In his Pulitzer Prize winning memoir, Stay True, Hua Hsu writes (p.15):

Opium Wars devastated southeastern China, right around the time when cheap labor was needed in the American West. In the 1840s and 1850s, shiploads of Chinese men left the war-torn Guangdong province for the U.S., lured by promises of work. They laid railroad tracks, mined gold, and went wherever they were needed. Yet this was the limit of their mobility. Sequestered in the cities’ most run-down districts by byzantine legal codes and social pressure-and without the means (and sometimes desire) to return home-they began building self-sustained Chinatowns to feed, protect, and care for one another. By the 1880s, the American economy no longer needed cheap foreign labor, resulting in exclusionary policies that limited Chinese immigration for decades.

These dynamics of push and pull were still in play when the Immigration Act of 1965 relaxed restrictions on entry from Asia, at least for people who might have something concrete to contribute to American society. There was a perception among policy makers that America was losing the science and innovation side of the cold war, so the country welcomed grad students like my parents. And who knew what the future held in Taiwan? In the New World, things seemed in a constant ascent. My parents weren’t drawn to the United States by any specific dream, just a chance for something different. Even then, they understood that American life is unbounded promise and hypocrisy, faith and greed, new spectrums of joy and self-doubt, freedom enabled by enslavement. All of these things at once.

Mr. George Freeman is obviously living The Good Life. At 96, he still swings “Up and Down” on his guitar with his band. His low notes are airy and hypnotizing. Even he plays the blues on “Lowe Groovin’,” he never used feedback or vibrato. He just keeps it cool. “Sister Tankersley” is another blues beauty. On the title track, which closes out the album, Mr. Freeman showcases his intoxicating fusion chops. I love every track on this album.

Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower
and snowshoes, maple and seeds, samara and shoot,
enough chiaroscuro, enough of thus and prophecy
and the stoic farmer and faith and our father and tis
of thee, enough of bosom and bud, skin and god
not forgetting and star bodies and frozen birds,
enough of the will to go on and not go on or how
a certain light does a certain thing, enough
of the kneeling and the rising and the looking
inward and the looking up, enough of the gun,
the drama, and the acquaintance’s suicide, the long-lost
letter on the dresser, enough of the longing and
the ego and the obliteration of ego, enough
of the mother and the child and the father and the child
and enough of the pointing to the world, weary
and desperate, enough of the brutal and the border,
enough of can you see me, can you hear me, enough
I am human, enough I am alone and I am desperate,
enough of the animal saving me, enough of the high
water, enough sorrow, enough of the air and its ease,
I am asking you to touch me.

Ada Limón

A couple of weeks ago, I lost a pair of my prescription glasses. Yesterday, I lost another pair. I am at the age where I need the string to stop me from losing my glasses.

Wave of sorrow,
Do not drown me now:

I see the island
Still ahead somehow.

I see the island
And its sands are fair:

Wave of sorrow,
Take me there.

Langston Hughes

Coi takes it back to the old school with a new twist. “My Body” is Leray’s reinterpretation of Lesley Gore’ “It’s My Party” with the chorus changed to: “It’s my body, I could fuck who I want to.” “Players” is a rejuvenating sample of Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five’s “The Message.” Leray has filthy-ass lyrics to go with her dope-ass flow: “If you ain’t gettin’ money, I ain’t fuckin’ with you / Go and grab your calculator / Go and pop that pussy like a percolator.” I can bop with that.

My biggest summer worry is that the boys will spend the whole day on their devices, especially Đạo and Đán. Xuân is on a swim team and he goes to practice every day. He competes almost every Saturday. He likes to go to the skatepark with me. He also wants to join soccer camp; therefore, my wife signed him and his older brothers up as well.

Đạo and Đán protested so I made them a deal. Instead of playing soccer, they have to write everyday. Đán has to write at least 300 words. Đạo has to write 500 words. They can write whatever they like. They can write whatever on their mind. They can curse. They can talk shit about their dad. If they quit writing, they will be banned from their devices for the rest of the summer. They took the deal.

I am looking forward to reading Đạo’s and Đán’s daily blogging this summer. Of course, I am writing too to keep up with them.

How lucky we are
That you can’t sell
A poem, that it has
No value. Might
As well
Give it away.

That poem you love,
That saved your life,
Wasn’t it given to you?

Gregory Orr

Reading Hua Hsu’s memoir gives me nostalgia. Hsu is 45, my age; therefore, we listened to the same hip-hop songs from the early 90s. We were raised by Asian-immigrant parents. We had similar experiences growing up. Hsu had Ken and I had Đức.

When I first met Đức in high school, he embarrassed me. His jokes, his accents, and his hustlings somewhat irritated me. He bought stolen TI calculators from the Black kids for $10 or $20 a pop and resold it for $50. He sold me one for $30 so I was part of the problem. He was known for copying pre-calculus homeworks from our Vietnamese group. I often wondered how he would survive college if we were around to let him copy our homeworks. I would never find out.

Despite all of his flaws, Đức was a charming guy. Outside of the school, he was street smart. Our friendship grew. I welcomed him into our crew, which included my two Vietnamese friends I had known since middle school. To keep the story short, Đức drowned in a boating accident. He, his girlfriend, and I were in the same canoe. I can’t remember if there was a fourth person on it. The canoe flipped over when we stood up and clowning around. I was not a good swimmer; therefore, I grabbed a hold of the canoe. With the help of other friends from another canoe, we flipped the canoe over. His girlfriend and I got back on, but Đức was nowhere to be found. We thought he was pulling a prank at first. Two, three, four, five minutes later, we started to worry.

Like Hsu, I felt guilty about Đức’s death. It was also the first loss of someone so close to me. The incident haunted me many years later. Ken, Hsu’s friend, was tortured and brutally murdered. It is such a heartbreaking story.

Hsu won a Pulitzer Prize for this memoir. It’s a concise, heartfelt, page-turning read.

Her eyes are narrow, her hips jut out:
a replica of every girl we’ve ever known.
He kisses her mouth hard with tongue & spit.
I hated the way she bossed me, the way
she was a woman & i was still a girl.
Raw tobacco swayed in the barn.
You just a baby, she tells me
her voice sounding like pity
her hand flapping in the wind like her mother’s.

Crystal Wilkinson