A group exhibition of the Asian American Women Artists Alliance
at A.I.R. Gallery, 511 W 25 Street, NYC, July 20 - August 7, 2004
The Chopsticks-Fork Principle: A Memoir and Manual
REGARDLESS OF CULTURE,
NO FATHER SAYS TO HIS DAUGHTER,
"PLEASE, MARRY AN ARTIST."
Excerpted and adapted from "The Chopsticks-Fork
Principle: A Memoir and Manual"
by Cathy Bao Bean
I. The Art of Perception
Is it a rabbit? A duck? A nude descending the staircase? If you concentrate, one or the other comes into view. Or something no one else has seen. This is what it's like to be at least bi-cultural because, no matter how many you perceive, the drawing can only be one thing at a time - like looking at a single set of "circumstances" but experiencing multiple "situations". Similarly, being ethnically "hyphenated" can be more a matter of becoming faster - more proficient - at switching from one mode to another than having to choose one over the other. In this way, we can "get" both the bad and good news that it' s not easy being "happy" and "miserable" in all your cultures simultaneously. So temper your judgments accordingly.
II. The Facts
I was born in China in the Year of the Water Horse, during the 77th or 78th Cycle (depending on which book you consult).
Four years later, my parents, older sister Bette, and I arrived in Brooklyn.
As a result, I was born on August 27, 1942, in Kweilin/Kuei-lin/Guilin
(depending on which atlas you consult). In the
process, I also became a Virgo and Dodgers fan.
One day later, Bette and I were enrolled in school. I spoke no English. Bette could say "Lucky Strike" and "Shut up." The Principal let her skip 2 grades and made me do kindergarten twice.
In 1949, I started to think in English and forget in Chinese.
In 1962, I heard Malcolm X tell my college roommate she was no longer a Negro, she was a Black Woman.
In 1964, I went to graduate school and was my own Matchmaker. I met Bennett Bean, a Caucasian male who didn' t wear socks and wanted to make art. He thought I was Japanese.
Two days after he found out I wasn' t, he was declared psychologically unfit to serve in the army. Two weeks later, he proposed. I accepted.
In 1965, I went to Berkeley, California. There I met Bennett' s friends. Mostly they lived in communes and nudist colonies. I became a Democrat.
The next year, we got married. My mother said the word "sex" to me for the first time.
In 1967, the Whitney Museum bought Bennett' s sculpture even though it was upside-down, and I was accused of being a prostitute by the concierge in a hotel (because he didn' t know that women with long Chinese hair might use their brains for a living).
The next year, I started teaching for less money than I made as a waitress.
In 1970, we met Billie Burke. Once the Good Witch Glinda in TheWizard of Oz, she had since become a Real Estate agent. She pointed us toward the eastern equivalent of Kansas, northwestern New Jersey, where we bought an old farmhouse. The neighbors thought I was the maid.
One year later, I got tenure. When the chairperson asked me to make curtains for the office, I resigned.
In 1973, I became a US citizen—that' s when the mayor asked me to be a Lenape Indian in the town' s Bicentennial Parade.
In early 1974, our son, William, was born.
In 1977, William took off his diaper and I started teaching again.
Two years later, Bennett was fired by the same boss for the third time. He became a full-time artist.
In 1986, I turned 44 and didn' t stop smoking because the hypnotist couldn' t find my subconscious. So I incorporated and opened up an aerobics studio.
Around this time, my college roommate became an African-American.
In 1990, William got his first tattoo. One year after that, I slept next to some of my teeth and started to write my memoir. William got a second tattoo.
In 1993, Bennett was invited to the White House. He wore pink socks.
In 2002, once again the Year of the Water Horse, after 59 years of constructing
a life so I could write about it, I decided that Santa Claus's "don't
cry" rule sucks, the Tooth Fairy can survive the Melting Pot, and
Cinderella was probably a neo-Confucian. As for Pinocchio – no way
did he go from "all wood" to "all flesh" in one lifetime.
After 35 anniversaries, Bennett continues to have too many lives. On the
other hand, I learned early on that "the facts" may be hard
but the brain doesn'
t have to be. Which is why we can shape our
lives with our stories.
III. The Story
Could Mr. Gunnar [my high school biology teacher] have imagined that the information he gave us about ovaries would produce my philosophy of cooking? Or, for that matter, anything else I would just as soon not do - like shopping. There I was, back from our honeymoon, steaming coffee at hand, ready to read the paper. Without looking up, I heard Bennett sit down. After a few minutes, I realized he was too quiet. Putting down the paper, I saw him sitting there, bolt upright, a hand on either side of an imaginary plate, holding a nonexistent fork and knife.
"What're you doing?"
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"For breakfast."
It must have been the shock, because I actually got up and made the "American Breakfast" my father was so fond of. At lunch, Bennett appeared out of nowhere and sat again, waiting. Same at dinner. Day in, day out, it was the same. He could be creating the most important piece of artwork to hit the scene since Picasso yet, like clockwork, he'd show up at that kitchen table and wait. Worse, he kept muttering things like, "Meat" and "Potatoes." I didn't know they were addictive, but I guess when your mother has fed you that sort of thing on a regular basis, it can be. Anyway, I started to bastardize the Chinese dishes with extra slivers of beef. As to potatoes? "No way. Eat rice."
This went on for a while. Then, one day, as he sat and waited, he announced, "I decided to be a vegetarian."
They say that a quick blow to the head can be the cause as well as the cure for amnesia. It worked for me. Remembering Mr. Gunnar and those ovaries, I informed Bennett of my new Philosophy of Cooking: I, a female, was born with just so many. So many eggs, so many dinners, so many trips. When they're gone, they're gone and there's no use wishing for more. Ovaries, not women, run out.
Cultures - like the Chinese - who have respected the crone, the post-menopausal, know this. The dynamics is natural, mathematical - not personal, and certainly not moral. So: Appreciate the appearance of each, but Be Prepared for their total disappearance. Eggs, dinners, trips - when they're gone, they're gone. That's how it goes and there's no one to blame.
From "The Chopsticks-Fork Principle: A Memoir and
Manual" by Cathy Bao Bean (www.cathybaobean.com)
ISBN 0-9725663-0-9
We Press, www.wepress.org)
© 2004 AAWAA Asian American Women Artists Alliance
136 15th Street, Basement, Brooklyn NY 11215, Tel/Fax: 718-788 6170
www.aawaa.org, Email: