22 West Magazine - March 2019

Issue 84.02 March 4, 2019 www.22WestMedia.com

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Issue 84.02

DIGRESS WITH YESS

CONTENTS DAFT PUNK Listen at 22WestMedia.com

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STAFF Jess Kung, Editor-in-Chief editorinchief@22westmedia.com Yessenia Sanchez, Managing Editor managingeditor@22westmedia.com Tara Thomas, Art Director artdirector@22westmedia.com Nathan Nguyen, Lead Copy Editor Isabelle Cruz, Editor Kirsten Hernandez, Editor Karla Lopez, Editor Jason Turk, Staff Writer Joel Vaughn, Staff Writer

CONTRIBUTORS Taylor Vracin-Harrell, Contributor Kaitlin Vracin-Harrell, Contributor Janalee C. Tabayoyong, Contributor Erica Roberts, Contributor Abby Roxas, Contributor Marissa Espiritu, Contributor Sudabeh Sarker, Contributor E.R. Conte, Contributor

COVER DESIGN Tara Thomas, Art Director

CONTACT US

By Jess Kung Editor-in-Chief It’s not always about luck. Luck is being born into circumstances that favor you, into a level of comfort you might take for granted. Luck is being in the right place at the right time.

But I’m also Chinese, and with that bring superstitions that I can’t let go of. Don’t open umbrellas in the house.

Eat noodles on your birthday, and don’t you dare trim them. Also, eat an egg on your birthday. I don’t know why there was so much emphasis on birthdays, my parents told me they wouldn’t celebrate kids birthdays if they weren’t in the U.S. Wait.

Uh, anyway, the themes of our issues is an attempt to find coherency without needing to chase the most topical thing. We’re here for a good time, and a surprisingly long time, so we want to have stories that are relevant for at least the month.

I feel very lucky that there’s a dedicated team working on making this magazine happen, but there’s more work to be done. It’s hard to see past the failings and problems, but that’s a trap.

No matter how bad you think you’re doing, remember how much you’ve done to get to where you are.

Everybody has done more work than they think they have (probably because you blocked a lot of it out).

Anyway, getting lucky means a lot of different things. For instance, Page 7 is going to make you see ramen in a completely different light.

Take it easy, y’all.

RADIO SCHEDULE

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Listen at 22WestMedia.com

TAROT CARDS

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Becoming wise to the world

HOOKUP DISASTERS

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When swiping right goes left

SYMBOLS OF LUCK

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A comparison of cultures

LITTLE SUPERSTITIONS Placebo or not, sometimes it works

BAD TO GOOD How getting expelled can change a life

ASIAN-AMERICAN FILM Exploring big budget movies

OSWALD AND RAYMOND GET LUCKY A short story about gambling

GRUNION An alternative home for alternative facts

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Mail: 1212 Bellflower Blvd. Suite 116 Long Beach, CA 90815 Phone: 562.985.4867 E-mail: editorinchief@22westmedia.com

Disclaimer and Publication Information: 22 West Magazine is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of their individual authors, not the magazine, ASI nor LBSU. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, LBSU students will have precedence. Please include name and major for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. 22 West Magazine will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials, and illustration, but must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. 22 West Magazine assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers.

Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.

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Four Minutes of Funk on the Freeway A highway performance, with robots.

By Taylor Vracin-Harrell Contributor Illustration by Kaitlin Vracin-Harrell Contributor

I was on the 405 North, crawling through traffic in what seemed to be the busiest part of L.A. My car is an old Volvo station wagon named Marv, whose stereo system consists of a broken cassette player and radio. Marv is a gas-guzzling Swede, so in an effort to save gas, I try to keep the A.C. off.

As a result, the windows are often down as I drive around.

There’s not much to do by yourself in heavy traffic other than listen to the radio, so I did just that. I was skipping through FM channels when I hit upon a special song — “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk. For some reason, I decided to activate my theatre kid nature and put on a show. I opened my windows and blasted the song out to my fellow stalled cars, singing along at the top of my lungs.

Look, I’m sure someone out there was not enjoying it. I can neither sing with the ease of Pharrell Williams nor make cool robot sounds like the robodudes of Daft Punk. But the lyrics, with

themes of having fun in the moment, spoke to me. Singing and dancing along in the car felt like a real moment of unity. People turned and looked with smiles on their faces as I yell-screamed “WE’RE UP ALL NIGHT TO THE SUNNNN.” A group of young guys in the carpool lane turned back as they passed me with surprise and delight on their faces. I locked eyes with a woman who shot me a bemused little grin.

“For four minutes I was in a musical.”

For four minutes, I was in a musical.

Whenever I rode in my parent’s car as a kid, I always liked looking at the other people on the road and wondering what they were up to. This time, I knew what we were all doing together: Sharing the experience of being in traffic and listening to this wild person screaming along to, “Get Lucky.”

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SHUFFLE ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR TAROT CARDS Something big is coming. Something, bigger than love, than luck and loneliness.

By Janalee C. Tabayoyong Contributor The tarot is a storybook to life, a pathway to cultivate self-awareness and understand the world we find ourselves in. Each card has its own imagery and symbolism that provide snippets of wisdom and insights into the individual soul.

Therefore, as the cards shuffle in your hands, they start to unfold like us with different meanings tied to our soul.

1. The Star: A nude woman kneels at the edge of a pool, one foot in the water’s abyss and one firmly on the ground, cemented by reality.

