Spoken Word Artist: Gabriela Garcia Medina

At first glance it may not be obvious that this small framed girl has the orating power and self confidence of a seasoned artist in tune with her life’s purpose. In reality she is a 26-year-old woman who captures the imagination of her audience, has them laughing and rooting as she maneuvers through a rhythmic incantation about a mother’s magical powers or a feminist’s view on love. Her voice pierces the walls of engaged venues and she leaves them wanting more.

In this week’s MD Spotlight, meet Gabriela Garcia Medina, a spoken word artist mixing stories, poetry and emotion to convey messages of hope, revolution, identity, love and so much more.

How did you get into poetry and spoken word and what attracted you to it?

There have been a few stages in my life that were detrimental. [First], my family left Cuba in 1989, and went to London. One of my school field trips was to a soup kitchen [to] help homeless people. I didn’t understand that there were people who didn’t have food or homes [at the age if ten]. I cried at home and the only way I stopped crying was by writing a poem. My family started nurturing me to keep [writing].

When I was 15, there was an event at Columbia University in New York where children from around the world applied for a summer program: I got chosen. I spent my 16th birthday in New York City - spent it in development workshops. [One] field trip was to the Nuyorican Cafe and I saw people older than myself doing spoken word - not poetry but not hip hop [either]. I said, “Wow, I totally want to do what they’re doing.”

When I graduated high school in Europe, I came to UCLA for college in 2001. My first and second boyfriends were poets and one was a Def Poet- he was getting paid. I realized then that I could make a living out of my poetry.

What is the typical process of getting a poem from your mind onto the stage?

There are two different ways I write a poem. One is the structured way - I’ll get commissioned by an organization. They give me a theme, time and money. I have freedom as to how I write the poem but the idea and theme is [provided].

[Then with] every interaction I have with people, in the back of my mind I know that I have to write this poem. Everything that I do, I try to relate to my poem. I might be having a rough day, [and] writing is a way I heal. Maybe I [will] have a conversation with you today about something that changes my views then I go home and write a poem about it.

[My poems are] usually 6 minutes [in length] like the “Magician.” I memorize them by reading them over and over again on stage. When I’m getting on stage, I tell myself that everything I have to say is valuable and positive. That kind of affirmation helps me memorize what I wrote. Not everybody has the opportunity to get up on stage and share their thoughts. I tell myself to honor that opportunity–it’s almost a prayer.

What do you call your style of spoken word?

I’ve seen in poetry [that] people are influenced by each other. The artist amalgamates and I try to grow and expand the style in which I write. I never want to be one style. I don’t want to be the angry revolutionist. I’m tired of the poems that get people angry and riled up but not inspired to do something. I want to inspire people to feel great about who they are and feel empowered about who they are and do something. Now I’m thinking: how do I tell stories?

Slam is competitive poetry and I don’t believe that people should judge your art. [In slam competitions] you write for the audience because you want to get that perfect 10. You stop writing for what your spirit wants to say and for yourself. That style is very dynamic, which is good and very performative, but you’re not writing for yourself anymore. [Your poetry] stops being genuine.

How do you remember your lengthy poems?

I meditate for a minute before getting on stage. I get nervous when I do shows in front of thousands of people. So I tell myself: “You have this amazing opportunity to get out there and touch these people. You can get scared or you can really do the best you can.” I pep talk myself and it really works.

What are you working on right now?

I’m working on two poems and editing one. It’s called ‘At least I’m a good poet,’ [and] it’s about not knowing how to cook. The underlying story is really deep. In life, you can be good at as many things as you want, but you have to commit and try and know that you will get better (that inspires people). [It's also about] identity. Just because I’m Cuban, I don’t have to eat pork fat, love Fidel and smoke cigars. Your identity doesn’t have to be applied [onto you] by outside factors - you define it yourself. I’m talking about being a Cuban vegan and cooking Cuban vegan food [but also about how] it wasn’t working out. That one is almost done. I’m working on memorizing it now.

