Chinese Girls Don't Swear

The people whose work I admire and love the most are always saying you have to push yourself, get out of your comfort zone....

So I have.   I committed to writing and performing a one woman show call CHINESE GIRLS DON'T SWEAR.

The logline:
Chinese Girls.  Everyone wants them.  Come for an hour, laugh for a lifetime.

Written and performed by Lucy Wang.  Directed by Anna Strasser.

To buy tickets:http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/338059

The fuller blurb:
Lucy Wang is M.I.T. (Made in Taiwan), but she is no cheap import. Raised on Midwestern beef and corn, she does her best to follow the Asian American handbook and achieve the American Dream. Chinese Girls Don’t Swear is a comedic and searing look at how one Chinese American woman uses her wits to defy, exceed and redefine expectations.  

Write Life

Big thanks and big love to Susan --

Susan and I both share a love for healthy tasty food and compelling stories 
Get to know Susan through her blog
She's pure gold.

Oct. 1st is Lucy Wang day at Write Life!
http://www.susanmarque.com/SusanMarque/Write_Life_Blog/Write_Life_Blog.html

DOWN THERE, SLUT Festival

We've been having an extremely rough year, so I relish good news when it comes my way.  

Some of you know that I've been researching language, the power of words, in particular as it relates to our body, our selves.  The process of asking people what the name is for certain body parts has been fascinating.  The looks I get.  The responses.  And then the epiphany.  It has been enlightening for both parties, to say the least.  

Believe me, each time I ask and I've had to ask total strangers as far away as Vietnam, I feel weird.  Like I'm a pervert.  So I do my best to explain without giving it all away, for fear of affecting the answers.  No one has ever responded without asking why.  No one. 

Why do you want to know how to say these "nasty" parts in my native tongue? 

I wanted the slang and the clinical terms, of which I learned there is so much slang.  In every language.  No shortage!

My face turns into a permanent state of red. 

Some friends who did not know asked me to educate them once I had the answers.  My parents didn't tell me either, they said.  One said it was only through me that she learned her parents lied, made up the words.   We only discovered this because I tried to verify what she told me with native speakers and the Internet.  They furrowed their brows and said,  Uh no we've never heard of those words.  Why did her parents do that to her?

It makes me laugh because like most Asian Americans,  I had three career choices:  Doctor, Physician, M.D.  That's it.  And yet, if I had dared to ask my parents how do you say penis, balls, vagina, fallopian tubes, clitoris in Chinese, they would've smacked me across the face.  No questions asked.  Oh yes, my father beat me until the day I decided I would not return home ever again.   And my mother left when we were teens.  So there you go.

Language is powerful.  Words are powerful.  I've performed my monologue at a few readings, people come up to me and say I remind them of George Carlin.  This makes me very happy.  George Carlin was a genius.

And please, if you are willing to help me in my ongoing research, help me with the slang and clinical terms for male and female anatomy, drop me a line.

This is paraphrased, but based on a  real conversation I had with my MALE breast surgeon.

DR:  You have a lump in your right breast the size of a Meyer Lemon!  How could you let this happen?  Don't you touch yourself?

ME:  (Of course I was embarrassed, ashamed)  Good Chinese Girls Don't Touch Themselves.  We study.

DR:  What about your husband?  Didn't he notice?

ME:  We're married.  Long time married.

DR:  You have to start giving yourself breast exams.

ME:  Oh, I'm good with homework.  I like to pass tests.

I was really lucky.  That lump was benign.  But it has only become more challenging as I try to stay fit, and on top of my health care.  I try to remember what Dr. Oz says, there is no embarrassing question.  But that's not really true.  I still have trouble, but at least I'm fighting it.  Both in real life and in my writing.  I'm happy to announce that my monologue DOWN THERE -- which may be part of a longer work entitled CHINESE GIRLS DON'T SWEAR -- will be showcased at SLUT Festival in WDC.

There's a lot more to the story, my story, but I cannot give it all away!  

Dear Ms. Wang:

Your play, Down There, is pertinent and funny, and makes a great point about the power of sexism in language. In other words, we love it and we would be delighted and honored to include it in our SLUT staged reading festival!

Please confirm that you would still like to have Down There included in SLUT, and we will follow up soon with more details. We very much look forward to showcasing your work!

Sincerely yours,

The Disreps Lit Team

The Disreputables

www.disreputables.org

Catch us next at SLUT, a festival of short works inspired by the War on Women - part of the UNmute! staged reading series

Tues 10/22 & Wed 10/23, 7:30-10:30 pm @ Arlington Arts Center

All That's Fit On Top of a Desk

Barnes & Noble In Our Own Voices

In Our Own Voices

Alliance of Los Angeles Playwrights’ (ALAP) longest-running program returns on July 7 and 8!

In Our Own Voices, which began in 1994, gives members 10-minute slots to read from their work. The reading can be a 10-minute play or an excerpt from a longer piece, and writers may bring up to 4 actors to help. The two rules are (1) no piece can be longer than 10 minutes, and (2) the playwright must be one of the readers – hence the title In Our Own Voices.