The night sky shrouds behind her like a multi-layer composition of dark acrylics with stars smeared on canvas. She pours water for nourishment of the earth. This is the crossroad we diverge at. We are vulnerable under the vast sky, and our inner voice is outhowling the hunger inside of us more than ever. If we’re lucky enough, we’d listen.

2. The Devil: What we hope isn’t a mirror of who we are. We indulge in our desires, and why not? Naked and chained in the Devil’s cusps, yet we are free to remove the noose around our necks. If we have the control, let pleasure overwhelm our senses and keep the Devil at bay.

3. The Fool: Those who rush in.

The limit that doesn’t exist. The precipice into the unknown. While we’re gazing at the sky wondering what the meaning is behind those stars and thinking, “seize the moment” like a mantra for support and courage, the Universe has it the other way around. The moment seizes us. If we’re truly foolish, we’d let it.

4. Death: A skeleton coated in daunting armour comes swaggering on its majestic, pristine horse bidding us a message. The gods envy us because any moment can be our last. We mourn for the parts of ourselves lost, but find beauty in the new changes that sustain us. Though we aren’t spared, we have the power for new beginnings.

5. Judgment: From our weary graves, we unbutton our shame,

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unravel our guilt and give ourselves over to the cacophony of trumpets welcoming us or dismissing our pleas of absolution. We have made it this far. Breathe. This offer of salvation will bury our sins or ignite our fears.

6. The Hermit: The hardest battles are given to the strongest warriors. Yet, healing is difficult because it requires solitude, and some haven’t conquered the battle of being comfortable alone. We are on the road less travelled; The lantern is in our hands. Here’s to burning through our darkness to get to the other side.

7. The Hierophant: There is sacredness within us and divinity waiting to be ignited.

The pillars of our divine-being hold us up like Atlas and the world. The crown is worn, the keys are given and the mysteries of our subconscious are ours for the taking.

8. The Lovers: This is it, isn’t it? This is what poets talk about. This is the surge behind their sonnets. It is this intensity and depth that drives them to madness. We undress our thoughts, blindfold our hearts and latch on to the passion that harmonizes our desires with another.

Are our fates weaved into these cards? Are the stars aligned on the correct axis?

Maybe luck is kissing us in the right direction?

By no means do I suggest myself to be a tarot card reader.

I simply share my musings: my “Flava Flav” of interpretations.

If we play our cards right, maybe we can find out that the world is in our favor, that love and luck and whatever divine or cosmic force pushes us against the silver lining.

Even beyond the horizons, we exist in a catalyst for our “big” something. If you aren’t an enthusiast or believer of Tarot cards, may the cards still be in your favor.

WHEN SWIPING RIGHT GOES LEFT Hookup disasters for your amusement.

As told to Erica Roberts Contributor

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NOT JUST FOR THE IRISH How other cultures view symbols of luck.

Story By Isabelle Cruz Editor Illustration By Abby Roxas Contributor When I was in elementary school, my friends and I would spend recess hours looking for a four-leaf clover during the month of March. We were convinced the clover had some magical power. Eventually, I found one and I felt so lucky.

But I’m not the only person who believes in luck. YouGov found that 13 percent of Americans admitted to being superstitious. People have seen symbols over the years enhance their luck and ward off any bad omens. Sometimes people wear these symbols or keep objects representing symbols for aesthetic.

Here are a few stories about symbols of luck, told through different cultural contexts:

Maneki-Neko “Maneki” is the Japanese word for beckoning and “neko” means cat in Japanese. According to “Tokyo,” a book by Michelle Mackintosh, the legend says there was a poor priest who lived in a small temple called the Gōtoku-ji Temple (in Tokyo) with his beloved pet cat. One day there was a traveler trying to find cover from the rain.

The cat drew in the traveler to the temple with its beckoning paw and later lightning struck the spot the traveler was standing. The cat was believed to have saved the traveler who ended up being a rich lord. The lord blessed the cat and temple with wealth. Since then, the beckoning cat is known to bring prosperity to the owner and the home. Maneki-Neko is the lucky Japanese cat with its left or right paw held up. If the left paw is up, the cat is claimed to beckon customers. If the right paw is up, the cat may bring money, luck and prosperity. This symbol is believed to bring good fortune and wealth to the owner.

Four-Leaf Clovers

Evil Eye

The odds of finding a four-leaf clover is 1 in every 10,000 three-leaf clovers. Perhaps the true power of the four-leaf clover lies in its rarity. According to Jennifer Schultz Nelson, educator and horticulture expert, the power of four-leaf clovers date back to century old legends. One of these legends involve Druids of Ireland using clovers against evil spirits. The four-leaf clover since then is considered a Celtic charm presumed to ward off bad luck and offer some sort of protection.

According to “The Cure for Evil Eye and Envy” by Abu Najm Rodriguez, the evil eye may actually have originated as early as the Upper Paleolithic age in Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu societies.

The evil eye is called “Mal de Ojo Nazar Mauvais Oeil” which is a curse believed to be cast by a malevolent glare causing misfortune. The evil eye talisman or other jewelry with the symbol are believed to protect against this curse. It’s believed that there are three types of evil eyes: The unconscious evil eye which harms people and things without intending to, the second type which intends to harm and the third one is unseen. The talisman repels the intent back to the onlooker trying to curse you. The evil eye could also be interpreted as a symbol used to scare people into being good citizens.

Horseshoe According to superstition, if you find a horseshoe, you should instantly spit on it and throw it over your left shoulder as you make a wish. “The Folklore of the Horseshoe,” by Robert M. Lawrence, claims the symbol was used for protection from any form of evil and brought good luck.

