This work from award-winning poet Ed Bok Lee was created for The Kaleidoscope Project, a three-part creative writing and intercultural discourse experience developed and facilitated by creative writer/interdisciplinary artist Rebecca Nichloson. Nine writers who identify as African American and or Asian American were selected to reflect on how solidarity between these two communities can be fully realized through narrative, deep intercultural exchange, and an in-depth understanding of the historical trauma both communities have experienced in the Twin Cities and across the country, as well as the present racism and disenfranchisement exacerbated by the pandemic.
POEM 1 of 2:
RIOT IN HEAVEN
for Edward Song Lee (born 1974 – died 1992 in the L.A. Uprising)
there is only one corner grocery in heaven.
it is gigantic, the size of a million Wal-Marts.
here, you can find anything on the shelves.
prehistoric flint, pomegranates, magic carpets.
the only problem is the store is so large
you rarely see anybody else. and however
many things you can fit in your arms
you’ll never find the checkout counter.
at first all my fingers were weighed down
by diamond and platinum rings. now
i only wear white-and-black jogging sweats and Adidas,
the old school kinds my parents bought me
when first we arrived in America.
sometimes while wandering these aisles
i stumble over piles of merchandise abandoned.
Barbie dolls, Van Gogh originals, sacks of spilled rice.
i pick the items up and put them back on their proper shelves
like i did all through my childhood in Koreatown.
only now i don’t mind it so much.
when i first arrived, some of the rioters
who didn’t know they were dead, roved
up and down these rows, pushing shopping carts
loaded with stereos and VCRs, while huffing crazed looks
on blood-streaked faces, their lopsided bodies
shadowless under miles of fluorescent lights.
the original Tyndale Bible i once found trampled
in the Meat section, its pages
scattered with boot prints.
i unpeeled and righted the spine,
then put the book back on its shelf.
meanwhile, i saw the Devil
folded in dark contemplation.
then again, it may have been Jesus
wrapped in smoldering saffron,
or some Buddhist monk—i’ve followed
a few of them up and down these endless aisles.
once, i spotted Latasha Harlins—the Black girl,
three grades lower than me, from South Central, who punched
that Korean shopkeeper in the face,
a year before the fires,
over accusations and a bottle of orange juice
then got shot walking out. . .
she was standing in a Raiders jersey
on the far end of Music & Entertainment.
Latasha! i called out.
i was moving fast, because around here
you only get one chance if you recognize someone.
Latasha!
she looked up from a CD case and i saw her eyes widen.
Wait, don’t run!
then she stopped and pulled out a gun.
i could hear N.W.A. blaring from her headphones.
Don’t come any closer! she yelled.
The Korean lady who shot you! i said. She went insane!
Step back yo or I’ll blow your head off!!
My mother sang with her in church choir!
I said stay the fuck back!!!
But it’s all right now!
Are you deaf you dumb fucking—!!!
[GUN EXPLODES]
of course,
even in heaven you can’t die twice.
so i just stood there, my heart
dripping through my fingers
like wealth in my father’s unfortunate line.
maybe i should have chased after her own trail of blood; tried
to explain desperation
knows no race,
no color, no culture. . .
but it was too late,
again.
next time.
NOTE:
I originally wrote “Riot in Heaven” around 2001 after teaching poetry in the public schools and becoming repeatedly surprised how many high school seniors had almost no knowledge of the L.A. Riots/Uprising, or the events leading up to this largest race riot in U.S. history (at the time). The poem, later published in my first book, Real Karaoke People (2005) and slightly revised here, is part of a cycle of new work contextualizing the history of Black and Asian tensions and solidarity, supported in part by the Kaleidoscope Project.
POEM 2 of 2:
*BUDAE JJIGAE
*Army Base Stew, a spicy Korean dish created in the 1950s shortly after the Korean War. The stew originally used leftover or black market foods like hot dogs, Spam, macaroni, American cheese, and other items that Koreans obtained from the U.S. military presence in South Korea. Created during extreme post-war poverty, budae jjigae remains a popular comfort food for many South Koreans of all ages and generations to this day.
At an international market, select a small, but ripe county.
Note: if you’re unfamiliar with international markets, you may have competitors if the country is just right for plunder. Don’t be afraid to negotiate, haggle, and, if necessary, partake in war.
Heat four liters of fresh Han River water in a large pot.
In a separate bowl, set aside three years’ worth of ammunition, rifles, bayonets, mortars, tanks, grenades, and landmines.
Once thoroughly subjugated and cleaned, slice your nation directly through the middle, into North and South. Scrape away and discard any excess flesh, teeth, and black hair. Establish a puppet government and mix in thoroughly contracts between American Industry and crony henchmen, along with ample foreign debt.
Add salt, in-country child labor, executions, more dictators, union busting, and garlic.
In the meantime, open a can of Spam, Vienna Sausages, or the reluctant thighs of adolescent girls from the countryside, then split lengthwise with your U.S. Army issued pocketknife.
Tell jokes, and promise marriage the whole time.
Drop into the simmering culture: tofu, cabbage, the tears of mixed-race children, chili pepper flakes, American cheese, country music, ramen noodles, Hollywood, baked beans, gangsta rap, gochujang, radio hip hop, kimchi, ground beef, credit cards, Starbucks, macaroni, bacon.
Skim and discard any opposing intellectual, poet, or activist beaten brutally into a foamy froth atop the broth.
Bring to full boil the peoples’ dreams and desires with a perpetual threat of enemy missiles and thermonuclear strikes for seven decades.
In the meantime, turn your focus onto Vietnam, Central America, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria.
Note: This recipe should apply to any and all vulnerable nations ripe for lucre and division.
Once the steaming, still-bubbling medley has been placed on the table, crush and sprinkle 21 grams of the latest South Korean suicide’s soul, which shouldn’t be a problem as the nation now has the second highest rate in the economically developed world.
Garnish with pickled rage, gratitude, grief, and enjoy.
Serves five million ghosts.
Ed Bok Lee is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Mitochondrial Night (Coffee House Press, March 2019). The son of North and South Korean emigrants—his mother originally a refugee from what is now North Korea; his father was raised during the Japanese colonial period and Korean War in what is now South Korea, Lee grew up in South Korea, North Dakota, and Minnesota, and was educated there and later on both U.S. coasts, Russia, South Korea, and Kazakhstan. Honors include the American Book Award, Minnesota Book Award, Asian American Literary Award (Members’ Choice), and a PEN/Open Book Award. He currently teaches at Metropolitan State University, and for two decades has taught in programs for youth and the incarcerated.