The July 7 program is at Barnes & Noble Glendale, where the scheduled readers are Roy Battocchio, Dan Berkowitz, Thomas Cook, Charles Domokos, Julius Galacki, Henry Holden, Leigh Kennicott, Kres Mersky, and Lucy Wang. 

WHEN & WHERESaturday, July 7 @ 2:00 PM
Barnes & Noble, 210 Americana Way
Glendale 91210
2-hour validated free parking with purchase

ALAP's Book Fair at Barnes & Noble kicks off this Saturday, July 7, and continues through Thursday, July 12 -- almost everything you buy at any Barnes & Noble store, or at Barnes & Noble online, can benefit Alliance of Los Angeles Playwrights!

Here's how it works:

Visit any B&N store from Saturday through next Thursday, and make your purchase. When you check out, tell the cashier you're part of Book Fair # 10785764, benefiting ALAP. If you prefer to shop online, enter the Book Fair ID number at checkout. A portion of all sales will be donated to ALAP at the end of the Book Fair!

There are exceptions to what's eligible -- gift cards, B&N memberships, magazine subscriptions, and a few more things. But almost everything else in the store or online works, and ALAP can really use the money -- so please do your shopping at B&N this coming week, and tell your friends to do the same (and give them the Book Fair number!) If you're afraid you'll copy the number incorrectly, click here to download the Book Fair flyer -- it's also available on the ALAP website -- which gives all the details. Print it out, stick it in your pocket or purse, and you're all set.

Cooking Lessons

You might have noticed I'm Asian American.  Most of my friends say I'm as American as Apple Pie, and in spite of this, there are people who will say "You speak English very well."   I should hope so!

And then there are people who do know me, some quite well, and for some reason they assume I cook and eat Chinese food exclusively.  I find this surprising, hilarious and shocking.  How is this possible?

Most people find it shocking that I rarely cook Chinese.   Almost never.   This time, it is they who ask, How is this possible?

For many reasons:
Too labor intensive.  I live in a metropolitan area where it's relatively easy and economical to get really great Chinese/Asian food.  I figure, why compete?

I once taught Chinese gourmet cooking in Austin Texas thinking if you cook it, they (chefs, restaurants)  will come.  They did.  But before that happened, my roommate had to drive me to Houston to buy "special" ingredients.

Then I remembered.  Long ago I used to cook Chinese food every single day.  In Akron Ohio where "special" ingredients were hard to come by.  Required weekend trips to Toronto.   While cleaning up my office, I found an essay I wrote for ChefShop in Seattle.  It was for Mother's Day, Food Memories of Mom, 2000.  This probably best explains why I gave up Chinese food.

I cannot cook Chinese food without thinking about my mother.  She's probably the reason I stopped cooking Chinese for several years, why there are some dishes that are still too painful to make.  My mother was a gourmet cook with a chef's license from Hong Kong.  David Bouley was impressed.  You know how difficult it is to qualify for a chef's license in Hong Kong?  One of the hardest.  So imagine, if you can, a teenager being forced to recreate her mom's sumptuous dishes night after night, after school, after homework.  What dooms a tomboy to such folly?

My parents had a most volatile marriage.  Since my father used to bark, my house, my rules, it was always my mother who picked up and left.  For a week.  A month.  A whole summer.  Then one day, she never came back.  Never.  So it became permanent -- my responsibility to cook and clean for my family.

I missed my mother terribly; my life was wrecked, but somehow the act of preparing meals compelled me to collect my wits quickly and focus.  Since my most vivid memories of my mother revolve around her in the kitchen, she was always there when I struggled to compose a menu.  Her voice lingered in the air.  Delicious with garlic and black bean sauce.  Slit fish to insert scallions and ginger.  Peel broccoli.  When I felt overwhelmed and on the verge of tears, she urged me to mash that potato.  Boil that carrot.  Pound that tenderloin.

Unfortunately, my father was not so supportive of my culinary innovations.  He was too accustomed to tradition, served promptly at 6 PM.  One evening, I planned to surprise the family with steak au poivre, haricots verts and chocolate mousse.  Instead my father surprised me by dumping his dinner in the garbage.  How dare I serve him a huge hunk of meat!  We fought bitterly over whose cuisine reigned supreme.  French or Chinese.

Naturally I hated cooking.  I cursed my mother for leaving me with him.  For bequeathing me the legacy of  Bird's Nest Soup (a play published by JAC Publishing).  The last time we cooked together, mom likened us to those poor swallows that have so little food they must regurgitate their insides to build their own nests to survive.  That these nests, as unappetizing as they sound, are actually sublime delicacies that command thousands and thousands of dollars.  Which means, of course, she assured me, that one day, she and I, we'd, be valued and prized.  I couldn't understand any of this.  Why can't you stay forever like other moms?  She seemed stunned.  Haven't you learned anything from cooking?  All those times I was away?  Indeed.  Too much.