Read I Have Chosen to Stay and Fight Online
Authors: Margaret Cho
I Have Chosen to Stay and Fight
I Have Chosen to
Stay and Fight
© Margaret Cho, 2005
Published by Vigliano Books
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th
Street
20
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Floor
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owners. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
T
his book is dedicated to Karen Taussig for supplying the vision and the encouragement when I could not, with not just the book but a million things every day that I must thank her for, like saving my life and making all my dreams come true, but get caught up in what I am doing and forget. Thank you, Karen! This one is for you.
CONTENTS
why i have chosen to stay and fight
WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
"haven't we heard enough from these ancient white guys?"
W
ho do you think you are?
I am often asked this question.
I ask myself this question whenever I sit down to try to create something out of nothing.
What emboldens me to give my opinion of what is going on? I certainly don't fit in with any of the great political thinkers of the day. My profile doesn't match up. I am not a man, nor am I white. I am not really old enough or educated enough.
What could I possibly have to say that would be of any use to anyone?
Perhaps the things that set me apart from the commentators we are used to hearing from are the things that make my opinion worthwhile.
Haven't we heard enough from those ancient white guys? There is this silent agreement that everyone everywhere has made regarding old white men. They are the bottom line, the last word, no matter what. The saying "It's not over 'til the fat lady sings" is erroneous,
because women who are fat are never listened to. It's not over until the old white guy says it's over, which sounds simple—and maybe a little angry, coming from me.
I'm not so much angry as I'm trying to find my own voice in the world, to find the courage to have a voice in the first place, then to go forth and use it, which both are monumental tasks that require a lot more confidence than you'd think. Sure, we love the underdog in movies, the funny, awkward guy beaming with the right stuff if only he could get other people to listen to him. The black sheep always seems to triumph in the end. But I'm no black sheep. I'm no dark horse. I'm something never seen before, not yet happened, untested and unsure.
How will I be received?
The only way to push forward instead of wasting away in the purgatorial procrastination of worry is to just not care what the outcome is. I need to just start running downhill with my eyes shut.
There are no guarantees that I will be able to survive in this world, where the air is rare for minorities like myself. But that suits me just fine. I'm a risk taker that way. When I buy electronic equipment, I tell them to toss the receipt. I don't need it. I gamble that it won't be faulty, that I won't have to return it, just for the measly pleasure of being able to walk away from the counter without that small slip of paper. I'm such a buccaneer. I want to swing on a rope when I leave Fry's. What a high roller I am! Throwing caution to the wind has become second nature to me, and it's a good thing, because I need courage now more than ever before.
It sounds odd to talk about the incredibly high stakes of entitling yourself to a voice and an opinion, and to allow yourself to voice that opinion, but there are a lot of people who understand so deeply what I mean that we could all break down crying in a heartbeat. When you never see anyone like yourself expressing him- or herself, then it makes you think that you just aren't supposed to do that, that you have no self to express.
My parents have lived in the United States since 1964 and they have never voted. They don't feel they have a right to. They don't feel that this is their country. Even though they are citizens, they pay taxes, they watch the news and keep up with current events, they still don't feel comfortable enough with their American life to fully participate in it. When I ask them why, they simply say, "We aren't supposed to." Any attempt to argue is thwarted by a wave of dismissal, my father distractedly moving his hand across the air, as if he could brush the subject away—and so he does. I guess he doesn't want to explain, because how can you explain something as intangible as invisibility?
move on
I
was hit by quite a wave of controversy when I performed at the gala event to name the winners in the "Bush in 30 Seconds" campaign. That week was fairly tumultuous for Move On, as there were
two ads out of hundreds that were submitted to their contest that equated Bush with Hitler. At the event, I said, "Bush is not Hitler. He would be if he applied himself."
It sent a shock of laughter throughout the Hammerstein Ballroom, and a shock of, well, shock through the conservative media. I was deluged with hate mail from sites like Drudge Report and
freerepublic.com
, telling me to shut up and take my fat chink ass back to my country. That was one of the nice ones.