[Also] soap operas, like Stella Novela, [are a] part of our culture [and] I grew up listening to [them]. My grandparents, aunts and the whole neighborhood in Cuba listened to them. They shapes our identities as women and machismo as men. It’s a sad perpetuation of how the media want our people to look – light skinned, light haired. Now I’m using humor more – people listen to it more than anger. [The poem is] about how this has shaped our identities as women and Latinas.

The next poem I’m working on is about the declaration of hope - about revolution, social justice and spirituality. How I moved from anger, going to anti-war rallies to a more proactive and creative place, but it’s just as reactionary. You can affect more change if you can be proactive and creative about what you want to build, not destroy. People say what they’re against when you ask them about their politics - but what are you for? What will you create and do when war is over? I’m struggling right now because I don’t want to get preachy - I’ve written it four times and it’s not ready to be born yet, which is okay.

What sets you apart from other poets?

I have my own unique voice and style that I continually try to grow out of and into something else. A woman, person, activist and spiritual person - that’s hopefully reflecting on the subjects I choose to write about. I’m always changing and evolving. There are a lot of good poets, but they fall into one style; that’s good but it has an expiration date. I continually try to go outside and try something different. [I] always try to expand my style and voice – I want to redefine that rhythm that I use in my poetry while I’m trying to continually grow.

Biggest challenges up to date?

Right now with my writing, my poetry career has taken off really fast. I’m very lucky to be living off my poetry right now – it’s a big deal. I wasn’t prepared for so much success so quickly - it threw me off balance. I haven’t had time to write because I was in production and performance mode. I haven’t been able to edit a poem for 5-6 months. I’m booked until Sept. 2010 - so if you want to bring me out to your school, you have to talk to my agency.

It’s great. I don’t want to complain but it’s important for me, knowing I’m in my next stage as a performer, to know that I have to write. I have to write in a safe place, where my mind is open. Two hours in a hotel room in Memphis, Tennessee is no the place to write about the woman you met at the sweat shop in downtown L.A. Now my challenge is to move forward in this stage – I see my challenge as an opportunity to grow.

What do you like most about what you do?

I get to meet incredible young people all over the country - they’re like sponges absorbing ideas. I get to present ideas [of] alternative forms of culture and empower them – give them ideas that are bigger than them. Hopefully they will go out and do something ground breaking. Everyday I’m around people with different beliefs - it’s not easy. I like to push the envelope.

At social justice events, I don’t want to write only what they want to hear. And I love that I can do this full time – 4-5 months a year I’m performing at schools. The rest of the year, I can do what I want. [I can] teach at a girls’ school in Monrovia, California, take a class or do things that I’m passionate about.

What do you like least about what you do?

What I like least is that I spend very little time with the kids I speak to.

I wake up at 5 a.m., take a plane at 6:30 a.m., and get into a city by early afternoon. In 3 or 4 hours, I get to a hotel, drop off my stuff, and get ready. Then I do a performance, do a Q&A show, get back to the hotel, drive over to the airport, and then fly to another city the next day.

I don’t like that; it doesn’t give me time to connect with friends in a community, and I can’t root myself. I’m not always on - I’m always genuine and 100 percent myself, but I’m not always on. Sometimes I’m going through something, and I want to be in my room, meditating [while] burning incense. Lately I’ve felt inauthentic because of it. But now I realize this has become a job. I have to be a performer, and I have to be that performer when I’m on stage.

What are your most notable milestones?

I’ve had a very interesting life: I’ve seen the world which has made me compassionate about all people. I graduated college in ‘06 – I almost didn’t want to graduate. I was very political. I had to go through that phase to get to the next phase – [I was] developing as a writer.

I don’t like the idea of milestones – that means that there are certain stages in life that make a big impact and others don’t. I view my life as very fluid, changing and evolving, letting me move forward.

My family is completely displaced. I grew up in Cuba. I visited Tehran, Iran in 1995. It was very life-changing – I was visiting my dad who was working there. I loved the country; it was different from what I was used to.