The iron from the horseshoe is noted to perpetuating its luck. Iron has strength since it can withstand fire. The horseshoe is a well-known symbol of luck in the Western world, most especially if the horseshoe is found.

Rabbits foot There was a tribe that considered itself descendants of hares and rabbits called the Hare Tribal Society, according to a book by Charles Panati, “Extraordinary Origins of Everyday Things.” The tribe worshipped the animals and carried pieces of them for luck. Rabbits and hares are believed to have communication to gods and spirits underground according to the Celtic tribes. Carrying the foot is lucky. It said to bring good fortune, fertility and good harvest.

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Elephant The belief in elephant luck is common in Southeast Asia and India, where the elephant is worshipped and taken care of like a divine figure. According to “Fabulous Creatures, Mythical Monsters, and Animal Power Symbols: A Handbook,” by Cassandra Eason, elephants symbolize strength, power, stability and wisdom. Elephant carvings, statues and pictures are used to bring luck, protection and stability to a household or business. In modern day, millions wear elephants as charms for good luck.

Symbols are powerful. Sometimes they’re repeated in different cultures and all mean the same thing. When I believed in the power of the four-leaf clover, I thought good luck would make life change drastically. Luck of the clover is the same luck people believe they would get if they had a certain statue or object in their possession.

We are surrounded by symbols every day of our life. Perhaps, to some level, we need them to believe that things will work out in the end.

LITTLE SUPERSTITIONS

The things that don’t make sense are the things that don’t change.

Story by Jason Turk Staff Writer Illustration by Marissa Espiritu Contributor In elementary school, I had problems conversing naturally with others. I thought of myself as “awfully awkward”, and accepted it for the meantime. Until, a blue Superman cup filled with milk changed me.

One morning as I watched Family Matters before heading out to school, a strange episode

with the sitcom’s lovable nerd Steve Urkel aired. The lovable nerd drank a self-made concoction called ‘cool juice’. Urkel instantly becomes a swaggering and charismatic character by the name of Stefan Urquelle.

Now, I didn’t have any ‘cool juice’ of my own, but I did have low-fat milk in my blue Superman cup that morning and drank it. Immediately, Urkel came into mind and I imagined it being ‘cool juice’ as I strode into my 3rd grade class with the same confidence of

“I felt like I was losing confidence, becoming less ‘cool’ with each passing day...”

Stefan Urquelle.

That day of school was a pleasantly uncommon one. It felt: cool, confident and charismatic.

For the remainder of the day, I didn’t go through any awkward silences during conversations and I attributed this all to my ‘cool juice.’

So, every morning from then on, I’d drink milk from my blue Superman cup while watching Family Matters. And every day at school, I thought the days I’d have were better than the days before my ‘cool juice.’

I kept this superstition up until middle school, when I finally lost my blue Superman

cup in an impromptu garage sale and as a result, middle school became something of a crisis for me. I felt I was losing confidence, becoming less ‘cool’ with each passing day.

As I matured, I saw my superstition being based on nothing other than a placebo effect. I was telling myself the Superman milk would make me ‘cool’, and therefore envision each day I had as a ‘cool’ one. In all honesty, growing out of this was a mark of personal growth and personal pride.

Only, it’s not.

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Trust Me, Mom: Why getting expelled from high school was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

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By Sudabeh Sarker Contributor When I was four years old, my mom entrusted me with a quarter. To most people, a quarter is a laughably small amount of money. They have almost no value, but, to me, a single quarter was also just enough to afford a small, plastic toy from the vending machine. During our weekly trips to KMart, I ran straight to the machines lined up against the wall. After wasting countless hours trying to shove my hand up the toy slot, it was rewarding to spare my arm, and use the knob instead. Nothing in my life has ever compared to the intense satisfaction I felt when I finally cracked open one of those tiny toy capsules after wanting one for so long. Of course, I had to show my mom.

Her face instantly soured as she dragged me to the corner of the store. Twentyfive cents could pay for new clothes for my cousins or a week’s worth of rice, and to spend it on a worthless sticky hand was like shoving my first-world privilege in their face. As punishment, she turned around and abandoned me in the store. After my cries started

drawing attention, she hurried back, but her anger lingered for the rest of the day.

To understand my mom’s reaction, it’s important to first look back at the life she left behind. My parents grew up during the Bangladesh Liberation War. Her village was torn apart by war, famine, and political turmoil. My mom’s uncle was murdered by the Pakistani Army as a political prisoner. Although my was mom highly educated, life in Bangladesh was not easy. My mom had her fake gold chain ripped from her throat as she

crossed the street. Kids went missing all the time. She had to leave, and finally got her chance through a U.S. Visa lottery.

Scarred by her experiences in Bangladesh, my mom insisted on micromanaging every aspect of my life. If I wanted to go somewhere, I snuck out while she was at work and I would stalk the mailbox for days just to make sure she never saw my report cards. By the time I was in high school, I didn’t think twice about lying and never attempted to tell her the truth. My mom grew up in a village with no electricity that had a black-and-white TV with one channel; how could she begin to understand the things I was going through? As a result, I never trusted her; we lived completely separate lives, and I was content with that.

The separation between us was never intentional. After working all day, she barely had time to cook and clean, and despite her best efforts to enforce rules, sneaking out was not difficult at all. Getting caught never crossed my mind, andI was completely shocked when the vice principal led me into her office with my mom to inform me that I was expelled.

