Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Quite simply, a redirection to my cancer blog: http://cancerfuckingsucks.blogspot.ca/2015/10/what-being-cancer-survivor-means-to-me.html

Not Yet

I have been wrapped up in my cocoon. Some might say I’ve been isolating or that I’m being a hermit. I guess you could say that. I prefer to say “cocoon” because I always hope to come out better when I do emerge. Somehow whilst cocooning, things have gotten done. I’m truly amazed by how this happens, but I have to give credit to those around me who prop me up when I can barely stand on my own, literally.

This summer was a whirlwind of readings and events. I was on a total adrenaline rush, traveling with my family and having readings at cancer organizations, bookstores, cafes, and universities. We got to be part of Catalyst Foundation’s Vietnam Culture Camp (see previous posts), which was an amazing experience (that we hope to be given the opportunity to repeat one day). My mom and sister even came to one of my readings. But when we returned to Vancouver, my body crashed. It said, “Fuck you, you crazy sonofabitch.” Yeah, sometimes my body and my mind have these arguments. Truth is, my body is aging at a much faster rate than I would like it to, even in the whole scheme of the 8 years of having dealt with cancer. I find myself checking in with my body moment by moment, it seems, asking “We still good? Just a little more, okay?”

The last few days, my husband Anton and daughter Moxie have been traveling in New England for some readings. I have been honoured to be asked to speak to students and professors at the University of Connecticut and for the Five Colleges, at UMass Amhearst (in the Yuri Kochiyama Room, which had special meaning to me, as I edited Yuri’s memoir over a decade ago). Professors Cathy Schlund-Vials, Iyko Day, and Caroline Yang (whom I met way back when I was a graduate student at UCLA visiting my Boston College friends–small world!) all gave me the warmest reception. As always, it was wonderful to read to the new generation of undergraduates, some of whom related tremendously to the work I’ve done, especially mixed race Asian American students and those interested in the legacies of the Vietnam War. Today, I get to go down the runway, albeit in a wheelchair because my foot is still healing from surgery and is not well enough to walk in the Pradas I insist on wearing, for a fashion show fundraiser event for Asian Women for Health in Cambridge, MA. Our little 4-year-old Moxie is especially excited to go to the fashion show in her new tutu that vomits glitter everywhere she goes.

My boobs, or rather an artistic reproduction of them, are up for sale at the Art or Bust auction in Vancouver, with proceeds going to the organization, Rethink Breast Cancer, an organization for young women with breast cancer. You can check out the works of art here (mine are the middle pair in the right column): https://www.facebook.com/artorbustproject

These opportunities are a wonderful blessing, but they also challenge my desire to keep going, even when I should stop and take a rest. And I need to take a lot of rests. That fucking sucks, to be honest. As I come upon my 40th birthday next month, I want to keep going as much as possible, do as much as I possibly can, and believe me there is a whole shitload of things I want to do. On my list:

  1. Write second memoir.
  2. Write poetry collection companion to second memoir.
  3. Catch up on my backlog of editing projects–worthwhile manuscripts and stories that need to be put out there to be read.
  4. Go to Vietnam to help out with the Agent Orange survivors movement and other humanitarian projects.
  5. Read/write/speak French and Vietnamese more and better.
  6. Raise three kids with empathy and activism and confidence in their hearts and minds. And bake them more bread and cookies.
  7. Start my tarot and snail facial business. (Who wouldn’t want to have their cards read AND have snails crawling all over their faces to benefit from the anti-aging properties of snail slime at the same time?)
  8. Love, love and more love. Can never have too much of that.
  9. Collaborate with someone awesome on a screenplay of my memoir.
  10. Teach more writing workshops, take my vitamins everyday without fail, and eat more fibre.

There’s more, but that’s the gist of it. I think. So come on, body…keep up with my mind. And come on mind, keep on keeping up as much as you can. As my friend Wayson Choy always tells me, I’m not done yet.

