designated groups (typically, minorities and women). The stated motivation for affirmative action policies is to redress the effects of past discrimination and to encourage public institutions such as universities, hospitals and police forces to be more representative of the population. It is commonly achieved through targeted recruitment programs, by preferential treatment given to applicants from designated groups, and in some cases through the use of quotas.
The real definition of affirmative action is this: If you’re middle-class white or Chinese-Asian, forget about going to the college of your dreams or getting need-based financial aid. But wait, you say. You’re Asian. Doesn’t that make you a minority? Not quite. You see, affirmative action is tricky. It only helps the minorities in college. And since Asian-Americans are actually a majority in some colleges now (at Stanford, last I checked, 60% of the undergraduate students were of Asian descent), that means for college admissions we might as well be white.
Affirmative action punishes those who have difficult backgrounds but have worked hard to succeed and become the middle-class. It is exactly this success that keeps them now from being able to receive any financial help. Affirmative action also punishes my parents and me for being a certain race. My parents are immigrants too, but successful, Chinese ones. Can it truly be their fault that my parents scrimped and saved their way through higher college education? We lived in apartments, wore second-hand and discount clothing, and even went without cable TV (Actually, we still don’t have cable). Our first TV lasted twenty years, and my parents couldn’t even afford to buy it – they picked it up off a curb before the garbage trucks got to it. But somehow this doesn’t even matter anymore, because now our family income is high enough to be high middle-class. Never mind that my dad still works two stressful jobs. Never mind that my mother works part-time at a library on top of raising three kids. We’re Chinese; we’re middle-class; there’s nothing else we need to make us happy besides extra math homework
Maybe it’s fear that keeps us down. China’s global power is rising, and the recent Beijing Olympics may be just the starting pistol shot in the worldwide race of global domination. Maybe it’s the fear that one day, everyone will have to speak Mandarin (never mind that the “power language” is English now, that’s fine). Or maybe it’s just the sight of us, our yellow skin and our slanty eyes, that makes their stomachs turn. For my part, I’m genetically blessed to look a bit more “Western” – larger eyes, high cheekbones, and “an oddly prominent ass,” as my friend likes to say. So maybe when they finally burn us as witches I’ll escape, but I won’t count on it. You see, I’ll be in the minority.

//written for my polemic assignment

Steve, The Doctor

Steve, whose real name was Mayu, was a doctor. Most of his days at work he was content to do his medical duty, but every now and then he worried about his name. Surely "Dr. Mayu Rajadurai" was a more serious name than Dr. Steve. The title and name "Dr. Mayu Rajadurai" conveyed an exotic gravitas that short and stubby "Steve" could not. The syllables in the former were longer, more oval, and sounded better when rolled across a woman's tongue.

On these days Dr. Steve would spend the majority of his lunch breaks in his office, looking into a small mirror that hung over his desk. "Hello, I am Dr. Mayu Rajadurai," he would say, with great solemnity. "I am afraid you have renal failure." Or, "Good morning madam, I am Dr. Mayu Rajadurai. I am very pleased to meet you and I am sorry to tell you that you have broken your hip in two places." He would practice these scenarios until he only had five minutes left, and then he would gulp down his lunch and wash it down with a bottle of water. After this, he left his office to once again become Dr. Steve.

Sometimes when he was with his colleagues he would look at them and scrutinize each of their names. There was Dr. Brandon Foster who had brown hair, a wife, two kids, and a dog. The trick about his name, Dr. Steve decided, was that "Brandon" was strong, and "Foster" was solid. Combined, the two names created a rock-like persona of support and help. Hearing Dr. Brandon Foster tell you that you had cancer would almost be soothing, Dr. Steve thought. "I have cancer," you would say, "but Dr. Brandon Foster is taking care of it." Brandon Foster was a security blanket, a father, a patron, the homeland. There was nothing that you couldn't face with him at your side.

There was also Dr. Thomas Hsiang. The genius of his name, Dr. Steve concluded, was its clever mixture of the East and the West. It would be different if his name was "Yao-lun Hsiang." Then it would be difficult to pronounce, and therefore off-putting and unfamiliar. And patients didn't like the unfamiliar, especially when sick. No, when they were feeling ill patients needed comfort. "Thomas" was comfortable. Yet "Thomas Thornby" or a moniker like that would also be as strange and alien-like. Patients, upon seeing this Chinese man, would not expect "Thomas Thornby." They simply wouldn't remember it, because it wouldn't seem right. And no one likes a doctor that you forget the name to. No, no, Dr. Steve thought. Thomas Hsiang was perfect.