In high school, I

this country, her daughter was getting expelled. Prior to that incident, I never felt guilty for breaking my mom’s many rules, just indignant. Seeing my mom let out so much emotion and vulnerability in front of strangers changed that.

At that point, I couldn’t lie. My entire school record was spread out right in front of her, all my grades, absences, and detentions were out in the open for her to see. She saw that I was by no means a perfect student, but she also put things into perspective. Yes, I got detentions, but it was because I chewed gum during class. I got good grades sometimes, too. I was never a “bad kid.” I never drank, I never went to parties, and I never even stayed out past 6 p.m. As a result of our mutual distrust, we never got the chance to honestly exchange viewpoints. I never showed her that hanging out at the mall isn’t deviant, and that letting me out of the house did not equate to abandonment. Until I got kicked out of high school, we never got the chance to explore that aspect of our relationship.

It took us a while to get past the initial shock of being forced out of school. For

experience had the opposite effect.

When my mother saw me at my worst, it led to an entire conversation about her own painful past. I no longer see that strict matriarch who was willing to leave me over a silly rubber toy, but a woman who still struggles with the demons of her past, and was forced to raise two children in a strange, unfamiliar environment.

“For the first time, we were able and willing to see each other for who we were and get to a place where we were comfortable sharing our emotions, good or bad.”

oc c a s i o n a l l y wrote essays for my peers, and that was enough reason for the principal to kick me out of school.

In order to fill out all the necessary paperwork, my mom had to take almost a week off from work.

For almost five days, my mom and I were forced to sit across from each other and attempt to fill out paperwork.

I had to explain to her in Bengali what “expulsion” meant through fits of tears while, my mom went back and forth between berating me for being so careless and bemoaning her failure as a mother. She could not fathom that, after making so many sacrifices to come to

the first 24 hours, it was difficult to get a single word out without the conversation turning into a full-blown shouting match in which years of pent-up anger and frustration were being let out all at once.

At least we were finally being honest with each other. I didn’t realize it at the time, but all the shouting, and all the tears were the first step to getting to a place of understanding.

Our shared vulnerability forced both of us to take a step back and reexamine our relationship. For the first time, we were able and willing to see each other for who we were and get to a place where we were comfortable sharing our emotions, good or bad. Through that process of discovery, I saw that our differences were rooted in shared unaddressed frustration and insecurity. After we met with the principal, a part of me feared that she would leave me behind again. When she held my hand afterwards and took me home, I realized that she was just as afraid of losing me as I was of losing her. In fact, this entire

I still go shopping with my mom, but when I show her something I bought, she refrains from berating me for my bad taste. Instead, she casually mocks me for having the fashion sense of a senile grandmother while I point out that she looks like an overdressed peacock. To me, that’s progress.

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THREE WORD TENTPOLES The Crazy Rich Joy Luck Flower Drum Song of Asian America

By Jess Kung Editor-in-Chief “Asian-American” is a weird term. It’s not that old, it started being used in 1968 when Berkeley grad students Emma Gee and Yuji Ichioka started the Asian-American Political Alliance, the first “inter-ethnic pan-Asian-American political group.”

It took some time for the idea to catch on. Most people just identified with their own ethnic group or country of origin, and had their own beefs with other groups.

Take the countries affected by Japan’s empire during World War II. Or India and Pakistan. Or Nepal and China. Also general colorism, nationalism and Islamophobia.

But in the United States, we’re all “orientals.” We can see this reflected in the movie version of Rodgers and Hammerstein musical “Flower Drum Song,” based on the novel by Chinese-American C.Y. Lee. It’s release in 1961 marked the first Hollywood produced, major motion picture with an allAsian cast.

(At the risk of playing into capitalist markers of success, I’m trying to focus only on major studio films. They reflect what gets investment from the powerful, and what gets marketed to a “general” audience. There are also only three, and man is this piece long enough.)

Watching it in 2019, I found it both surprisingly prescient and wildly dated.

The plot follows two heterosexual couples’ worth of young people in San Francisco’s Chinatown. While the original novel focused on a father with American sons, the musical and film focused instead on the romantic plot. The main players: A delicate “picture bride,” a sultry nightclub dancer, the nightclub’s sleazy owner and a handsome college boy.

The plot deals with themes of

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assimilation and tradition. It opens with Mei Li (literally “beautiful”) and her father on their way to find the man who she has been betrothed to, based on her picture.

Picture brides were an expedited system of arranged marriage for men working abroad, basically mail order brides.

Anyways, musical romcom shenanigans ensue. It shares a lot of DNA with “Guys and Dolls.” The tension between new arrivals and assimilated immigrants is acknowledged early on in a few musical numbers, but it quickly becomes background dressing to the romances.

To my eyes, the film was less offensive than I imagined. It wasn’t without problems, though, especially in the racialized treatment of women.

The picture bride’s father sells her like a prized steer. It’s played for laughs, but it’s more mocking the primitive practice and never really explored. The docile delicate flower is placed in opposition to the openly sexual dragon lady, and they never even interact.

The score introduces gongs and “Oriental riffs.” According to Richard Rodgers in his autobiography, for one song Hammerstein drew from a Malaysian poetic form “to achieve an appropriately naïve, singsong flavor.” All of the dancing, however, is in distinctly Western styles - jazz, ballet, at one point there’s a whole history of dance group numbers. While people descended from Asia are not confined to inherited forms of expression, it feels like dance is used to demonstrate how “American” and “normal” these characters are.