Poem: August Rain

At some anonymous minute at five in the morning
I sit on a white stool on a black aluminum-gated balcony,
watching the orange glow of the street lamp in our alley.
My husband says that a South Asian family lives in the house
where lights come on just now and a shadow robotically prepares coffee.
I imagine Dad sitting here like I am, smoking a cigarette, already knowing
all the neighbours’ daily and nightly routines. He’d know their names,
how many kids they have, where they came from, if they were nice
or assholes, if they sold weed. And they’d know him—
the friendly chain-smoking American Vietnam veteran
whose daughter never comes out of the house because
she’s writing another book. They’d know
she was ill all the time, has three kids,
and her no-good ex-husband cheated on her when she got cancer.
They’d know that this American and his wife were from Pennsylvania
and this American hated Vancouver because he’s from
the country—American country—and it’s too rainy
and noisy and expensive here.

Turn my head to the left to figure out the distribution
of orange glows. One at every second house.

The crows are usually here, squawking out their morning roll call,
but they are keeping dry in the thick of some evergreen.

The rain woke me up. In the city that always rains,
we haven’t had much of it lately. Some are waking up
to the gentle knocking of an old friend, one who rarely goes on vacation
and is back. Even Dad wouldn’t have minded this rain.

The glitter of wet gravel,
the silky reflection of the orange glow on the roof of the doghouse,
wetness, light
dancing in the dark and otherwise.

Dad never visited this house.
We moved here when he died.
Coincidentally.
Or by design—something knowing we would need a new start.
Yet this is where his ashes lie—
in a house he never knew in the city that always cries.

It’s the wrong season to remember Dad.
It wasn’t sunny much when he was here.
But the rain woke me up
to sit on my balcony, and listen.

5 Rules of Loving the Game of Creative Writing, For All Ages
1. There’s no right or wrong in writing your story, not even grammar or spelling (on the first draft anyway).
2. Write small. One word leads to another. Each word is a seed.

3. People are characters, even people in real life, even you! Write them how you see and hear them and yourself.

4. Use your five senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. This is really fun to do when creating a scene. Carrying a notebook or journal wherever you go helps you jot down ideas that come to you, or interesting things that you see or conversations that you hear.

5. Have fun! This isn’t school writing. This is creative writing. Pay attention to your world and write about it.

*Optional Rule: write in a journal every day. This helps you to keep a record of your thoughts that you can use when you go to think about and write your stories.

Kindergarten and First Grade

1. Think of a story that you want to tell about your life. If you’re having a hard time of thinking of something, think about Culture Camp and the time you spent making friends and learning about Vietnamese culture. (3 minutes)

2. Now close your eyes and imagine your story played out on a big screen in a movie theatre. I’ll tell you when to open your eyes (3 minutes).

3. Open your eyes and right away, right down all the words you can think of to describe what you saw in the movie in your head. You can also draw a picture and write words to go along with it. (10 minutes).

4. Now take your words and pictures, and write at least three sentences to start your story. If you’re having trouble finding the words you want to write, ask me for help. (5 minutes)

Congratulations! You’ve started writing a story about your life. I want to read more. Set aside at least 20 minutes and do this little exercise a couple times a week. You’re on your way to being a published writer!

With the help of your parents, email me at brandy@rabbitfoolpress.com to share your stories, get writing advice, and ask me any questions you have about writing.

Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Grades

1. Brainstorm stories and ideas about your life. Write as quickly as possible, and don’t worry if the words are spelled correctly or anything like that. Just write as fast as your brain and hand will go. If you’re having a hard time of thinking of something, think about Culture Camp and the time you spent making friends and learning about Vietnamese culture. (5 minutes)

2. Look at your list and think about what from it you want to focus on writing at the moment. Perhaps it’s one thing on your list, or maybe you want to combine two or more things in a story. Hint: if you’re going to pick more than one thing from your list, they don’t necessarily have to be things that occur in the same time period. You can be a time traveller. Circle the things on your list that you want to write about now. Oh yeah…keep your list! You can use it later for more stories and even add to it. (5 minutes)

3. Now close your eyes and imagine your story played out on a big screen in a movie theatre. I’ll tell you when to open your eyes (5 minutes).