Dr. Steve would try to console himself by saying that "Steve" wasn't a bad name itself. It had punch, and it came from the more dignified "Steven." "Dr. Steven Rajadurai" was missing something, however. It must be all those vowels, the two "e"s and then the three "a's" and the lone "u". There was just too many of them to contend with in "Steven Rajadurai." There was always the French version, "Etienne," but "Dr. Etienne Rajadurai" was even more ridiculous. Dr. Steve wasn't remotely French, for God's sakes. He was Sri Lankan.

Dr. Steve couldn't remember how he started being "Steve." His birth certificate said Mayu Rajadurai, so there must have been a change somewhere between then and now. Perhaps it was when he started kindergarten, and the teacher had too much trouble with "Mayu." Or perhaps he himself had felt awkward being the lone "Mayu" in a forest of Billys and Calebs and Jimmys. Or maybe it was even later, when he had a crush on some girl and felt that "Steve" would make his chances better than "Mayu." In any case, it was too late now. Even his own family recognized him as "Steve" now. "Mayu, who's Mayu?" they would demand. "Oh, oh! You mean Steve. You know, he's a doctor now."

The Gigantic Furniture of Monsieur Clare

Monsieur Clare made the biggest furniture in the city, and he made them out of grass. This may sound strange, and uncomfortable, and likely to stain your clothes, but it was a special kind of grass. It was a kind of grass that only Monsieur Clare could grow because only he had the seeds and the knowledge about how to plant them. He tended this grass on his own plots of land scattered around in the city, and from above these small gardens struck the eye as emeralds.

Since the city was rather crowded, he had to buy these lots in random locations that just happened to be empty. Everyday Monsieur Clare took the 39 bus because this route would take him close to every one of his lots; it was never more than a 10 minute walk. After he got the deeds for the lots, he would have to manually re-sod the ground. This was time-consuming, but Monsieur Clare liked doing things on his own. Besides, it made sure that the soil was perfect for his grass, and that was of utmost importance. You see, the grass he used for his furniture was very exotic. When it came out of the ground it was hard and wiry. It would cut your hands if you were not careful. It was the type of dark green that looked like it harbored a grudge against you. Once harvested, however, this grass became soft but with a bit of give; it became like a plush pillow. The angry green, dried, mellowed out into a beautiful verdant green.  Clumped together a certain way, the grass would stick and retain shape. With this, Monsieur Clare formed giant furniture. His furniture was as if a 30 foot man with a large set of shears trimmed topiaries to resemble chairs, futons, beds, sofas, couches, and ottomans.

His furniture was in very high demand. It was artistic, yet comfortable. Placed outside, it gave houses a doll-like charm and played with the viewer's perspective just enough to be quaint but modern. It was sleek and fashionable. Only the richest could afford it, because the grass was so rare, but Monsieur Clare was a generous man and donated many sets of furniture to schools, libraries, and public parks. The grass, once dried and formed, was also almost impossible to tear apart with bare hands. It was as if Monsieur Clare had been able to create something indestructible.

But then there came to be bred a kind of new bug, a malicious one that targeted plants. It was meant to target weeds and other undesirables like poison ivy and stinging nettle, but like scientific experiments go, this bug escaped and mutated. The first place it found once it broke free from the lab was Monsieur Clare's green plots of land because they shone from above like emeralds. It was hungry, so it began to eat. It ate a corner of the lot and felt full, so it went to sleep. This sounds not so bad, but in reality it is. You see, this bug doesn't just eat the stems of plants, it eats everything, roots and all. The next day, the bug woke up and continued eating. It developed a taste for the grass, and soon it would eat nothing but the grass. Because of this, the bug's highly impressionable digestive system soon became unable to digest anything but this special kind of grass.


The bug was also parthogenetic, which meant it could reproduce on its own. Even worse, it was small enough to be considered microscopic.

Monsieur Clare discovered the brown patches in his gardens, and in vain he tried to get his grass to re-grow. He tried everything he knew, but nothing helped. The brown patches spread and spread until every one of this lots was contaminated. At first he thought it was mold, then he thought it was rot. Then he thought the pH of the soil was off, possibly from the acid rain or from the water system. He did not know about this bug, because the labs kept it a secret. Monsieur Clare became very distressed. His furniture production slowed, and then stopped. He could not keep up with the bugs.

The bugs also ate the dried grass, just like you and I would eat grapes but also raisins. They burrowed small holes in all of Monsieur Clare's furniture in the city. It was the strangest thing: the furniture would become lighter and airier, bit by bit, like an eraser rubbing away a drawing, so soon there would only be a glimpse of the grass that was the framework of the chair, and then nothing, like the furniture had merely vanished into thin air. It was most mysterious, and some were lucky enough to catch it on video.