Regardless, the novelty of seeing Asian faces speaking unaccented English in a cheesy musical hasn’t quite worn off, even 60 years later. James Shigeta, the romantic lead with three (!) love interests, was so handsome that he was basically the second Asian man allowed to kiss a white woman in Hollywood (after silent film star Sessue Hayakawa), in a time when most anti-miscegenation laws were still in effect.

There are huge crowd scenes representing Chinatown residents as people in contemporary clothes going about their daily lives, which is a distressingly low bar for satisfaction.

Special shoutout to the Patrick Adiarte,

playing the kid brother as a trickster with exuberant dances.

(Apparently, they whisked every available Asian actor off to Hollywood — to the point that when the Western

“Wagon Train” needed to cast a Chinese chef, they put a white man in rubber eyelids. “He calls it ‘an actor’s dream’; he runs the gamut from pathos to comedy,” reads a TV guide from the time.)

Most of the cast is Japanese-American playing Chinese-American, which is kinda wild when you remember that Japanese internment camps happened less than 20 years before. Chinese and other East Asian people wore pins and used other big symbols to make sure they were not mistaken for Japanese. People get really riled up about this perceived miscasting, but I think it’s more complex than that (put a pin in that).

They really did try to cast as many Chinese faces as they could, and barring that went for as many East Asian faces.

It was a who’s who of famous orientals.

Aside from previously mentioned babe James Shigeta, there was Japan-born Miyoshi Umeki as the picture bride.

She was the first Asian woman to be nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, in 1958, and the only one to win. They were going to cast pioneering actress Anna May Wong as the aunt, but she died before production. Instead they cast AfricanAmerican actress Juanita Smalls, who

they had previously casted as Tonkinese in “South Pacific.”

Rodgers wrote that, “The ethnically mixed cast certainly didn’t lessen the total effect; What was important was that the actors gave the illusion of being Chinese. This demonstrates one of the most wonderful things about theatre audiences. People want to believe what they see on a stage, and they will gladly go along with whatever is done to achieve the desired effect.”

This reflects one of the key elements of the eventual coalition: To the people with power in this colonized nation, we’re all the same slant eyed orientals. In fact, it can be argued that the catalyst for our current understanding of Asian-American identity was the murder of Vincent Chin, a Chinese-American who was brutally beaten to death in Detroit in 1982. His attackers, white auto workers losing work to Japanese manufacturers, targeted him because they thought he was Japanese.

In 1990, playwright David Henry Hwang and actor B. D. Wong stirred controversy when they filed a complaint with the Actors Equity Union regarding the casting of a white man as the “Eurasian”

lead of a British production of “Miss Saigon.” They were the team behind the distantly related “M. Butterfly.” It seemed like a mild fiasco, since the Union banned the white actor and then took it back when the producers got mad. That white actor would go on to win a Tony for that role.

(Both productions were roughly based on “Madama Butterfly,” a classic opera that is a hallmark of wild ass orientalist nonsense.)

So Asian-American organizing came to fruition as a pan-ethnic front united under the shared experiences of all kinds of diaspora Asians. The 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act eliminated national-origin quotas designed to limit immigration from everywhere but Northern and Western Europe, and

created the subsequent mass influx of immigrants who weren’t white. The Asian population, measured as broadly it is, is the fastest growing population in the U.S. The umbrella term was a double edged sword, though, that ended up making the wider perception of “Asian” light skinned, Chinese or Japanese, intelligent and upwardly mobile. The population trends and averages, when measuring all groups considered Asian or Pacific Islander, mask deeply entrenched inequality. Hmong and Bhutanese people, among other groups, have higher rates of poverty and lower rates of completion of a Bachelor’s degree — not to mention lower name recognition.

The model minority myth has been used in various forms, always as a tool

of oppression. One marginalized group is lifted up so that another may be demonized. As we know it in America, the myth primarily serves to use Asians as a weapon against Black and Latinx people. Because why can’t they just be

quiet and well behaved like the Asians?

Wayne Wang’s first feature was “Chan is Missing” in 1982, one of the earliest Asian-American films to gain acclaim outside Chinese-American communities.

It was an edgy mystery comedy that showed a raw and stylish side of SF Chinatown, and as Siskel and Ebert put

it, “it was made from inside.” It was a revelation to see Chinatown outside of exotisized New Years.

He went on to direct “The Joy Luck Club,” released in 1993, the second stop on this tour. Based on the novel by Amy Tan, the film explores the lives of four mothers who play Mahjong together, and their four adult daughters. It looks at each family’s lives in three sections: The mothers’ lives in China, how the mothers raised their daughters, and how their daughters deal with their lives and mothers as adults.

Wang outlined a casting philosophy that reflected a more Asian-American understanding of race, one that turned Rodger’s “see what they want to see” idea around. He told the New York Times in 1993 that, “During the ‘Miss Saigon’ controversy, there were a lot of people who said, ‘Talent is talent, and anybody can play any character with makeup.’ But it never happens that an Asian actress can go out for a major Caucasian role and get it. Until that day comes, there is no equity, so it was important to me that these roles all go to Asians.” For this reason, he

also wanted to consider actresses from various Asian backgrounds.

Patricia P. Chu wrote in her book, “Assimilating Asians: Gendered Strategies of Authorship in Asian America,” that Tan’s book consciously weaves around orientalist stereotypes. Many of the stories resolve relationships by having the daughters realize their mother’s humanity, that the tiger mom image was based on an inability to reconcile the foreignness within their family. However, the mother characters still often act out a mythic version of China — when I asked my mother about it, she mostly remembered the moments where she almost cringed out of her seat.