This last summer I cycled across the country – from Oregon to Virginia. It was very humbling physically and emotionally. It was a very empowering experience. I got to meet a lot of interesting people on the road – I was humbled by there compassion.

We’re influenced by the people we come in contact with in life – I’m excited for the AIDS life cycle this summer. I’m cycling from San Francisco to L.A. to raise money for AIDS from May 31 to June 6.

This is not like [before]; it’ll kick ass but it serves a different purpose. It’ll bring awareness to my family and friends that even if there are hard times right now – as much as we’re struggling – there’s always someone struggling more.

My agency is based out of Minneapolis; we communicate via email and a shared calendar. I block off dates I don’t want to work. [So] I’ve blocked off April 29 – Sept. 15. My dad’s coming over from Argentina, and I’m flying him out to spend a month with me. I’m [also] going to Thailand and Cuba.

Any particular moments from a show worth mentioning?

I have a pet peeve: when people have phones on during a show; it totally throws me off. Sometimes the audience doesn’t realize how affected we are by their energy. While we’re there, we’re exposed to them; it throws us off if they’re texting or checking their phones.

Best practical advice to pass along?

[Because my family is composed of ] first generation immigrants, they prioritized my education. They were disappointed when they saw I wanted to be a creative person [and] not an engineer, doctor or lawyer. I didn’t have their support and had to fight for it.

I get to do [spoken word] for a living and full time. The interesting thing is that my aunt is an engineer, and she’s worried that she’ll be out of a job. Here I am writing and I’m not worried for the next two years. People will try to use fear to make you not do what you want in life, and as long as you don’t succumb to that fear and really believe in your work, you’ll make it. People will pick up on your genuine work, support [it], and be a part of your life.

What did you do before you got into poetry?

[I did] theater in UCLA, and I double minored in Chicano and African American studies. I started a clothing line, sewed myself, toured and set up booths with a friend. I worked as a tour guide and project director for an art outreach program. I always worked with youth and have been committed to them.

Favorite pastime outside of work?

I love to cycle and salsa dance (the Cuban style not L.A. style. It’s not as showy). I do it full time with friends at a Culver City Brazilian bar. Poetry used to be my hobby during college – now that it’s my life and career, I found I need to do something else [as a hobby]. Dancing is like praying, meditating and [expression].

During a tour, I Google vegan restaurants, Bikram yoga studios and look for a place to go dancing after shows. You can’t put me in a box.

Do you have any mentors?

Not that she knows me, but I love Alice Walker – she wrote Temple of my Familiar, my favorite book.

My favorite author is Octavia Butler – I’ve read all 20 of her novels, because she too can’t be put in a box. She was a 6 foot tall black woman and a science fiction writer. She was a pioneer – she was brave enough to write about something she was passionate about.

Favorite book?

Temple of My Familiar and So Far From God

Passions in life?

Creativity and art and using them to heal, empower and make a proactive difference.

What inspires you to stay in this field every day?

I realize I’m doing the right thing, and I sleep like a baby. That’s a good thing. Every morning, I’m excited to live my life and fulfill my purpose. My goals will always change and grow but that’s my goal. Every morning it’s reaffirmed.

Who would you like to meet one day?

[I would like to meet:] Muhammad Yunus [who won the Nobel Prize for establishing a microcredit movement in the developing world]; Michael Pollan, who wrote the Omnivore’s Dilemma; and Lila Down, who is the Mexican Billy Holiday and sings old Mexican mixed with political music. I’d also like to meet President Obama, the whole Obama family, as well as Paulo Coelho, who wrote The Alchemist.

Who would you like to be contacted by?

I want to go into different proactive organizations, empowering women’s organizations, group homes, social entrepreneurship and micro-lending organizations. As much I love doing college shows, I [also] like to do venues that have less funding but are doing social justice work.