Monsieur Clare took to drink. There was nothing else for him to do; he had loved his job and he had loved his exotic plant. It had taken him years to cultivate it, and he had nurtured the stalks like children. Now they withered under an invisible force, and he could do nothing to protect them. It was rumored that one night he left his house, chose a direction, and just started walking. He walked out of his neighborhood and out of the city, and no one knows where he is now.

His gardens turned back into vacant lots, and his furniture left behind only the space they occupied. Soon, there was nothing left but the memory that Monsieur Clare's gigantic furniture once existed.

The Dachshund Racer

(To Tiffany, not that I think you'll grow up to race dachshunds)

He raced dachshunds; you could see them on the Channel 8 News at nine. He was lucky, because after many years he had finally been able to cultivate enough of a following of dachshund racing fans to allow him to quit his part-time job at the local bookshop (what can you do with an English degree, eh?) and focus on racing his dachshunds full time. A lot of other local dachshund owners had gotten in the fun and started racing their own dogs so the races were fun, exciting, "a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon: two thumbs up," and certainly nothing less of completely adorable.

You see, dachshunds are nothing like greyhounds. Instead of running like they're always about to fall down, they run like dozens of small rubber bands shot from childish fingers, skittering and confused. Their ears flopped as they bounced into the arms of their owners at the finish line. They got head rubs and belly rubs and chest rubs; children fed them doggy treats as the owners looked on, beaming. And since it was apparent that all these owners loved their dachshunds; no one protested; no one banned it; no one called PETA to make a fuss. It was good fun, and the dogs certainly enjoyed the attention, plus burning some extra energy on Saturdays.

All of his dogs were named Bo-Bo Little Tiny. To keep them from getting confused when he called them (and not the other way around, for he could never get his babies confused in his head) there was Bo-Bo Little Tiny, then Bo-Bo Little Tiny II, Bo-Bo Little Tiny 1.5 (retroactively named when it turned out he was actually younger than II), Bo-Bo Little Tiny III, Bo-Bo Little Tiny IV, and Bo-Bo Little Tiny V. He never shortened their names to just "Two" or "Five." To do so would be demeaning to them. He took great care of them, brushing them and playing with them. All their shots were up to date. Fleas were promptly taken care of; heart worm dispensed of with preventive pills. And to keep his house from becoming a giant dachshund orgy, they were all appropriately neutered and spayed. Thus any wiggling they did with each other was nothing but platonic.

It was only a matter of time before this handsome, caring bachelor met an eligible young single woman. She was new in town. They met at the post office, because the lines were always long and slow. The post office held limited hours on weekdays and even shorter hours on Saturdays. Not that he could ever get there in time with all the racing he had to do. It was while inching forward toward the two person manned desk that he turned around and began to speak to her. He was mailing a birthday present to his mother, he explained. At this rate by the time he finally got up there he might have to mail two. She laughed and said she was here to register her new address, but, - and here she imitated his tone of voice -, by the time she got up there she might be moving again, so she would have to register an all new address. They laughed and chatted and he thought, My, here was a likeable woman he could fall in love with. It was time he got settled anyway, but he was never interested in any of the women he knew. Here was a new one; one that got his jokes and was cute and possibly utterly lovable. She had short orange-red hair and a burst of freckles across her face. He loved freckles. They were a good omen.

During sex, for the first time, he saw the future. He saw them together growing old; her orange-red hair streaked with gray. Perhaps by then he would not have any hair. She would kiss him on the top of his bed, soft as petals and the grandchildren of his dogs would circle around them, barking happily. He sighed, content, and laid back.

Then the excited dogs rushed out of their soft beds and leaped onto his large one. They romped around them like nymphs celebrating the rites of spring. He snuggled against her and asked her what she thought of them. She frowned and said, "Frankly, I'm not a dog person."

"What do you mean?" He asked. The relationship was still salvageable.

"I mean-" she said as she pushed an overtly eager dog lapping at her face off the bed "-that I think I'm allergic to them." She sneezed, as if offering up hard evidence. "I mean, I'm not too allergic normally, but I think five might be a bit much."

"I have six," he offered, weakly.

"I'm sorry," she said, rising. "I think I have to go." She pulled on her bra, her panties, her top, and her pants. She swatted away Bo-Bo Little Tiny IV, who was chewing on her shoes. She fished out her socks from Bo-Bo Little Tiny II's mouth. Depositing the socks in her purse with a grimace, she pulled on her shoes and walked toward the door. "I...I guess I'll see you around sometime."

And that quickly, it was back to just him and his dogs again. But he was happy. Every morning he took his dogs out to the track, all twenty of the tiny wriggling things, and let them loose to run round and round and round.