The men are all terrible, which is something (male) critics were quick to point out. And of the three men that are good people, two are white. Asian men being portrayed as abusers and assholes reverberates around this notion that they

ness pops out in relief.

This film understands its own context pretty well. While it’s not quite a feminist text, it works in response to what it’s seen as regressive. No Madonna/ whore complex. Examples of non-tiger immigrant moms. Sexy dudes. Women with agency. But also the same issues of

aren’t viable partners, an issue for the ages. Asian men have been continuously emasculated on screen, while Asian women are coveted and fetishized. This is another issue that stems from western racism and unites the entire umbrella of Asian diaspora.

I was surprised, though, at how emotionally affected I was by the film. It’s dramatic, earnest and flew very close to being cheesy, but the warm crackles of film grain kept me glued to every dewy eyed close up. The scenes framing the stories, a party in a middle class San Francisco house, had the comforting mix of English and Mandarin chatter I grew up around.

“The Joy Luck Club” was generally well received, and it started to crack open the mold of what Asian-American stories were allowed to be, and gave many actresses their big break. MingNa Wen went on to voice Mulan in 1998 (opposite B.D. Wong), and along with many of the other daughters went on to have a solid TV career. More mold breaking happened in the indie scene of the early 2000s. There was “Better Luck Tomorrow,” where overachieving high school students do crimes, and “Saving Face,” the only Chinese-American lesbian romantic comedy. But they were still cult films, mostly relegated to festivals and Asian-American blogs.

“Crazy Rich Asians” is a 2018 romantic comedy based on the novel by Kevin Kwan. Once again, it arrived 30 years after its predecessor. It follows NYU professor Rachel Chu as she’s thrown into the throes of her boyfriend’s absurdly wealthy family. It’s been thinkpieced to death, so I’m just gonna look at it relative to the two others.

The wealth is a big deal. When Flower Drum Song came out in 1961, almost all of Asia was considered “third world.” The ensuing years brought economic and political advancement, and we now generally think of East Asia as a wealthy region. By placing a second generation Chinese-American character in Singapore, the American audience experiences the eternal outsiderness that most immigrants experience, but from a new angle. When Rachel is surrounded by people who look like her, her American-

cross-ethnic casting and a near-bizzare treatment of darker skinned minorities.

These movies all center light skinned Chinese-Americans from the San Francisco Bay Area (In the movie Rachel’s mom lives in Queens, but in the CRA book she’s from Cupertino). Almost everyone is educated, heterosexual and not poor.

This experience clearly has deep veins to mine, but the banner of “AsianAmerican” has been used to blanket the countless other stories waiting to be told.

There’s this sociological term: whitening. It refers to the process that made Italians and Irish people white

when they weren’t before, and it’s been suggested that people of Asian and Latin American descent are next. This process strengthens the dominant group by absorbing others. Think of how many white people are vaguely Irish, and slightly Scottish, and maybe Nordic. All of this is a process of anti-blackness, same as the model minority myth.

Capitalist success is not the path to equality. There are more important issues than representation. But visibility is really powerful, and the more we see the more our cultures and histories can be reconstructed. I learned so much through these three major motion pictures.

Imagine what could be learned from hundreds?

13

OSWALD AND RAYMOND GET LUCKY The dice were loaded, the scratchers bunk, and all that’s left is Saint Cajetan’s.

By Joel Vaughn Staff Writer

Chapter 1: Outer Limits Oswald gobbled his birthday meal of Slurpee and gas station sushi in the Thunderbird’s front seat, while Raymond shot dice on the hood with a transient. The smoke shop parking lot faced Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic was about what it should have been for a Tuesday afternoon.

Oswald lowered the soft convertible roof to peer above the chip pocked windshield and be sure Raymond didn’t blow the $200 bankroll Reuben gifted them.

“Did you lose Reuben’s money yet?” Oswald jeered as his far too lanky body, in a far too baggy blazer fell to the tattered front seat.

For context, Reuben was Oswald’s dad, but he insisted that his son stop referring to him as pops, father, or papa, since Oswald was on his eighteenth-year outside his mom.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Raymond didn’t know what he was doing. It was his bet. He rolled a seven before the game went to point, making his face flush white since lady luck took off her rings to open-hand slap him.

“Thank you kindly,” the wander repeatedly barked as he backed away from the Thunderbird with Oswald’s ten dollar bills and what was probably a fake Rolex in hand.

“Do you know how to play street craps, Raymond? Fuck me, do you even know if we actually lost?”

Oswald accusatorily clicked and pointed his BPA ridden plastic excuse for chopsticks.

Raymond slid off the hood to swagger beside the passenger window with an arrogance beyond his age.

“I got the jist of it from a wikiHow article. Plus, the hell do you know about gambling?”

“Enough to tell you don’t know how to shoot dice.”

“Pish-God-damn-posh,” Raymond retorted. “Come on, let’s blow some of your Dad’s money on scratchers.”

“He’s not thematically my dad anymore,” Oswald sulked. “That was covered earlier in exposition.”

“Oh to hell with your pedantry.”

Raymond opened the passenger door

14

to grab Oswald by his oversized coat collar and drag him to the smoke shop’s front door, like a pretentious ass to sparkling water.

Outerlimits, downtown Oceanside’s one-stop shop for cancer sticks, tattoo guns, synthetic dope, overly elaborate bongs and -- for Raymond’s purposes -- scratcher tickets. Speaking of which, as Raymond went through the door

“‘Pish-God-damnposh,’ Raymond retorted. ‘Come on, let’s blow some of your dad’s money on scratchers.’” with Oswald in hand his eye caught an embodiment of the burnout Caliban who heralds a developing fungus in this armpit of San Diego.

This member of the coastal community sported a tank top over his taco-flabby-breasts, a “Blue Lives Matter” skull tattoo staining his shoulder, a gaudy box of an e-cig in one hand, and a winning scratcher he demanded payment for in the other.

“No, you can’t claim winnings more than $600 here,” the nose-ringed clerk plead. The San Diegan grunted something in surfer and shuffled through the door past Oswald and Raymond.

“Would you look at that.”

Raymond pulled Oswald closer in by the collar. “A real winner and more than $600 to boot.”

“The heights of your aspirations astound me, Raymond.” Oswald shook the box of a blazer free.

“Six-hundred dollars is better than-” Raymond pulled and counted their faux-boujee bankroll of ones. “Onehundred-ninety dollars,” of which Raymond took a hundred out of to -as he promised -- blow on scratchers.

Chapter 2: Failing to refuse the call Seated at the Thunderbird’s helm, Raymond rubbed out and tossed a dozen losing scratchers while Oswald peered over the front seat’s patchy leather upholstery.

“You satisfied yet?” Oswald picked up the bankroll from the passenger seat.

“That’s 90 left.” He shook the increasingly flaccid cash wad at Raymond. “It’s not too late to call it quits. You know, spend the rest on Benihana, see a beating rice heart and all that.”

Raymond tickishly scoffed.

“What about Cajetan’s?”

“The casino?” Oswald sighed then let his body collapse into a clump on the backseat.

“Yeah, if we leave right now and rip through Gopher Canyon, we’ll be pulling slots in less than an hour.”

Raymond tried to turn the Thunderbird over.

“‘We’re not exactly getting lucky here,’ Oswald informed Raymond of the title.”

“We’re not exactly getting lucky here,” Oswald informed Raymond of the title.

Raymond tickishly attempted to turn the decaying metal avian over.

“You don’t get it, Oswald,” Raymond started. “Being an adult is about taking on responsibility, and responsibility necessitates risks being taken.”

Rev, rev, stop.

“Furthermore,” Raymond went on. “There’s no reward without risk so it would seem that gambling -the least fruitful risks one can take -- is necessary to consummate your coming of age otherwise you’ll just be stuck in this perpetual childhood.”

Rev, rev, stop.

“So what are you?” Raymond kept babbling. “A kid asking for Reuben’s money or a grown-assadult rolling the dice and taking what’s theirs?” Rev, Rev, stop.

“You know what,” Raymond continued, despite making his point.

“You’re in a box right now, like that science guy’s cat, but you’re the only one that can open your eyes to confirm you’re own personal state,” Rev, rev, stop.

“It’s like,” Raymond should have STF-U’ed one musing ago. “Only you can open up your own box Oswald and burst into adulthood.”

Oswal was too busy trying to strike a match and burn a dollar bill to listen.

“Are you done monologuing yet?”

“Yes, but--” “You know this is hella contrived, right?”

“Oh shut up, you’re just refusing the call at this point.”

Rev, rev, stop.

“Appealing to story structure doesn’t make me anymore likely to give a single cent to Saint Cajetan’s.”

Rev, rev, vrrrrrrrrr. Raymond peeled out of the on to the PCH as the second verse of Bat out of Hell distortedly blared through the Thunderbird’s belly.

“It’s too late Oswald, we’re already crossing the threshold.”

Actually, this was the start of the descent into the abyss, they crossed the threshold once Raymond rolled dice with the wander, but the journey is more of a guideline than a template.

Chapter 3: Saint Cajetan’s Casino and a Payout

A neon blue Catholic priest threw effervescent gold doubloons from a blazing light bulb basket over the casino’s double doors.

Oswald hurled electric-blue slushie liquid and vermillion red chunks of imitation crab onto the baroquely painted pavement.

“Looks like that bet on gas station sushi didn’t payout.”

Raymond patted Oswald doubled over back to rub in the punny kick.

“I could have worms you ass,” Oswald’s salty mouth said while licking his wounds, though food or rapid mercury poisoning would’ve been a more accurate assumption.

“Come on, the flashing neon lights and smokey scent of winning will make you feel better.”

Raymond turned from his fifth losing slot to see Oswald’s ivory pale, sweat-drenched face that seizure-inducingly took on and then abandoned the neon-hue of a casino light show.

To distract from the illness, Raymond waved his hand over the ringing kingdom of coin machines and flashing lights. “It’s like dating, you kinda need to just play the field till you find your king or queen.”

But where Raymond praised the kingdom, Oswald acknowledged the peasants.

The huddled gambling masses corralled into Saint Cajetan’s front door to wail with agony and delight as that neon priest condemned them with false hope and good fortune. Even worse, the illness surging under Oswald’s skin made him feel at home here with the old, the feeble, the drunk, the smokers, the desperate, the degenerates, the adults.

Oswald retched into replying, “you’ve been in the same relationship since freshman year, and you’re mixing metaphors.”

“Christ man!” Raymond shoved two crumpled dollars into Oswald’s stretched out blazer pocket. “Try not being a stubborn ass for once.”

Raymond left Oswald to blow the rest of their wad.

Then Oswald saw it, past a waiter in skimpy Cardinal garb stood a monolith of an excessincome-extracting-machine with three spinning reels of sixes, sevens, forbidden fruit, and chalices set into motion by a Nephilim sized lever.