4. Open your eyes and right away, right down all the words you can think of to describe what you saw in the movie in your head. You can also draw a picture and write words to go along with it. (5 minutes).

5. Now take your words and pictures, and write at least five sentences to start your story. If you’re having trouble finding the words you want to write, ask me for help. (5 minutes)

Congratulations! You’ve started writing a story about your life. I want to read more. Set aside at least 25 minutes and do this little exercise a couple times a week. You’re on your way to being a published writer!

With the help of your parents, email me at brandy@rabbitfoolpress.com to share your stories, get writing advice, and ask me any questions you have about writing.

Sixth Grades and Beyond

The writing exercise that I describe above for younger children is quite honestly the basis of my particular process for creative writing but tailored toward their beginning language and writing skills and attention spans (not to say I have a bigger attention span than a second grader…). So I will repeat it here, but give you more time for each part of the exercise to develop your writing because I know you can do it. If I can do it, anybody can. 🙂

1. Brainstorm stories and ideas about your life. Write as quickly as possible, and don’t worry if the words are spelled correctly or anything like that. Just write as fast as your brain and hand will go. If you’re having a hard time of thinking of something, think about Culture Camp and the time you spent making friends and learning about Vietnamese culture. (10 minutes)

2. Look at your list and think about what from it you want to focus on writing at the moment. Perhaps it’s one thing on your list, or maybe you want to combine two or more things in a story. Hint: if you’re going to pick more than one thing from your list, they don’t necessarily have to be things that occur in the same time period. You can be a time traveller. Circle the things on your list that you want to write about now.. Oh yeah…keep your list! You can use it later for more stories and even add to it. (10 minutes)

3. Now close your eyes and imagine your story played out on a big screen in a movie theatre. I’ll tell you when to open your eyes (5-10 minutes).

4. Open your eyes and right away, right down all the words you can think of to describe what you saw in the movie in your head. You can also draw a picture and write words to go along with it. (10 minutes).

5. Now take your words and pictures, and write at least ten sentences to start your story. (10 minutes)

Congratulations! You’ve started writing a story about your life. I want to read more. Set aside at least 45 minutes and do this little exercise a couple times a week. You’re on your way to being a published writer!

Email me at brandy@rabbitfoolpress.com to share your stories, get writing advice, and ask me any questions you have about writing.

I was asked to be a presenter at this amazing Vietnam Culture Camp for adoptees from Vietnam and their families, through this incredible organization called the Catalyst Foundation. After only one day of activities and meeting some families, I’m blown away by what the people behind this organization do both here in North America and in Vietnam. My family and I are honoured to have been invited to be part of this community.

As part of my presentation tomorrow morning, I’m offering an optional writing exercise for parents to get their creative juices flowing while also reflecting the weight that storytelling has had on their lives. You can also give this exercise a try. So here’s the exercise.

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

As parents, we decide what stories we tell our children as we raise them. We also reflect on the stories our parents did or did not tell us when we were children. As we reflect on our childhood and what was told to us and what we found out despite the silences, we must consider how our past has influenced what decisions we make about what to pass on to our children. 
1. Brainstorm what stories that were told to you when you were growing up that stuck with you and made an impact.

2. Think about the questions you had about those stories but were too afraid or hesitant to ask. Write down these questions.

3. Why were you told these stories? Write down your thoughts.

4. Now think of things that weren’t talked about but of which you had a little knowledge. Did you try to find out more, or did you just keep these bits to yourself? Write about that.

5. Given all that you have written so far, consider how your childhood history of storytelling influences what you do or do not divulge to your children.

