Home is sunshine, warm humid air that feels like a hug, and salt water. given, found, finding, making, re-making, finding again
by NINA WU
Home is the journey from southern China to south Florida, nev- er straying too far from that 20°N latitude. Even if the people, culture, and language are all unfamiliar and at times hostile, we could still find home in this cross section of earth. Here, the land grows mangos, lychees, longyan, and starfruit; the tropical seas provide fish, crab, and shrimp. The two seasons are wet and dry. There’s enough of the familiar to make a new home here.
I’ve always been shocked at the prospect that there are people who will go their entire lives with areas of their skin never feeling the hot touch of sun (with the exception of those who are photoallergic). I think about the handful of minutes, or sometimes seconds, of a person’s entire life that the skin of their chest, their nipples, or the skin between where their legs meet might have seen the sun. Or maybe never? And why is it these patches of skin? The depravity and denial of the sun on this skin feels like another oppressive act of prudence, sex, and gender. I take every moment I can to nourish this skin, so it, too, can feel the bright heat of fire light. I’ve collected and curated the pockets of places and strategies where I know I can bare that skin, and that is largely thanks to the place that is northern California and its micro-cultures. The right summertime swimming holes if you walk a hundred steps around the bend. The clothing-optional enclaves. If a trail is empty enough, I can squeeze my bra down to my waist like a belt. The skin of my breasts and nipples become awake and energized. I like to think that the sun is also happy to rest on this rare skin. I lament and apolo- gize to this skin that this doesn’t happen more often. I hike like this until I hear voices around the corner. I can easily shimmy the bra back up in a second and we’re back to sad, depraved skin. Home is all of the skin, in the sun.
Home is sunshine, and the skin that gets to feel it - the face, midriff, naval, shoulders, elbow pits, arm pits, the forearms that want it a little bit more, tops of the feet, ankles, calves, knee pits, and as much of your legs as your shorts will allow.
My dad dreamt my name would be
and so it is.
Snow, like Snow White? Like (Sprite’s brand name in Chinese.) Like the weather anomaly that happened here in 1977, and before that, 1899? Each Florida Christmas would pass with snowmen made of sand adorned with sunglasses and tropical shirts, Santa would be riding a sleigh of alligators led by one with a red nose, palm trees would be strung with lights, and it’d be a disap- pointing 70 degrees outside. I’d long for the traditional white Christmases I saw on TV and romanticized the snow. The year I finally understood humidity and lotion’s purpose, was also my first snowfall. I was giddy to finally experience this anticipated magic. I was exuberant to be finally realizing and fulfilling my namesake and birthright. Standing outside on a North Carolina lawn, I was curious about the speckles of snowflakes - their size, mass, density, frequency, the physics of snow and what it meant for snow to “stick.” For all the snow- flakes I drew and cut out of paper growing up, I never imagined those crystalline structures would be so delightfully tiny. I also didn’t realize how fleeting they were. Snowballs sometimes hurt? You could also only pack a few before your hands were too numb and wet. The monotonous gray in the skies told me that it would never be sunny and snowing. The sooty piles of week-old snow coupled with the salty slush that had no chance of evaporating was never part of the White Winter propaganda. By my fourth snowfall, I was over it. Snow’s alright, but take me back to where it can rain while the sun is out, where the puddles would dry out by tomorrow, and lotion is irrelevant because your skin is moisturized by the air itself.
I grew up on a diet of suburbia in an immigrant household, learning how to be American.
For breakfast, I’d start with fish eyes as the cherished delicacy, the romantic crooning of Teresa Teng, the pride of Chinese pro- paganda music, and the endless saga of Dragonball Z. Don’t forget to greet aunties and uncles with “Ayi hao. Shu shu hao,” sort out everyone’s ages to determine if they’re a “jie jie/ge ge” or “mei mei/di di”
Coming home is stepping off the plane and being enveloped in warm, humid air that feels like a hug. Air so warm and full of water that a cold shower is your only relief. And when you step out and towel off, you just start sweating again.
I never understood the aisles of lotion designated in grocery stores until I moved away a few states north and finally understood what “dry skin” meant and felt like. I was 18, it was winter, and it wasn’t until the moisture was sucked out of the cold air that I ever realized what humidity even was. You mean you don’t need to scrape away at your sugar and spices because they’ve been moistened and crys- tallized by the air?
Coming home is stepping off the plane and being enveloped in warm arms. The soft firm embrace of her hug that lets you know you’ve landed.
or better yet, flatter a guest by undercutting their age by having the kids greet them as “jie jie/ge ge”
For lunch, I’d scarf down Lunchables, the power ballads of Celine Dion, every memorized lyric and who sang it of the Spice Girls, same for Backstreet Boys, Lisa Frank stickers, the subver- sive queerness in Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and so much MTV. Parsing out the embodied etiquette of each culture was switching back and forth between the sweet-saltiness of brunch or dim sum. Elbows on the table were fine at breakfast, rude at lunch. Speaking with your mouth full is a no-no? But my family does that at home all the time. Why would I ask for someone to “pass the mashed potatoes” if I could just reach over and get it myself? For dinner, I’d answer my parents in English when they spoke to me in Chinese, forge their signatures on my permission slips in lieu of trying to translate and explain to them what was going on at school, then I’d log onto AIM to learn the dialect of suburban Floridian tween.
Home is salt water scenting the air, seasoning the food, and stinging the eyes. I think about there being people who will go their entire lives without seeing the ocean, or maybe even a body of wa- ter at all. With our bodies so full of water, what does that disconnect do to the spirit? Water holds our grief, our life. It cleanses, soothes, and nourishes. It is powerful and relentless. I can barely hold the idea that the waves keep crashing against the shores, that the waterfall continues to cascade, and the creek continues to babble before, during, and after me. Unlike the water I pretend I can control from a faucet, this water once set into motion, never stops. This water is a teacher with the lessons it holds. At times, I feel like a piece of debris in the ocean. There is no fighting those waves. There is no room for your desire or plan. There is a relin- quishing and surrender that happens and an acceptance of wherever the waves take you. To know this feeling and to be held in this way, what is it like to not have that reference point if you never see or touch the ocean?
What will I go my whole life without experiencing?
Asian Fusion cuisine at its finest.
43
42
in dance SPRING 2022 42
SPRING 2022 in dance 43
In Dance | May 2014 | dancersgroup.org
I
|
|
rs r
. r
u n i f y s t r e n g t h e n amp l i f y u n i f y s t r e n g t h e n a p l i f y
44 Gough Street, Suite 201 San Francisco, CA 94103 www.dancersgroup.org
Made with FlippingBook - Online Brochure Maker