A Vietnamese Artist’s Call for Unity, Tolerance and Understanding

Brian Doan, 40, was born August 22nd 1968 towards the end of the Tet Offensive in the Central Vietnam city of Quang Ngai. The Tet Offensive was a turning point in Vietnamese history as it marked the end of the war and the beginning of what would be a new kind of struggle for an entire generation of war-weary South Vietnamese refugees. Doan and his family, however, remained in Vietnam while his father suffered through ten brutal years in a Communist reeducation camp. Their struggle was one of trying to cope with living under a regime that regarded them as second-class citizens.

Since 1963, his father was stationed in Quang Ngai during the war as a security officer with the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN). When the war ended in 1975, he and his family moved to Saigon while his father was serving time in the camp. Not more than a few years after they settled, they were forced to return to Central Vietnam into a “new economic zone.” Families that were of the former South Vietnam middle and upper class were sent there to work as farmers.

Not content with their situation, the Doan’s escaped towards the South again, migrating from city to city, town to town until they finally settled in Long Khanh—a small, developing community of Catholic Vietnamese about 100 kilometers outside of Saigon, known by then as Hồ Chí Minh City. This is how Brian remembers his childhood in Vietnam—always being on the move and never having a permanent home.

These days, Brian lives in an upscale Long Beach, California neighborhood with his wife and two children. Between being an associate professor at Long Beach Community College, he is an internationally exhibited photographer who has built a reputation as a controversial and provocative artist within the California Vietnamese community.

His photograph in the recent group exhibition F.O.B. II: Art Speaks at VALAA Center in Santa Ana sparked fierce protests from local anti-Communist Vietnamese and eventually lead to the city ordering the closure of the exhibition.

Thu Duc, Vietnam, the title of the photograph at the center of the controversy, depicts a Vietnamese woman wearing the yellow star of the Vietnamese communist flag. Next to her is a bronze statue of Hồ Chí Minh, founding leader of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam and a despised figure within the Little Saigon community.

These two images have the potential to incite a fiery rage of protest in the local community as was demonstrated in the massive fifty-three days of protests against Truong Van Tran, then-owner of Hi Tek video rental. Tran defiantly displayed the Communist flag of Vietnam and posters of Hồ Chí Minh in his store saying that by doing this he was encouraging a freer Vietnam by showing the freedoms that existed in the United States.

Brian, on the other hand, did not share the same intention as Tran in making and exhibiting his controversial photograph. His was a personal observation and interpretation of the sentiment of young Vietnamese people living in a rapidly developing Communist country. In fact, he was more interested in exploring the similarities between people in this globalized world rather than exposing the differences.

Despite accusations of being a Communist sympathizer, Brian is not. At the same time, he isn’t on the side of the anti-Communists either. In his words he’s “…just an artist.”

With that said, what defines the work of an artist is usually their life experience and what they draw from that experience. This crucial aspect is the one thing that was missing from the opposing disputes playing out in the media. Telling his story might have helped to avoid this whole fiasco and brought about much needed understanding.

[The following is a Question & Answer session led by Wayne Huang]

Question: What was growing up in Vietnam like on a day-to-day basis?

Brian Doan: It was pretty hard. I mostly remember that we didn’t have anything to eat. When we arrived in Long Khanh around the mid 80’s, it was kind of a jungle area. It was remote and away from any civilized condition. When we arrived, we were still young and afraid of many things. It rained a lot, we were surrounded by trees, and kids didn’t have clothes, but we were able to live peacefully for a couple of years because we didn’t have any harassment. We lived poorly, but we weren’t harassed by the government like we were in Central Vietnam. Central Vietnam was where most Communists were based. More towards the South, people were more relaxed. There were fewer Communists. It was tough, but we survived day-by-day.

Q: Out there in the jungle area, was there a big community?

BD: It was a small Catholic community. My mom decided to live in a Catholic community because at least they could protect us. They really helped us when we didn’t have our father around. My big brother tried to escape Vietnam many times and spent time in a reeducation camp as well. My mom was a vendor selling used clothes on the streets town-to-town so she wasn’t home mostly. My sister, who was 17-years old at the time, had to take care of the five of us [siblings]. I remember I learned quickly how to trap animals and hunt. That’s all the meat we could gather for meals. We didn’t have rice to eat. We ate mostly corn. Things got better when two of my brothers separately escaped Vietnam to Japan in ’79. We got some money from one when he was living in the Philippines in a refugee camp. He was able to send us money to buy food.

Q: In your interview with Richard Chang of the OC Register, you said of the woman in Thu Duc, “she lives in the Communist country, but look at her. She’s looking away, dreaming. She wants to escape Vietnam. Hồ Chí Minh is next to her, but Communism is no longer in her.” How much of this has to do with your own feelings of living in Vietnam?

BD: I went back to Vietnam four times. The first time was in ’98, second in 2001, 2004, and last year 2008. I’ve seen Vietnam change like China or other countries around in the last 10 years. I think it’s due to the way the economy has gone. It’s not like the time we lived there. Now people are able to have an education, dress nice, or start a business. You see some rich people with Mercedes Benz’s, you see new houses, luxury hotels, cafes, internet cafes. You go there and you’re surprised people pay $10 for a meal. I mean, it’s more expensive than it is here. I see now young people working for banks or foreign companies, trying to get scholarships to travel and study in some country. There are a lot of tourists too, a lot of Westerners in Hanoi and Saigon. It’s funny, now there’s a luxury town outside of Saigon. Only Taiwanese, Chinese, and Koreans live there. My friend and I was there visiting, taking pictures and my friend says, “Hey Brian, you feel like we’re walking in Brooklyn, New York?” There was a Louis Vuitton store, Mercedes Benz’s, BMW’s, Hummers lining the street, sushi restaurants. My friend and I were like, “Wow.”

Q: Twenty years ago, this was non-existent?

BD: Before it was just empty. Now there are skyscrapers and the people…all foreigners. It’s funny that there are no Vietnamese there. There are some Vietnamese working there, but it’s mostly foreigners working in Vietnam who live there.

Q: When you say “…Communism is no longer in her,” is this the popular sentiment of people there today?

BD: Of course Communists still control the government and society, but the Vietnamese population is like 80 million people now and the Communists are only maybe 3 million members? Most Vietnamese want to move forward. Young people have no idea who Hồ Chí Minh is or know about Communism. They are more interested in getting an education, moving forward. Also I see more consumerism. They want to have Japanese cars, motorcycles, nice watches, nice clothes, and hang out in clubs. That’s all they care about. I’ve asked them, “You think about freedom?” “…about the Communists?” They avoid the question. They say “No.” They accept where they are.

Q: When you say they want to escape, you don’t mean they literally want to escape Vietnam?

BD: No, no, most of them want to go to the U.S. to study. Before they could go to Russia or China or Korea for college, but the majority of students want to go to the U.S. and study there. If they’re lucky, they’ll marry someone and get a job and never go back. In my time there, we had to join Communist youth groups. They organized people and you had to be a member of a group to be able to socialize in school. They really controlled you and you had to be loyal to the government, to Hồ Chí Minh, but now you don’t have to do that. People had to join those kinds of organizations to be able to get a job from the government.

Q: Nowadays, it kind of resembles a capitalist society, right?

BD: Exactly. If you speak English and your GPA is high, a foreign company will hire you then. Before, if you had a Communist member in the family, you get a job. Now with foreign companies they hire people with quality, not background.

Q: Now going back a little bit, you said you tried to escape Vietnam and you were imprisoned two times.

BD: I tried to escape Vietnam 11 times with my family. The first time I got caught was in ’78 at 10 years old. My brother and I spent like two and a half months in prison. The second time I got caught was in ’86…no ’83 or ’85…I don’t remember. I got seven months.

Q: How did the authorities treat you when they caught you?

BD: Horrible. They mostly allowed Vietnamese to try to escape Vietnam. They typically put us in a small cell. I remember when I got caught in Central Vietnam there were 98 people in a small room. We didn’t have enough space to live. People were layered up like sardines.