The amount of racism, sexism, homophobia and hatred in general that lies just beneath the surface of the American dream is astounding and serious. The names don't hurt me; I have a built up a tolerance to that. People talk about racism in terms of tolerance, like the ability to tolerate diversity, but I approach it more like drugs. I've had so much of it, it takes a lot to get me to even notice. I actually adore that kind of hate mail, because if all you have to fight me with is prejudice then I've already won the battle, and I'm eventually going to win this war. I wrote about hate mail on my Web site, and posted all that I had received, along with the names and e-mail addresses of the guilty. This sparked many of the people reading my site to lash out in my defense, and actually prompted an incredible number of the haters to recant and apologize. I even got a letter from a minister in West Virginia who'd devoted that week's sermon to the whole issue, and he apologized on behalf of his entire congregation.
they turned off the mic
I
did a gig that was not my typical show. It was a corporate convention in San Diego, the kind I normally avoid, held at a major hotel. Even though there are extravagant sums of money to be made, I hate the atmosphere. However, this event was booked by a friend; it was within a reasonable distance of my home; and I was told the employees specifically requested me.
We—my sidekick, Bruce, and my husband, Al—drove in a stretch limousine to the show in San Diego. We watched
Dogville
on our way there. I love Lars Von Trier.
Dogville
is about the exploitation and persecution of women who search only for virtue and the opportunity to do good deeds (although to describe the film in terms of only one theme is to diminish the scope and power of this extremely compelling and complex story). The film strangely fit the scene we were presented with when we arrived at our destination.
We got there early, and ran around in the suite provided for us at the hotel, eating cold pizza and chocolate cake, waiting for the time we were to perform. Finally, they fetched us and brought us down through the kitchen to the banquet hall.
There were two large screens between the stage and the doors to the room, so the audience could see what was happening up close. This didn't make sense, since the room was rather small, hardly a ballroom. It had been occupied earlier by manic teenagers trying to have a prom.
It looked bad. It felt wrong. A man gave a speech that was much applauded for seemingly no reason, after which he swept past me without acknowledging my presence. Then a woman wearing a NuBra, allowing her and us to enjoy the backless fashions of the moment, underneath her black rayon sheath with rhinestone spaghetti straps and a butterfly back—you know, your "night on the town" dress—started to cry onstage about her sales staff. She was overwhelmed with emotion, and had her hand on her chest, as if her heart were about to burst with affection for her employees and she was trying to push it back in, like the monster from
Alien
. We all had to cope with the lump in her throat for several minutes, especially when she had to return to the stage after leaving because she had forgotten to name names she would never forgive herself for not naming.
This rhinestone butterfly lady finally finished; then there was a parade of the staff, mostly young people of color, that work behind the scenes at hotels, parking cars, delivering room service, turning down the beds—you know, who, like, do everything. It seemed oddly demeaning to me, as a person of color myself, that the maids and busboys had to undergo this kind of odd celebratory lineup, but it also seemed they were very appreciated by the audience. I was glad. Everyone deserves applause.
Bruce took the stage, and I thought he did well. He was funny and got laughs, which is what he always does. Then I took the stage, after a brief, panicked attack by a nervous woman in another black rhine
stone confection, likely needing a NuBra but I wasn't sure, saying something about "language." I assumed she meant for me to go ahead and speak English.
After about ten minutes, my mic was turned off, and the band, composed of Asian, African American and Latino musicians, was hurried on stage. They looked apologetic. We wish we didn't have to do this, they all said with their eyes as they launched into a rousing rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama."
Using Lynyrd Skynyrd as a way to ethnically cleanse the stage after I was unconstitutionally censored was the most offensive thing of all. I'm a huge Skynyrd fan, and I consider it unconscionable that they played me off with "Sweet Home Alabama" to excise the "anti-American" element from the stage. Skynyrd and I are on the same side. I'm proud of the South. I wish I was from the South. I have spent enough time there to know and love it well. "Sweet Home Alabama" is one of my favorite songs, and it was appalling that they offended me with the greatest American band.
I also was offended by the five identical blond women ready to leap onto the stage after I was turned off. What were they there for? It just proves once again that pussy is not supposed to speak.
It's ironic that Skynyrd was chosen to chase me out of town like a witch when I am the true American. I feel bad because the audience, although chilly, would have eventually enjoyed and loved what I had to say. I'm sad that they were not allowed the great honor to see me perform in person.
protest this
W
e were getting ready to play the Houston Improv, which used to be a club called Spellbinders, where I did one of my first road gigs, where I met the brother of a man who would be introduced to me two weeks later and become my first love.