Asian, African, Arab, Latino, all the same

Many of us, most of us, are struck dumb by this month’s kid violence. By its familiarity. By its similarity to past episodes of Asian and African and Latino bad behavior. Our boys’ behavior. Rather than dig down into those dreadful juvenile justice files, let me tell you a story.

There’s no way to make me stop between here and Seattle. Nothing and nobody, none of our family’s un-ashamedly un-Asian (simply un-submissive) women — not our mom or my wife, not our daughter or her daughter — can make me take my foot off my quarter-million-mile Toyota’s heavy metal pedal. No way.

Swoon from thirst, pee your pants, peel my ricepicker fingers from that steering wheel if you must, but I will not stop. On this ride, it’s River City to Supersonic city in two hours and 35 minutes flat, ev-ver-ry time. It’s what’s what. It’s a guy thing.

Our pop was worse. With him, in our 1963 Rambler Classic 550, we went five hours without a break. Five hours gas stop to gas stop. So, on our frequent South Salem to Central L.A. road trips — you see, Pop had promised our overseas grandpa to keep an eye on our unruly uncles and their six crazy Cali kids — we got three peepee stops. Three. Only three, each at exactly the same off-ramp gas stations. One outside Redding; one near stinky Stockton; one at Buttonwillow. Reverse order on our race back to Salem.

Among our pop’s four sons, it was better to burst a bladder before asking for more than we got. And of course, if you did that (rupture and expire), you’d do so quietly. Manly. Without disheartening anyone in our lifeboat.

Male elders expectations

So when he stopped, when we finally-finally coasted into that Texaco, that Shell, or that Standard station, and Pop killed his Rambler’s little straight-six, all four of his sons, three different continents of birth, 13 years between biggest and littlest, would each walk nonchalant as a small town sheriff in a John Wayne western toward that gas station’s restrooms. Cool as bottom-fridge-drawer cucumbers. Collected as our dad.

Of course my toes were clenched; my fists too, deep inside my pants pockets; and deep I breathed, praying for another blessed half-minute before letting loose.

That’s what our Old World grandpas and uncles and fathers expected from our family’s young men, especially in our chaotic new country. 1) Keep your promises big and small; 2) show no pain; and 3) if exit you must, do it without taking a thing from those left standing in the room. Or sitting in our car.

I think this sort of thinking may be over. We seem to have misplaced our measures of masculinity. But you’ve got to hope they’re not altogether abandoned.

Things change. Sure they must, and sure we do too. Some changes are probably good. Some are bad. Mostly we simply cannot say. Or even know. We are from Indonesia’s Kebatinan tradition, a shifty archipelago style of Sufia Islamia, a unifying theory gingerly holding together earlier shamanic, Hindu, Buddha, and Christian teachings. The last word on what’s right and what’s really wrong in a world of wonder, on a pretty little planet spinning silently through a dark and unspeakably mysterious universe, we leave humbly to god. We must.

So what I’m about to say (as they say): I’m just sayin’. No judging. No smack talk. Okay?

And what I’m about to say is drawn from what many of our immigrant and ethnic minority elders and activists have observed in our Old World families resettling into contemporary America.

In particular, it’s about masculinity. It’s about men. To be blunt: what happened to it (maleness)? And where on earth did they (guys) go?

Of course I have a clue. Certainly my 1970s generation of liberal university grads, an era that actually aspired to liberate America from gender roles, had a lot to do with extinguishing masculinity. So successful we were, that I’m now accustomed to seeing really supersmart moms and really clever kids making dads look dumb on TV. All the time. That’s my cohort of scriptwriters and ad men. As a result, some very unhealthy and unhappy things are happening to our young men, while our young women, in terms of education and earning power and mainstream success, are relatively better off. And this is bad. Bad for us all.

Stubborn, strong, and not so special

But let me move down to firmer ground. Let me get back to our pop’s I-5 lessons. Teachings intended as elements of an earthen dam, a manmade barrier against losses to what he deemed a dangerously erosive cultural environment. Teachings that are, as he was, muy macho. Very male. Very necessary.

Number One, again: Young men keep their promises, big and small. On shaky American ground, a place predictable only for its wild mood swings, boys must keep stubbornly committed to doing what we said we would do. Leave flexibility to the ladies. Stay strong. Women and men will compromise.

Number Two, once more: Show no pain. Not even discomfort. Breath deep, slow your heart. When you look solid and act calm — you are solid and calm. Muscle follows mind. Always. Everywhere. What modern developmental psychologists call impulse control, an earlier generation called self-discipline. Our pop’s more economical era simply told boys what to do, and how to be, without the ridiculously exhausting negotiation we see now days between parents and rats out at Washington Square.

And Number Three: We love you a lot, son — but you’re not all that special. In the back bench of our 1963 Rambler Classic 550, what’s up with your bladder, how your brother’s elbow’s bugging you, when was your last drink or bite to eat — matters much-much less than the harmony of the whole. In a small, packed lifeboat, each boy big and small is responsible for all. Shut up. Sit still. Be good to each other. We’re counting on you.

In effect our father said: That’s what men do. This is how we are.

I am old, you are not. I feed you, make you smart, keep you safe. So no backtalk.

Two hundred fifty-six miles to the next Standard station. Breath deep. Do da math, boy.

* * *

Notas:

So that this teasing literary style is not misunderstood: Let me make clear that the Asian ladies I’m referring to above are those silly chicas we see as Hollywood versions of our women.

Also for sake of clarity: Six streams of human migration have occurred and continue here on the shores of Rivers Willamette and Columbia, over our last 30 years. The big three: One from Southeast Asia’s warring, one from East Africa’s and Central Africa’s awful excesses, one driven by the Soviet Union’s sudden dissolution. Plus our three more or less constantly cycling movements of Mother Mexico’s, Mother China’s, Mother India’s, and Las Filipinas’ ambitious children. All of them welcomed and expelled by alternating currents of our giddy then depressed, then giddy then depressed again, marketplace.