Dear Leland:
Thank you for the book you sent me for my birthday. I’ve never been much of a reader of plays, especially not those written by old white men. As I’ve told you before, I find their brand of insistent, self-inflicted suffering tough to swallow, but because I appreciate your gesture, I will not disparage the gift further.
You’ve mentioned in recent interviews that you are a “self-proclaimed futurist.” That my gratitude would appear to you in the form of a letter must seem quite obsolete to you. Written on this flat-world mash of dried cellulose pulp, rather than typed and sent via the now-hallowed institution of electronic mail (or worse, the social networking mechanisms your generation seems to worship). How “old-school” of me, to rely on the horse-and-buggy of our era, the Postal Service! What did you call me that time I visited you in college? A dinosaur?
Anyway, I am doing well up here in Portland – thank you for asking. I know how much it pains you to ask me anything. I choose not to leave the house much these days. Everything costs money and I don’t have a lot of income. I’m sorry to say, Leland, that you will get zero dollars and zero cents from me when I die. I assume this comes as no surprise to you, Mr. CEO of a Fancy Internet Company. I spend my days and nights reading and listening to 1960s rock-and-roll. Not the rock-and-roll you think of when you think of my era. You probably think of the blacks and the whites: Joplin, Hendrix, Dylan. Or the British Invasion: the Beatles and the Stones. Bet you didn’t know there were some very good Asian-American rock-and-roll bands coming out of the Chinatowns in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco in the sixties. Serious Lee, Lotus, Bong River X. I have no idea why more hasn’t been written about the Chong Rock Movement by our ethnic studies programs.
Now you’re rolling your eyes at me. You tire of me talking about how great we Asian-Americans are. When you were a child, you only wanted to be friends with the whites. You didn’t want to go to Chinese Saturday school. You listened to that white-tit-jiggling pop music you saw on television. In college, over my objections, you decided to study the literature of old white men. Last night, I read the play you sent me. Look Back in Anger, by John Osborne. Did you send it to me because I’m the closest version of a working class chap you know? Because you think I’m angry, like that Jimmy Porter? Because you think I’m from the same hippie-infested era you find obsolete? Maybe you’re right. I am angry. I often wonder whether I am a dinosaur. There are no teaching jobs up here, just like there were no teaching jobs in Spokane, just like there were no teaching jobs in Seattle, Eugene, and Boise. On my 70th birthday, I had a microwaveable bowl of ramen noodles for dinner, alone.
I’m thinking about driving down to San Francisco for a visit. Would it be okay if I stayed with you for awhile? I feel that as I get older, I’d like to have some family around. You probably think this is very selfish of me, considering I abandoned your mother for another woman when you were in high school. But I’ll have you know that before she left me for that rich white poet faggot last year, Karen was the love of my life. I never did an adequate job of explaining to you why I left. I realized my mistake with your mother early on. I thought I could grit my teeth and get through it. For you. But I failed. Though my actions were not, my intentions were pure.
Perhaps you should come visit me in Portland. You’d like it here. Lots of your favorite white people. White mothers in particular. What I am about to say is not a judgment on you and your white wife and my half-white grandchildren, but I feel it is fair to note that there is a peculiar level of entitlement to the white mother, one that causes her to believe that the universe revolves around her. The other day, I was walking down by the Willamette River, doing my daily physical and mental exercises (tai chi, then a short game of chess with the black homo retiree at the park), when a white mother who was pushing a stroller, nearly ran over a homeless Chinese man. She apologized afterward, but with the white mother, only two things matter: herself and that expensive stroller.
On the topic of white mothers, I’m sorry I insisted on not attending your wedding because of your wife’s whiteness (and because, I think you would agree, she’s also a bit overweight). I’ve seen this phenomenon over and over again. Slim, sexually appealing minority men (you have my looks, son – you’re welcome) settling for beefy white women. I just don’t understand it, but I digress. The important point here is that I sincerely apologize for missing your wedding.
It is not without reservation that I plan to drive down to San Francisco to visit you. I’ve never liked San Francisco, with its rude people and expensive living. I don’t understand how you co-exist with all those yuppie whites. At least the people in Portland are somewhat down to earth. Even the dykes are friendly to you. They don’t give you attitude if you’re old or poor. In San Francisco, if you can’t afford to live there, you’re a fucking tourist. That’s the lifestyle. That’s the mantra. You have to be able to pay for your open-mindedness in that city. The fucking dykes treat you like you’re enjoying a privilege to look at the ugly tattoos on their flabby arms. If you ask me, the dykes just need a Chinese dick.
JUST KIDDING, SON! You probably don’t often hear these types of crude jokes in the genteel circles in which you run. You’re probably so offended that you’re about to crumple this flimsy letter and throw it in the trash. No, strike that! You’re probably about to delicately slide these pages into your fancy paper shredder, so evil these tree products have become. You’re so enlightened with your hybrid cars and your compostables trash bags. You look down on me. You think I’m a racist, a homophobe, a sexist. You don’t say that in your boring interviews about computer software and the World Wide Web and you’re probably afraid to say it to me directly, but I know what you think of me.
But you know what, Leland? I’ve grown softer in my old age. You’ll see. I’ve been thinking a lot about grandchildren. In the same way that many women have very specific visions about their weddings, I’ve recently realized that I have always expected to have lots and lots of grandchildren. You know what’s funny, though? Never imagined having children! You can’t exactly have one without the other! No one ever said visions were required to make sense.
On the topic of fairness, I feel it’s unfair that you hold my leaving your mother against me after all these years. I feel that when I come to stay at your place that we must hash this issue out once and for all. I don’t deserve your hatred, Leland. And you don’t deserve to have me out of your life. It is as painful for you as it is for me. The time for forgiveness is here and now.
I think about forgiveness every night before I go to sleep. As I watch the mound of bills I can’t afford to pay, as I count the number of days before I’m evicted. That’s right, Leland. You’re a smart kid. You understand what this letter has been about all along. If I don’t come to stay with you, I’ll be that homeless man getting run over by that stroller-driving mother. You see, I’m not that dinosaur in that silly play you sent me. Deep down, I’ll admit that I envy your success. I wish I had your money. Does that make you feel better? You remember this when you consider my forgiveness. You remember this when you consider the mistakes you’ve made (I don’t know what they are, but I know they exist). You remember this when you return this letter and give up your anger, son. Your dinosaur is coming to town.
Your father,
XXX
This story originally appeared on Cellstories
Paul M Davis