I was already home this time last year.

Communist Ballets

For a woman, as soon as the father's not calling the dance and language is being torn apart by rhythm, no mother can serve as an axis for the sacred or the farce. The girl tries herself: the result is so-called female homosexuality, identification with men, or a tight rein on the least pre-Oedipal pleasure. And if no paternal 'legitimation' comes along to dam up the inexhaustible non-symbolized impulse, she collapses into psychosis or suicide (Kristeva, About Chinese Women 41).

I'm working on Chinese socialist ballets performed during the Cultural Revolution and how it represents the perpetuation of what Judith Stacey calls "socialist-patriarchy." The ballets are very mob, especially the jumps in 'The White-Haired Girl." (Feminine) hysteria and the urge for private revenge, as manifested in the sudden change of the protagonist's hair from black to white (though more like faux-pas blond), must be tamed by socialist-communalism. As the girl returns to her village, now transformed into a collectivist , peasant commune, she will be shown the "right" way to avenge her father at the same time as she is benevolently given a red handkerchief to cover up her white hair. It's not just that I find the red handkerchief very ugly; I wanted the white-haired girl to continue hiding and haunting the abandoned temple up in the mountains.

To paraphrase Mao's famous words, "black-haired girl, white-haired girl, whoever catches the Father is a good girl"

wankerism

After the last siew mai, why must Tom Waits be playing in my car stereo?

Dressman

As in, superman, you know?
Thank you Hwee Yee and Mayee. You guys rock my world.

離家就是為了要回家。

One of my favorite writers, 余秋雨 made the above comment, "to leave home so as to go home" in one of his travel narratives. I believe he was going to Europe, of all places.

Five years ago I used to laugh at someone's persistent nostalgia for Singapore as well as his notions of exile. Back then in the static times perhaps I did not have much of an attachment to places, fetishized as I was to metaphysical naivety. And so when he left for good I was sure that the "good" for me was to leave as well. But that narrative was no less of a myth that Joo, Mayee and I spent our time in the arts canteen laughing over.

This week as I celebrated my birthday with friends without whom I would not have been able to age well -- and aging, mind you, is a good thing -- I knew that I am glad to be here. But the thought of the two Chinese masseuses who gave J and I foot massages at San Gabriel the previous night stayed with me the whole time. One of them was from the same province as my grandmother; nonetheless none of that kind of nostalgic genealogy was going to keep him from persuading us to get another hour of massage. "Do you like it here," I asked him. "Not at all, I only like the money," he replied shaking his head. Of course I do not share his sentiments, but I do know what he means, diffused across so many "here"s.

After all, when I was visiting Shanghai, my father's business colleagues articulated the same thing to me: they are glad that Taiwanese like us are "returning" to our "motherland." It is home, after all. The reality is, there would have been no flocking back if not of low production costs and cheap exports. And behind Ma Yin Jeou's victory in the recent Taiwan presidential election, it is no surprise that so many previous pro-independence supporters swung to his side because he promised more direct business links between Taiwan and China. Of course, the majority of Ma supporters like my family members still held on to the post-49 ties, to a president who can represent a properly-Chinese speaking and yet Havard-trained charisma. But that is only a tip of the balloting iceberg. For someone like myself who only recently learned how to piece my longing for Taiwanese food to some grander scheme of things, I remember how difficult it was to attempt to belt out the Taiwanese national anthem half-drunk, outside a club in Singapore.

As I write this I am also reminded that Leslie Cheung passed away 5 years ago on April 1st. Somehow he feels important for this post, not because he's Taiwanese or Singaporean, but because his songs and films at least formed a part of my formative years that I actually can recollect. Perhaps all too retrospectively, I can only recognize some of the sentiments, the feeling-ah, with episodes from his movie soundtracks. And precisely because I have no idea where I will be at the end of this PhD degree, which a recent article from Chronicles reminds us, signals the end of one's academic career rather than its beginning, I continue with my metaphysical naivety, the aporias of passing. Like the two characters in one of my favorite films, Comrades, Almost a Love Story, the image of the death of their favorite singer Deng Li Jun, reflected on a TV screen in an American city, shall be their placeholder. Even if the latter is twice removed from home.

What does it mean, to be "comrades"? Can one learn to love a foreigner, truly?

So J and I accidentally over-tipped the masseuses that night. But when one of them lumbered up the stairs after his American boss asked us in English if they had told us how much to give, I suspect he was going to have some good ol' Chinese noodles. Probably in thick broth with pig intestines.