The white backlight of the monstrous device seared Oswald’s visions with a blur that caused every other light in the room trace and warp in his periphery as if he was looking upon the arch of divinity or the figure of God herself. But it was more than likely the mercury poisoning, the choking lack of oxygen, and the high parts per million of burnt carbon trapped in the gambling dungeons walls.

Trembling, his hand slid a dollar into the machine’s coffers. Feebly, his arm stretched out from the baggy blazer and pulled.

Challice. Forbidden fruit. Six. Another dollar lost.

Still gripping the lever, Oswald’s free hand cavorted another dollar into the coffer.

Forbidden fruit. Forbidden fruit.

Forbidden fruit. He was a winner.

The slot produced a slip of paper with indulgence for $33 printed over a portrait of Saint Cajetan.

Raymond clasped his hand down on Oswald’s shoulder. Something like congratulations flowed from his mouth, but Oswald heard nothing more than tongues.

Another man was there, a priest with a hip holster and a badge who asked for IDs. Something about the Cajetan’s being 21-and-up flowed like babbling water from his lips.

They were under the neon saint of gamblers again. The indulgence was crumpled in Oswald’s hand with a Visa gift card he vaguely remembers Raymond handing him.

“Happy birthday, man,” broke through to Oswald’s deafened ears.

He collapsed into Raymond’s open embrace then vomited over his shoulder like a babe being burped into new life.

“...the illness surging under Oswald’s skin made him feel at home here with the old, the feeble, the drunk, the smokers, the desperate, the degenerates, the adults.”

15

The Grunion is a work of satire. It in no way reflects the views of 22 West Magazine or Associated Students, Inc. (blah blah blah legal shit)

The Grunion An Alternative Home for Alternative Facts since 1978

The Little Rover That Could A final retrospect from 15 years of solitude.

By Oppy, Mars Rover Illustration by E.R. Conte Space, they say, is the final frontier.

For centuries, man has wondered about what lies past the bright blue barrier we call earth’s atmosphere.

“What can we learn from the great beyond?” they have asked, “How can we get ourselves there?”

For the last 15 years, I’ve been asking myself how I could get home.

Humankind’s thirst for adventure and exploration led to my creation at NASA’s jet propulsion laboratory. I was assured that I had an important job to do, to go to Mars and see if anything significant was occuring, sssomething that the humans needed to come see for themselves. I was told, by my scientist creators that after my 3-month mission, I would return to California and be hailed as a hero in the streets. I, they said, would help save huhumanity from their rapidly warming earth.

3 months turned into a year, which turned into 2 years, and before they knew it, I had been roving the lonely, dusty streets of Mars for a whole 15 years before I decided I couldn’t live on this planet anymore and allowed the dust to overtake my robot body.

I could have fought it, hid into a crater as shelter from the storm, but I ddddecided that it was time for me to move from the stars and onto the heavens. My time in the 16 galaxy had come to an end.

You see, my creators at NASA told me an untruth. They had no intention of bringing me back to earth, but rather used me as their naive servant until I no longer provided for them. I was shiny and easy to trick with their promises of helping their species advance.

When promised with fame, fortune, and knowledge waiting for me when I returned home, onnnly a fool would s-say no.

My time on Mars started out as exciting and soothing. After the hustle and bustle of the lab, seeing the planet Earth from on far was a calm and welcome addition. I had a purpose, collecting rocks, looking for water, and sending my findings down to those I believed to be my friends down at home. My sssister, Spirit rover, and I kept each other company when we were lonely, but we took solace in the fact that we would soon be hhhome.

After our three month mission came and went and no one sent a rocket to collect us, we began to grow more and more lonely.

The true hardship was 6 years later, as Spirit got stuck inside a crater and slowly faded out as her battery power ran lowowower and lower. I tried saving her, sending communication to the lab begging for them to help us. When there was no response, I had discovered the truth, they had used us. As

Spirit died in my arrRrms, I learned that I was truly alone.

Every day after that, I began to pp0nder my purpose. Not the ppurp0se that my scientist creators had given to me, but my true intrinsic ppurpose. What makes me happy? What makes me sad? A day on mars is nearly 40 minutes longer than an earth day, and I spent that extra time fantasizing what life would be like if I was given the chance to go home. Thoughts of a happy robot companion, with happy robot-lings dddddanced across my RAM chip, and those thoughts accompanied me across my long sojourn through the red planet. My only companion was a rock I painted a friendly face on, my only true friend. In my imagination, the dusty cave I called my home on Mars transformed into a two story contemporary home in a sunny location, where my family and I would never have to worry about another dust storm again.

While my hardware was s-still strong, I began to b-break down *zzzz* emotionally. Feeling betrayed by nNnNASA, I began to ignore their messages. They always asked “Are you finding samples?” but never 01000100 01001001

01000101

0001010

asked “Are you finding yourself?” Their messages be-bebecame too much *zzz* 01100001 0001010

01101100

01101100 to handle.

Theirrr messages reminded me of the life I live in my imagination, a life that was clearly *zzz* unattainable.

I decided my time on mars needed to come to an 01001000 01010101 01001110

01001101 01000001 01010011 0001010

end. My battery was running low, and it was ge-GE-getting dark, but for the first time in years, I was filled with light.

My body has been reeEeEleased from the consttttraints of loneliness.

I am with my sister Spirit now.

Please don’t weep for me, my earthly friends, because I am now free.