The Headless Monster

by Timothy Aung

Normally in the exotic land of Burma it would be drenching with rain, but today only a light drizzle appeared. Only a few moments later, the light rain ran out of steam and the sun emerged to spread its warm rays. The wind wasn't harsh as usual but gentle and soothing.

It was a beautiful day for adventures. A day, a frolicking young boy can't ask better to dabble in his craft of mischief. So there I was, browsing through the foliage and moist ground, filled with crawling bugs and squirming critters. A jab here and a jab there, like a trained knight, I swiftly defeated the horde of bugs before me. Flee, flee I yell at the rest of the scurrying losers chasing them down enjoying the hunt. In my haste to annihilate the enemy, I ran into a mound of fire ants busy at work. That’s when I polymorph into a giant, stomping the ground with brutality. I must have been a vicious dictator in my past life.

After a while, my stomach started to rumble and grumble letting me know that food was necessary if I wanted to pursue more quests. I knew my aunt would be cooking dinner soon. In the distance, the sun was being covered by dark clouds, almost like a bad omen. That's when I heard the rustling of leaves behind me. I turned around with lightening quickness to face my new foe. Even a seasoned warrior of seven summers such as myself, having been through countless battles couldn’t prepare me for what I saw. The hairs behind my neck stood up straight as I looked upon it. It was a red creature, half my height with sharp talons. It moves furiously in a chaotic manner flapping its wing menacingly. All these things weren't as frightening as the fact that this monster was lacking a head. The leaves flew up in the air from its wrath as it turned towards me in its frenzy, suddenly rushing with blazing speed. Maybe it was all the ghost stories my cousin told me, maybe it was just the horrible visage I saw, maybe it was just instinct, just like how a prey runs from its predator. I let out a yelp like an injured dog and flee from the frightening beast with all the speed I could muster from my short legs. By the time the adrenaline ran out, I was quite a few houses down the road. I leaped behind a bush and sneaked a quick look, expecting to see the monster. But the road was devoid of anything intimidating.

My stomach groaned again and somehow that awoken something my aunt said earlier to me, something along the line of having chicken curry for dinner. I abruptly realized what happened and grinned sheepishly at myself. It was only when I was older that I truly understood this strange phenomenon. I was too young to know that chickens flap and flop around for about thirty seconds before they are totally dead. The adrenalin in the muscle tissue gives the bird convulsions, making it look like it was running from its inevitable doom.

Finally it was dinner time and after washing all the dirt and grimes from my hands, I took my place at the dinner table. There it was, the monster that chased me, smelling wonderful and looking tasty in the curry bowl. I pulled out one of the legs and look at with an evil intent. I bite into its flesh relishing the wonderful taste, devouring the leg with a satisfied grin. Revenge is tasty.

The Scowl

by Timothy Aung

Weekend was here and I was ready to battle with the wind flying my kite. Just when I was half way out the door, I heard the dreaded voice of my grandfather calling me to see him. He was sitting alone at the dark corner of the room. I slowly walked toward him, filled with dread at the implications. All I knew was that my grandfather rarely talks to the kids and when he does it is usually about punishment.

Not sure how to act around him, I looked at him questioningly.

“I need you to go to the market and buy two cakes”, he ordered. He then went back to his regular routine of brooding in the dark corner.

As I went outside, I looked at the blue sky and the trees swaying slowly with the wind. This mission isn’t going to be too hard at all I thought to myself. So I slowly pranced and danced along the dusty road to the destination, the market. Periodically I pulled a flower or two from the bushes and kick some random objects lying on the ground.

The market was a chaos of people. The smell of many different things at the same time was overpowering. There was the musky smell of the horse carriages, the wonderful smell of curry dishes served by sullen ladies, and the odor of unwashed kids screaming at each other.

I scanned around the crowd trying to find the lady who was selling the cakes. After a few moments pushing through the noisy bickering people, I located the woman.

She was chatting with another seller beside her and didn’t notice little ole me standing at her stall. Her neighbor noticed me and pointed a finger at me. She was chewing some beetle nut and turned toward me looking annoyed as if she was unhappy to see a customer. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly spit red on the ground beside her.

“What do you want boy?” she demanded.

“Err, could I have 2 cakes please”, I stammered timidly. At the same time I said this, I can’t help but notice the ugly red stains the beetle nut did to her teeth.

By the time I was done paying and was holding my cakes tied with nylon strips, I was ready to get this mission over with. The throng of people was starting to get nauseating and I was missing my place at the spacious park.

So with the vision of the beautiful park in my mind, I started to increase my pace from walking to a half run. Just as everything was turning out good, in my haste to go home, I failed to notice a branch lying innocently on the ground. The result was me stumbling and tumbling on the dusty ground with a thud.

As I quickly stood up, I did not feel the pains from my bruised knees. I stared agape at the two cakes lying overturned on the ground. By the look of it, they must have rolled a couple times, collecting plenty of dirt.

At that moment I was afraid to go back home, frightened to face the wrath of my grandfather. I didn’t want to suffer from one of his famous torturous speeches or the painful bamboo stick spanking.

I sat on the ground for a few minutes nearing tears, not sure whether to run away from home or to face punishment. After a few minutes I sighed with acceptance, quickly tried to rub the dirt from the cakes and walked miserably towards the house.

As soon as I entered the house, I quickly shuffled to my grandfather, handed him the cakes then fled the scene in the best discrete manner I could muster.

Before I got a foot out the door, I heard a yell behind me.
“What is this!” my grandfather exclaimed.

I gulped. Not sure of the impeding doom that was sure to arrive swiftly.
“I don’t like the taste of sand in my cakes”, he looked at me menacingly. I was sure he would pull out the dreaded bamboo stick which was conveniently laying beside the chair.
“I slipped and fell grandfather” I meekly spoke, shifting my feet back and forth uncomfortably.

“What now? You need to go pee or what?” he asked me noticing my discomfort.

“No, I’m just scared”, I told him honestly.

My grandfather was quiet for a few moments. He looked at me hard and handed money to me.
“Go buy me another two cakes”, he asked me gruffly, “and this time you better not drop it”, he told me with a threatening tone.

I was stunned at the narrow escape from punishment. Feeling a strange sense of elation, I quickly sped out the door. So much was I in a hurry to buy the new cakes that I didn’t notice my aunts giggling behind me.

The legendary scowl lives on.

reflection in babbles of a non-white traveler

by Phet Sada

tonight, i have been inspired. as i continue to seek out, laotians, and what are we up to in the world, i have found something that have dwelled in mind. it's got me reflecting about my past travel experience. as i was not a typical white traveler, who fits in this general vagueness of either "american" or classy "europeans", there was a different sense of race perception. if i were to ever write a paper, i would be fascinated with the idea of race perception in each country throughout the world.

for the most part of europe, i was still a "chinoise", or "chinita". i guess, i did feel displaced and just lost in space as to where i belong. i was no longer in any conventional category of race and class as i was in the "american" terms, and even more specifically, "californian" terms.

i was without a social context. so much of it has to do with the fact that i don't know how race is perceive in those countries, such as france and spain. i was no the "typical" white american traveler to them. i don't know whether asians live in the ghetto for the most part of these countries. or what they're understanding of "asians" are. are we simply greedy merchants and the new jews? or are we "slum bags", "chintock", and ghetto dwellers living among the european stereotyped perception of arabs and black there.

i yearned to understand so much of it when i was there. but i knew it was impossible for me to make sense of a world that was as foreign to them as it was for me. being teased by french guys on the train, questioning whether i was vietnamese or god knows what based on my luggage tags, was one thing. but surprisingly enuf, as much as they were asses, or seem to be asses based on their derogatory sexual gestures (as i did not understand french), they somehow had the heart to help me with my heavy mothership luggage.

for me to end up in paris, seeing black workers everywhere, i knew there was racial disparity, which came to me as shocking as my discovery of how diverse france was, and i guess the rest of europe is. to see racial profiling by spanish cops in barcelona committed against the arab, pakistani, middle-eastern and south asian community was hit with reality. in talking with my co-worker, it was amazing, that she was conscience of the fact that she would not ever know what that's like as a white american woman. and i completely respect her for that. as for some ppl, they may say that i'm overthinking things.

but u know what, to see white american men soliciting black women for sex, could never be pictured happening in the 21st century in the U.S. as it did happen in barcelona.

so i knew there was a struggle. i knew there was tension. i knew that race perception matter, despite however it's coated and buried in the traveler's romanticized version of the eurotrip. but i've seriously learned that every romanticized and idealized perception of every travel experience on tv has been for the most part based on a white traveler walking foreign lands.

and maybe that's why i haven't quite grasp why my travels were so different, and so not what is made of in the traveler's channel or standard cinematic films exploring foreign land through the eyes of a white foreign traveler.

i hate dissecting the race card honestly, but my conscience makes it inevitable. and that is why i seek out the underground culture of each nation that i have visited. it's going to consist of the minorities that is somehow marginalized by the majority culture there.

coming from a small country in such a hidden part of the world, i definitely know what it's like to be invisible in all aspects (social, economic, and political) of life.

so i wondered what could life be like fore laotian refugees all over the world. as they have gotten swirled into the diaspora, ending up in france, spain, germany, belgium, switzerland, canada, aussie, the u.s. and even argentina. the one thing that we all carry somehow, is this identity as a laotian. how is that possible. we are connected to a country we call home, but do not know of.

so much like the palestinians. maybe this is the path of the refugee. this displacement in the interrealm between two homes, one being the current country we reside in and the other in our psychological reality.

when i see these laotian musicians and rappers, of course many of them have been mixed genetically and not only culturally with the other ethnic backgrounds, but they have somehow a strong connection to being lao. they all speak of their struggle to survive, to outlive poverty, and better understand what it means to be "look khon lao", litterally translated to "a child of a laotian", thus implying figuratively that you are loatian. to see a group like OGLC, whatever that stands for, from France, rapping about "jeun laos" in the ghetto neighborhood they grew up in, and the racial discrimination they have been subjected to, along with the ethnic groups they can relate to as in the arabs and black. all of this somehow reflects so much of the laotian experience here in the U.S. of course there's no such single "laotian experience" but nonetheless, there's a base and foundation that we all started out as, and that for the most part is being a "refugee from laos".

i do want to know what it was like for my cousins to grow up in france. as many of them have seem acculturated and assimilated, most of them have french girlfrends, and their standards for girls revolve around the european phenotype of beauuty, it makes me wonder if they question their construction of the idea of beauty. furthermore, it's amazing that they validate themselves as laotians, as they are.

hmmm...yeah i'm not good a leaving things jsut to be. i don't think it's good or bad that things are the way they are. but i think it's interesting. n it's one thing to contribute to my consciousness of being human in this social game of race, money, politics, and love.

my goal to connect the experience of the hyphenated laotian identity throughout the world is will involve the following objective:

1. to first know my self, 2. to know my family throughout this world, 3. and to continue questioning my sense of reality as i travel and live.

all this continues to inspire me to do the following:
1. stay in touch with my family in all parts of the world:
write to Denny's and send him the french laotian rap, laotian rap from U.S., and U.S. rap
send post cards to my cousin in france (like casandra and sofie and natalie
expose my family in the U.S. to all that exists in other parts of the world (write to donald, and toni, and kito about these laotian french artists and lao ppl all over the world, show them the music and the love, and encourage them to travel at every opportunity)
write to my family in laos and send them my poems and thoughts and music from this end of the world
make a documentary that follows all over the wordl seeking for laotians and "the laotian refugee experience" and draw a connection to the impoverished lifestyle and struggle to be rich, to fit in and yet hold onto what it means to be lao. and how what does it mean to be lao, how much of it is left?
write a poem about being lao, and the changing dynamics of culture and my experience of not existing as a "white traveler"
get into music again, seriously learn the violin, the khaen, and guitar.
better understand the history of lao, read more on it, and collect more of the art, music, and video. continuing to support the work of young and old lao artists and musicians.
learn french to explore the lao-french aspect, as that colonial aspect has been embedded and carries its traces.

the anthology begins...

to submit your work {ie. prose, poetry, essays, photography, artwork, YOU} for publishing:

email your content to otherasian@gmail.com

p.s. yesh...the links get updated on a continual basis. if u got ur own site, n ur down to link up. lemme know n u'll be added.