6. If you feel strongly about not sharing stories with your children, write about why that is. If you do share stories with your children, write about your reasons.

7. Write about some questions you anticipate your children having about their history and yours.

8. What is your goal or desired outcome for sharing stories?

9. Lastly, based on all that you have written thus far, I want you to write a creative nonfiction piece. Pick a story from your childhood and your reflection on it, and link it to how you plan on passing on a poignant story with your children. Be descriptive, vivid, and authentic. Use your five senses. Create dialogue. Watch the movie and slideshow in your mind in order to create scenes and settings. And don’t limit yourself to prose. If you have poetic leanings, go with that and write a poem. Or do a combination of genres. The only rule is to tap into the authenticity and poignancy of your story~~of how you took the stories in and how you’ll pass them on.

In April I had the privilege of returning to one of my alma maters, UCLA, to do a talk about my memoir. It was so touching and humbling to hear one of my mentors and friends make this intro to my talk. I’d like to share it here with you.

* * *

It is with tremendous joy, pride, and warm affection that I want to welcome, on behalf of the Department of Asian American Studies, Brandy Liên Worrall, our alumnus and the author of a newly published memoir What Doesn’t Kill Us.

Brandy’s memoir is a truly impressive milestone in her writing career: it tells—with passion, candor, and insights—of the interwoven stories of the personal, the historical, and the political, from the intersections between war and culture, race and selfhood, artistry and structures of feeling, and memory and imagination.

What Doesn’t Kill Us is also a book of courage, resilience, trauma, and, to use a title from David Wong Louie’s stories, “pangs of love.” Brandy’s memoir has been published by the Rabbit Fool Press, a family owned and operated publishing company based in Vancouver, of which she is the editor.

Prior to Brandy’s publication of this memoir, she had already put out eight collections of poetry, and served as editor of numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies, most notably as the associate editor of Amerasia Journal, the leading journal on Asian American Studies in the country from 2002 to 2005. Brandy received an MFA degree in creative writing from the University of British Columbia in 2012.

I came to know Brandy in 1999, when she entered UCLA’s Asian American Studies graduate program as a first-year student. I was given the assignment of serving as her interim advisor. It was a temporary faculty role designed to assist new graduate students in familiarizing themselves with UCLA’s campus culture and the rhythms of UCLA academic life. And I was immediately struck by Brandy’s exceptional excellence as a young scholar, especially her intellectual energy and curiosity, her ability to engage in critical thinking and analysis, and, above all, her evident creative promise and artistic bent. To my great delight, Brandy eventually found her way to working with Professor Thu-Huong Nguyen-Vo, and, under the guidance of her, Professor Valerie Matsumoto, Professor Shu-mei Shih, and Professor Russell Leong, completed an impressive Master’s thesis titled “Feeling Implied: the Uncanny World of Hapa Writers and Their Families.”

In 2003, Brandy published an important piece in Amerasia Journal, in which she gave a fascinating account of her own family—her white Vietnam vet father, her Vietnamese immigrant mother, and her biracial self growing up in a rural Pennsylvania Dutch community. As Professor Nguyen-Vo observes in her introduction to that piece, Brandy does not use the occasion just to talk about her own ethnic identity, or to explore a vague sense of exilic displacement, or to reflect on the ambiguities of her cross-cultural heritages. Rather, she unveils in in that piece of writing the distance traversed by many Vietnamese immigrants, one that stretches itself between Vietnam and the US, between Long An and Mifflintown, between outsider and insider in American society, and between enemy and family in people’s imagination.

I consider Professor Nguyen-Vo’s comment on Brandy’s 2003 piece a useful background for our appreciation for Brandy’s memoirs, which is for me also fundamentally concerned with an odyssey that the she continues to embark on, to make sense of, and to triumph over—socially, historically, and emotionally.

Later and Always

Pappy, Dad & Mammy, Mifflintown, PA, 1969.

