re-revised
revised performance:
My name is Scott Oshima and I am Dan Louie Jr's grandson, son of Linda.
I called my grandpa Gung Gung. As my brother Paul already said, I know I am mispronouncing it, but it is his name -- the name I have always called him by. Paul also spoke of losing our Gung Gung's unconditional love. I cried when he said this. I cried what I had held in since 15. When I was certain of who I was and certain I defied the one unspoken condition to my Gung Gung's love.
I remember one afternoon, the television was on CNN Headline News, as it always was when he visited -- as if reading the newspaper front to back every morning (as my mother mentioned) was not enough. They were discussing same-sex marriage, before I was even aware such a thing was an option for me, when he said, "Those gays are always trying to do everything like they're just like everyone else, when they're not." I was 15. I shut myself off from him. Shut him from my life -- without an argument. Without shouts. Without a fight. I sometimes wish there were.
I wish he hated me. I wish he disowned me, called me a sinner or faggot, so I could have hate him. So I wouldn't miss him or wish he loved me -- loved all of me. So I didn't blame myself, as if fearing him -- being too afraid to talk to him or even be in the same room alone with him -- was my fault -- my queerness, my fault. So I didn't sometimes regret being who I am, just so he would have loved me. I sometimes wish there was a violent end to our relationship, rather than one quietly reduced to facades -- afterimages of an actual relationship.
Perhaps what he said was right when he said gays want to be like everyone else. I want to be respected, accepted, loved like everyone else. I wanted my Gung Gung's love and support. I wanted what my brother spoke of: his unconditional love. But I am not like the "everyone else" he spoke of. And so I sometimes feel I cannot be who I I am, love who I love, be loved by whom I long to be loved by, or even, at times like these -- for the briefest of horrible moments -- I cannot love myself. I lost his love six years ago without a word and only today have lost him. And so I'm here, speaking. I am not here to simply say that I loved him, even as he did not fully love me back. I am here to say that I must begin to fully love me, even if he hated who I was -- even if I stumble, I idealize, I regret what we had and did not have, said and did not say.
But it's too late. This is too late, Gung Gung. This is our silent tragedy. The eulogy I could never give. The conversation we could never have.
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Thanks, Mari!
CRITIQUE IT AGAIN!
comments?
My name is Scott Oshima and I am Dan Louie Jr's grandson, son of Linda.
I called my grandpa Gung Gung. As my brother Paul already said, I know I am mispronouncing it, but it is his name -- the name I have always called him by. Paul also spoke of losing our Gung Gung's unconditional love. I cried when he said this. I cried what I had held in since 15. When I was certain of who I was and certain I defied the one unspoken condition to my Gung Gung's love.
I remember one afternoon, the television was on CNN Headline News, as it always was when he visited -- as if reading the newspaper front to back every morning (as my mother mentioned) was not enough. They were discussing same-sex marriage, before I was even aware such a thing was an option for me, when he said, "Those gays are always trying to do everything like they're just like everyone else, when they're not." I was 15. I shut myself off from him. Shut him from my life -- without an argument. Without shouts. Without a fight. I sometimes wish there were.
I wish he hated me. I wish he disowned me, called me a sinner or faggot, so I could have hate him. So I wouldn't miss him or wish he loved me -- loved all of me. So I didn't blame myself, as if fearing him -- being too afraid to talk to him or even be in the same room alone with him -- was my fault -- my queerness, my fault. So I didn't sometimes regret being who I am, just so he would have loved me. I sometimes wish there was a violent end to our relationship, rather than one quietly reduced to facades -- afterimages of an actual relationship.
Perhaps what he said was right when he said gays want to be like everyone else. I want to be respected, accepted, loved like everyone else. I wanted my Gung Gung's love and support. I wanted what my brother spoke of: his unconditional love. But I am not like the "everyone else" he spoke of. And so I sometimes feel I cannot be who I I am, love who I love, be loved by whom I long to be loved by, or even, at times like these -- for the briefest of horrible moments -- I cannot love myself. I lost his love six years ago without a word and only today have lost him. And so I'm here, speaking. I am not here to simply say that I loved him, even as he did not fully love me back. I am here to say that I must begin to fully love me, even if he hated who I was -- even if I stumble, I idealize, I regret what we had and did not have, said and did not say.
But it's too late. This is too late, Gung Gung. This is our silent tragedy. The eulogy I could never give. The conversation we could never have.
--------
Thanks, Mari!
CRITIQUE IT AGAIN!
comments?