Q: Were you trying to go by boat or trying to cross the border?

BD: By boat. The border patrol saw our boat sinking. They sent us to prison. By that time, I was about 15 or 16 years old. I denied my background because I was afraid if I told them my real background, my father would have problems. He had already been released from the reeducation camp and I was afraid they would harm him some way. I gave them my fake I.D. so they wouldn’t be able to track down my address. They tried to investigate who I was, what my real name was, stuff like that so I was kept a long time.

Q: Were you with your siblings or by yourself?

BD: My sister and my dad got caught.

Q: Is your whole family in the U.S. right now?

BD: Yes.

Q: How did you eventually get here?

BD: In 1991, my father applied for a program for political refugees. We came here at the end of ’91, three days before Christmas.

Q: You came here more than a decade later than the original Boat People, who mostly settled in Little Saigon as you know. You came here for the same reasons, but the circumstances in which they came were different than the circumstances in which you came. How does this disparity affect how you relate to the community and their concerns?

BD: We first landed in San Francisco, and then we went to live in San Jose for a while. My brother flew from Japan to visit us. We had friends here. One was a friend of my dad who was able to escape in ’75. We are different, I have to say. They spoke differently, they were more successful, and they looked good.

They did not treat us very well. They would say, “You have to do this or that,” “If you don’t speak English, you’re in trouble. You’ll just end up washing dishes in restaurants.” I said, “No, I want to go to college.” They would say, “No, forget about college, go and wash dishes.”

Six months we lived in San Jose and then we decided to move to Little Saigon. My cousin thought we could find help in a bigger community. A couple of my father’s former army subordinates had successful businesses so I had opportunities for work, but I ended up not working for them. First, they didn’t want to hire me, because how would they treat me? It was better for them to hire Mexicans so they could do whatever with them, but hiring me meant they had to watch out for my dad because my dad was their boss before. So I couldn’t find a job through my father or with Vietnamese who came here before me because I think they didn’t know how to treat me or my brother. They couldn’t treat us badly because we didn’t have strength like Mexicans to carry boxes around. We were skinny and just came from Vietnam so we could not work as much as Mexican workers.

Secondly, they couldn’t treat us badly because of my father. They knew him. So we couldn’t find a job. It’s weird that they kept saying, “You have to work this and that and forget about school.” They gave us a bunch of advice, but it wasn’t really helpful. Even with my own brother, it’s kind of different. He would say, “We came here when there were no Vietnamese at all, we worked hard, went to school, and now you guys are lucky. Now with Little Saigon, you’re able to have Vietnamese food.”

But you know when they came, the system provided welfare with help from the Carter administration. Vietnamese people could get support from the government. By the time we came, we only had six months of welfare to better our English, to find work. Not a lot of time. The people who came here first really looked down upon us.

Q: How did you feel about that?

BD: Kind of small. Not to say that I hate them, but I felt they shouldn’t have treated us like that or talk like that to us. Once I was at a party that my father’s friend invited us to. He had a big house. Pointing at me, he said to his son, “You remember this guy? He used to be in kindergarten with you.” Now he was a doctor, owned a business. His son said “Yeah…yeah,” but he barely remembered. How could he remember when we were kids, 5 or 6 years old? He spoke English. Of course, I didn’t speak English at all. His girlfriend was Caucasian and he was dressed in a suit. I didn’t have clothes. We just came from Vietnam. I really must have looked like a monkey to them. They tried to be nice, but I thought, “Please, at least talk to me in Vietnamese.” They kept talking to me in English and I didn’t understand, then his father said, “You know…now he owns three houses.” I just felt like, “Is it really necessary to tell me that?” It was just intimidating to see how successful they were. We just got here, new, cold, and looking horrible.

Q: Were you the first in your family to go to college?

BD: No, two of my brothers who escaped to Japan have a degree. In the United States, I’m the only one to go to college.

Q: How did you become interested in photography?