Pappy, Dad & Mammy, Mifflintown, PA, 1969.

My life is writing my books for me. When I began thinking about my family stories when I was around 20 years old, and my sister started divulging traumatic family secrets, I felt an urgency to give voices to those who have been silenced, not just the dead but also the living. It has been apparent since What Doesn’t Kill Us has been published that indeed, the voices in the book have prompted readers to speak up, to make connections, to no longer feel silenced or alone. That’s the healing power of writing. I should know. Healing has been a life-long process for me.

Today I’m preparing for another reading, where people will come and listen to the stories that I’ve composed out of my life, the stories that tell people that they have mattered. Even short stories of people who have mattered so much–like my grandfather, or Pappy as we all called him, who died last Saturday. Pappy appears only once in my book, as the loving grandfather who liked to joke and tease and make his wife, granddaughter, and anyone else around him laugh. That small presence between the pages of my book looms large in the wake of Pappy’s death. Pappy was only 17 years old when my father was born, so they were also the best of friends in addition to being father and son. And when my father passed away 17 days after the diagnosis of metastatic lung cancer due to Agent Orange exposure, Pappy’s spirit began to fade. It was so very clear; we all witnessed it. Pappy couldn’t exist in this world without Lee. One of my cousins who was with Pappy during his last days said that a few days before Pappy died, he reached up his arms and said, “Come closer. I can’t reach you, Lee.” My heart broke and was comforted all at once when I heard this. In a few days, he would reach my dad–his son and best friend.

Sometimes we have time to say goodbye, and sometimes we do not. Pappy said goodbye to my grandmother, Mammy, when he asked that she come in to see him at the nursing home, and he landed a big kiss on her lips, and said, “I love you, Sweetheart. I’ll see you later.” I’ll see you later. I think of how my youngest child Moxie doesn’t like to say goodbye. So people say to her, “I’ll see you later,” to which she always shouts, “I don’t like see you later too!” Separation is one of the hardest things, I think, but we have to believe that there is a later, in some sort of way, even if it’s not concrete or something we can touch and hold.

I didn’t have time to say goodbye to my dad on March 27th, 2014. We thought we would. When he was given his diagnosis on March 10th, the doctors told us without hesitation that he would have 4-6 months, and we thought that even that was a rip-off. Suddenly, you have an expiration date. The word “deadline” becomes literal. And the day that my uncle Pen and I struggled to put my dad into the car to take him to the VA hospital, we didn’t know that that was supposed to be goodbye or see you later. No, I didn’t get to say “see you later, Dad.” And with the geographical distance between me and Pappy, I didn’t get to say “see you later” to him either.

So this is the best that I can do: accept my audience as a blessing. Keep my loved ones’ memories alive. Honour them. Each and every one of them. Even the ones that do not make it into the picture frames into the altars. Go through the hope chests of memories, dig through the trunks in the attics that are riddled with wasp nests for remnants of what used to be important to them. Examine those relics. Hold them in my hands. Cherish them. Feel the energy that used to make them so significant, important enough to be saved and cried over. Make “see you later” into “I’ll see you always.”

No Bones About It

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated my cancer blog, but after what I’ve gone through over the last week and a bit, I feel compelled to share my story in case it can help other patients and survivors.

http://cancerfuckingsucks.blogspot.ca/2015/06/dem-bones.html

What’s that, you say? Amazing beers? Fun performances? Book signings? Physically challenged Brandy? OH YEAH! Good times. Don’t miss out on this. You’ll be burdened with regret for eternity if you do. Sorry. That’s just how it is.

Brews+BookTour

Completely Mixed Up

In my other life as an editor and publisher, I’ve been working nonstop on an anthology of mixed race/mixed heritage Asian North American writing and art. 72 contributors. Over 150 pieces. 15 years since this project began. So thrilled to announce the birth of my new book baby.

  

%d bloggers like this: