easytiger
New Yorker
I came across this poem a few days ago... it's very interesting and a very good read 
On Being a Public Sexual Fantasy
Or, Going to Movies with My Father
Kil Ja Kim
June 22, 2003
I walk into the movie theater with my father.
We stand in line,
like any pair.
Order a big bucket of popcorn and
two medium sodas.
I wait,
clutching our goodies
as he goes to the john.
When he returns,
I see them staring.
Their eyes upon us.
Watching as my father
takes his drink from my hand.
They stare at us,
wondering how we happened.
My father,
a white man with graying hair,
his glasses sitting disheveled on
his nose.
Me, an Asian woman
in my late twenties,
who is often told she looks
twenty-two.
They stare.
I hunch my shoulders and
look at my ticket.
The letters spell out "Catch me if you can."
I read it again just so
I can have something,
anything,
to avoid that stare.
The look,
the one that says,
ah, he got him one of those.
People wondering how
an old man like
my father,
got him one
of those.
Me, a young Asian woman
with long, silky
black hair.
Me, a young Asian woman
who is young enough to be
his daughter.
Me, a young Asian woman
stared at as my father's public
whore.
We walk into the theater.
Many couples of
men and women
sit together.
Hands holding one another,
their legs touching
comfortably.
Again, my shoulders hunch.
My eyes scan the theater to find us
seats.
Quickly.
Trying to avoid that feeling.
But I can see them looking at us.
And I know that they think we're
fucking.
A young Asian woman with a much older
(white) man.
So appropriate. So appropriate.
People stare,
but few flinch at the sight.
Cuz when they look at me and
my father,
they channel their
own public fantasies of
white-Asian
interracial sexuality
and grown white men
breaking in
young, tight Asian pussy.
We find a seat.
I am aware of how
close I sit to my father.
I don't want any...misunderstanding.
Like when I was in
high school,
and I would wrap my arms around
my father's waist in
familial affection.
It could never be just familial affection.
Grown men would ask
my father if
I was
his wife.
Me,
a fifteen year old girl,
experimenting with makeup and teenage fashion,
my father's wife?
I guess some people would say,
well, what do you expect?
For them to think you were his
daughter?
He is, after all, white and you're Asian.
Daughter, wife,
what's the difference
when the man's white and
the woman's Asian?
I hunch in my seat,
burying my body low into the chair.
I try to relax,
and keep my eyes glued to
the screen.
I try to laugh with
ease.
But I am thinking of how people
see us.
And I know that they think we're
fucking.
And they see nothing wrong with this,
their public fantasy of
old men and
young Asian girls.
This desire's played out,
but it follows me down the street,
in subway cars and taxis.
It touches me on the arms,
and acts bewildered
when I lash out,
at being touched
by people I
do not
know.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
saving Asian women from
war.
So you can take us home,
fuck us,
beat us, and
ridicule us
for not speaking English.
Dangling our visas in our face if we
try to leave.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
having mixed
Asian baby girls
with us, your young Asian wives.
Mixed Asian baby girls that
can be
secretly desired and
paraded around
as extra pretty cuz
they're "exotic" and have long,
flowing hair
without having
eyes that are too
"edity."
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
adopting
young Asian girls.
Whose growing bodies
remind one of nasty pleasures
of young, fresh pussy,
(rumored to be shallow)
ready to be broken in by big dicks.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
something many of us
would call
rape.
If you actually thought
Asian women were
rapeable.
An excuse you use to
beat Asian women if you
suspect they are
not "into men."
An excuse you use to maintain your
public fantasy of
Asian women as
pliant.
Always ready to
sleep with a man while cooing,
oh, oh, me so horny,
i love you long time.
A fucked up
phrase,
a fucked up
myth
torn from
a Hollywood
scene of war.
Immortalized on a
rap album
by men
whose respect for women
is in the least,
questionable.
The public sexual fantasies of
these men
burn into
my skin,
are mapped on
my body.
Heard in their voice
every time they say with
disappointment,
oh,
I thought you were
only twenty.
Their stares burn
into my skin,
puncture my flesh,
just like when old vets
from the war come
up to me and
let me know they "like"
Asian women and that
we're the "best" in
bed.
And when they talk,
my fists clench up while
my eyes travel to
their hats.
hats that
proudly display
the name of an Asian country they
helped tear apart.
some forced to
fight in wars to
survive
still wear that damn hat.
I cannot fathom why
they think
I would want to
fuck them
when they have the name of
a country
I never really got to know
on my own terms,
sewn into their hats,
with the words
US Army underneath.
Even the vets who preach
that war is wrong,
tell me that they realized
they didn't feel right
destroying a country with such
beautiful scenery and beautiful
people.
And I know that their idea of
beautiful people means
Asian women who
fucked men to
make a living,
just so that her family
could eat.
Or so that she could move away from
a country with
land mines
and bombs
and forced prostitution
(after all, marriage is supposedly NOT prostitution).
Their idea of beautiful people means
young Asian girls
running naked in the streets,
trying to escape the threat of
being burned alive by
napalm.
Their burnt Asian girly flesh a reminder of
what the vets "saved" them from.
Making me wonder,
if you didn't find us fuckable,
would you
be more supportive of
war?
Sitting in that theater, I try to
shake off the
memories of
the stares,
the words,
the licked lips in anticipation.
I hunch in my seat,
lower,
until my head is sunk
so far down you
can't see it from
the back of the room.
Plunging my hand in
buttery popcorn,
I stare at the movie.
And try to let the
darkness of
the dimmed lights
hide my
(young) Asian female body and
my white father beside me.
On Being a Public Sexual Fantasy
Or, Going to Movies with My Father
Kil Ja Kim
June 22, 2003
I walk into the movie theater with my father.
We stand in line,
like any pair.
Order a big bucket of popcorn and
two medium sodas.
I wait,
clutching our goodies
as he goes to the john.
When he returns,
I see them staring.
Their eyes upon us.
Watching as my father
takes his drink from my hand.
They stare at us,
wondering how we happened.
My father,
a white man with graying hair,
his glasses sitting disheveled on
his nose.
Me, an Asian woman
in my late twenties,
who is often told she looks
twenty-two.
They stare.
I hunch my shoulders and
look at my ticket.
The letters spell out "Catch me if you can."
I read it again just so
I can have something,
anything,
to avoid that stare.
The look,
the one that says,
ah, he got him one of those.
People wondering how
an old man like
my father,
got him one
of those.
Me, a young Asian woman
with long, silky
black hair.
Me, a young Asian woman
who is young enough to be
his daughter.
Me, a young Asian woman
stared at as my father's public
whore.
We walk into the theater.
Many couples of
men and women
sit together.
Hands holding one another,
their legs touching
comfortably.
Again, my shoulders hunch.
My eyes scan the theater to find us
seats.
Quickly.
Trying to avoid that feeling.
But I can see them looking at us.
And I know that they think we're
fucking.
A young Asian woman with a much older
(white) man.
So appropriate. So appropriate.
People stare,
but few flinch at the sight.
Cuz when they look at me and
my father,
they channel their
own public fantasies of
white-Asian
interracial sexuality
and grown white men
breaking in
young, tight Asian pussy.
We find a seat.
I am aware of how
close I sit to my father.
I don't want any...misunderstanding.
Like when I was in
high school,
and I would wrap my arms around
my father's waist in
familial affection.
It could never be just familial affection.
Grown men would ask
my father if
I was
his wife.
Me,
a fifteen year old girl,
experimenting with makeup and teenage fashion,
my father's wife?
I guess some people would say,
well, what do you expect?
For them to think you were his
daughter?
He is, after all, white and you're Asian.
Daughter, wife,
what's the difference
when the man's white and
the woman's Asian?
I hunch in my seat,
burying my body low into the chair.
I try to relax,
and keep my eyes glued to
the screen.
I try to laugh with
ease.
But I am thinking of how people
see us.
And I know that they think we're
fucking.
And they see nothing wrong with this,
their public fantasy of
old men and
young Asian girls.
This desire's played out,
but it follows me down the street,
in subway cars and taxis.
It touches me on the arms,
and acts bewildered
when I lash out,
at being touched
by people I
do not
know.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
saving Asian women from
war.
So you can take us home,
fuck us,
beat us, and
ridicule us
for not speaking English.
Dangling our visas in our face if we
try to leave.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
having mixed
Asian baby girls
with us, your young Asian wives.
Mixed Asian baby girls that
can be
secretly desired and
paraded around
as extra pretty cuz
they're "exotic" and have long,
flowing hair
without having
eyes that are too
"edity."
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
adopting
young Asian girls.
Whose growing bodies
remind one of nasty pleasures
of young, fresh pussy,
(rumored to be shallow)
ready to be broken in by big dicks.
I, we, experience men's public fantasies of
something many of us
would call
rape.
If you actually thought
Asian women were
rapeable.
An excuse you use to
beat Asian women if you
suspect they are
not "into men."
An excuse you use to maintain your
public fantasy of
Asian women as
pliant.
Always ready to
sleep with a man while cooing,
oh, oh, me so horny,
i love you long time.
A fucked up
phrase,
a fucked up
myth
torn from
a Hollywood
scene of war.
Immortalized on a
rap album
by men
whose respect for women
is in the least,
questionable.
The public sexual fantasies of
these men
burn into
my skin,
are mapped on
my body.
Heard in their voice
every time they say with
disappointment,
oh,
I thought you were
only twenty.
Their stares burn
into my skin,
puncture my flesh,
just like when old vets
from the war come
up to me and
let me know they "like"
Asian women and that
we're the "best" in
bed.
And when they talk,
my fists clench up while
my eyes travel to
their hats.
hats that
proudly display
the name of an Asian country they
helped tear apart.
some forced to
fight in wars to
survive
still wear that damn hat.
I cannot fathom why
they think
I would want to
fuck them
when they have the name of
a country
I never really got to know
on my own terms,
sewn into their hats,
with the words
US Army underneath.
Even the vets who preach
that war is wrong,
tell me that they realized
they didn't feel right
destroying a country with such
beautiful scenery and beautiful
people.
And I know that their idea of
beautiful people means
Asian women who
fucked men to
make a living,
just so that her family
could eat.
Or so that she could move away from
a country with
land mines
and bombs
and forced prostitution
(after all, marriage is supposedly NOT prostitution).
Their idea of beautiful people means
young Asian girls
running naked in the streets,
trying to escape the threat of
being burned alive by
napalm.
Their burnt Asian girly flesh a reminder of
what the vets "saved" them from.
Making me wonder,
if you didn't find us fuckable,
would you
be more supportive of
war?
Sitting in that theater, I try to
shake off the
memories of
the stares,
the words,
the licked lips in anticipation.
I hunch in my seat,
lower,
until my head is sunk
so far down you
can't see it from
the back of the room.
Plunging my hand in
buttery popcorn,
I stare at the movie.
And try to let the
darkness of
the dimmed lights
hide my
(young) Asian female body and
my white father beside me.