BD: When I came here, I dreamed of being a writer like Hemingway, but I figured out that it was too late to become fluent in English. I came here when I was 23 or 24-years old and was working a lot and going to school part-time. I liked to draw. I took some art classes; I loved painting, then I found a passion for photography with some encouragement from Jerry Burchfield at Cypress College. I was working on several projects and Jerry said, “Brian, I think you should go for photography instead of computer science.” I took computer science like all Vietnamese guys, but then I asked myself, “Do I really want to do computer science? I think I like photography.” My mom, dad, and sister all went nuts. They asked, “What are you going to do with photography?” At that time, to an Asian family, engineering was a career. Photography or art was something fun, but not a career. I really drove them nuts. They kept trying to call me to talk about it, but I’m stimg_8228ubborn. If there’s something I want to do, I’ll do it.

Q: What does Thu Duc mean?

BD: Just a location where I took the photograph. It’s in the outskirts of Hồ Chí Minh City.

Q: Tell me about the subject in the photograph. Who is she?

BD: Last year when I was in Vietnam I hung out in coffee shops. I met couples and individuals at the shop. I just approached them and said I was working on a project and if they’d be able to pose for me. Some of them said yes some of them, no. So that girl is one of the people I met. I don’t remember her name. Maybe she gave me a fake name or something, but I just made an appointment and shot her.

Q: Out of your series of portraits of Vietnamese people, this one strikes me as the most overtly political. What was going on in your life or what feelings did you have at the time that resulted in the idea for the photograph?

BD: I got the idea before 2008. I collected a lot of things about Communists and things from the Vietnam War and I wanted to do something with that. Two-thousand eight was the first time I was able to go back to Vietnam as a scholar or a photographer, to observe and look at things in a mature way, not like a student. Sitting in the coffee shop interviewing people, I saw a lot of things were different. Now, when I see the Communists, I no longer hate them. I don’t like them, but my hatred is gone.

The people here, they keep that hatred inside. Some want to kill them. It’s time to stop hating. Both sides have been doing wrong, but we should talk. The younger generation like the girl in the photo is my message. She’s in a Communist country. The things she wears may be Communist, the things next to her may be Communist, but she’s not a Communist.

I wanted to show something political, but I also wanted to show that the sad thing about Vietnam is that it is divided in two parts, North and South. Like North and South Korea. The North was supported by the Chinese and Russians; the South was supported by Australia, U.S., and the free world. We were fighting with AK-47’s and M16’s. None were made by Vietnamese. Both were given to the Vietnamese to fight each other.

So why do we keep fighting? The war is over. The Communists won. The South Vietnamese in Little Saigon lost and ran away to live here. The yellow flag to me has no meaning. I didn’t grow up with that yellow flag with three stripes. No, I grew up with a Communist flag. We have to accept the reality that 80 million Vietnamese live in Vietnam and that some of them like the Communists, some of them don’t. We have to ask the question, “Why are brothers fighting brothers?” That was my point.

In my series about Vietnamese people, most of the pictures are weird…like me. I’ll never be normal. How could I be normal growing up in society that treated me like a second-class citizen? I could never be psychologically normal like people who grew up here. I think most Vietnamese are somewhat psychotic. In many Vietnamese families there is always a conflict between father and son, wife and husband and we somehow isolate ourselves in different corners. I don’t know why. I wanted to show that in my series.

Q: What do you want your critics to understand about you?

BD: I hope they accept me as who I am, respect different voices from a younger generation and different political views. Asking people to understand me is hard. We are multicultural here, a salad bowl. That’s what’s beautiful about the U.S. I understand the Vietnamese here escaped from the war. They’re not really into art. Most want to talk about politics and how to overturn the Communist regime. They came to the F.O.B. exhibition to look for something to protest. We had a beautiful gallery about gay, lesbian Vietnamese. We had different rooms with wonderful work from artists much more talented than me. I was nobody there, but they just targeted me because of the red flag. That blinded them to the whole exhibition. I asked for them to tolerate, to look at the other works as well. Look at the issues the young generation is dealing with such as being gay, identity issues.

It’s not about politics, Communists, a red flag or a yellow flag. Don’t show me a red or yellow flag and tell me to accept one. My flag is the United States flag. People called me a traitor. I didn’t get money from the South Vietnam government; they didn’t pay me to fight the Communists. How can they call me a traitor? I grew up a Communist. Nobody can call me a traitor because I escaped them, and South Vietnam…I didn’t grow up with that government. They got money from the U.S. government to fight the Communists, not me. They lost the war, not me. I’m just a victim. I mean, be able to accept the generation that wants to forget and move on, be able to accept the pain from the North Vietnamese too. I’m just an artist that wants to speak my views on the issue on [which] we’ve been divided.

Local Event Promotes Art for Peace, Educates Communities

The intensity of truth emanating from spoken word combined with artistic expressions and real stories illuminated a warehouse sitting in a corner of Inglewood into a sight of inspiration last week.

Held at Chuco’s Justice Center with a universal goal of raising awareness about the crisis in Gaza, speakers from various humanitarian organizations arrived at “Compassion and Expression: Art for Peace” on March 7 to educate and encourage positive action.

“We all have the power to make effective change. Peace begins with me,” said Laura Ava Tesimale, a speaker from the One Global Family Project, a pilot project under Manav Sadhna.

The group provides aid to struggling local organizations around the world that provide services to  needy and marginalized communities.

Tesimale traveled extensively to African and South Asian countries with her daughter, who witnessed and questioned the attacks on the World Trade Center at the age of 11. The trips have allowed both mom and daughter, now 18, to understand and appreciate different cultures.

“There’s so much negativity about Pakistan, I wanted her to see for her own self how great these people are,” the elder Tesimale said. “I wanted to not only touch the hearts of the children there but start it with my own daughter’s heart.”

Islamic Relief, an international relief organization, was also present hoping to raise awareness of crises around the world.

“My goal tonight was to share more information about the humanitarian crisis [in Gaza] and how great the need is, what kind of suffering the people are still going through and to not forget them even though the issue might no be in the news right now,” said Communications Manager Mostafa Mahboob.

He emphasized that people in the midst of deeply controversial issues are still humans in desperate need and the rest of society should help.

Speeches were followed by art activities, spoken word and music played by DJ nPrevail.

Activist Vivien Sansour recited poems of war and personal struggles as attendants made cards to send to Israel or Gaza. Several voiced their thoughts through video messages, that would be sent overseas, to show solidarity with those in war prone nations.

Tasneem Noor, 25, of Culver City created a small card with the words, Love with Faith.

“For me, faith is where my hope comes from,” she said. “If whoever receives [this card] smiles [and] if it strengthens their faith even a tiny bit, it’ll be worth it.”

Local artists Mark Gonzales, Omar Offendum and Skim stirred emotions with songs of humanity –  questioning war, consumerism and personal identity. Their words danced to the beats of hip hop and R&B.

Gonzales attends several community-building events but also aims to create understanding by approaching hostile communities.

“It would be hypocritical of me as a grandchild of immigrants to not support other people, [from] those in Gaza [to] the women in Watts, [LA],” he said before his anticipated performance.

This evening of self expression and education was hosted by Be the Cause, a not-for-profit service organization based on the dedicated work of volunteers.

“[We encourage] being the change you wish to see in the world,” said one of the organizers Kristeen Singh, 30. “We were able to create an event raising awareness about the humanitarian crisis in Gaza and let people know what organizations are doing and how we can help.”

The event’s art activities, from writing poems to painting, all had a common goal of creating a message that lived on long after that evening. A message the organizers hoped would lead to understanding and dialogue.

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Credit: Urmi Rahman, a freelance journalist residing in California. She received her B.A. in political science with minors in English and journalism from Cal State Fullerton. Urmi, 25, is also the editor and co-founder of Minority Dreams Magazine.