Benjamin Duarte’s Story of Migration

In his essay “Migration to Immigration,” Benjamin Duarte writes:

I was born in Esqueda, Sonora, Mexico and lived as a Mexican citizen until I was 10 years old, when my Texas-born Mother registered me as a “citizen of the U.S. born abroad.”  I was asked by the consular officer in Douglas, Arizona if I was now “renouncing” my Mexican citizenship. I said “Yes.”  

But what does it mean to renounce one’s citizenship? Join us tonight for Our Stories, Ourselves, a special Third Thursday event hosted by the San Jose Museum of Art, to hear Melinda Marks read this powerful piece.

Benjamin was born in Mexico, immigrated to the U.S. as a child, and came to San Jose at age fifteen. A graduate of James Lick High and San Jose State, he worked as a criminal defense attorney for 30 years before retiring with his wife to the Arizona desert in 2004. An avid runner, Benjamin ran marathons until the age of 73, and stays active with gardening and construction projects on his acre of land.

When asked what immigrant heritage means to him, Benjamin says:

“Immigrant heritage implies an inculcation into more than one culture, which gives one an enhanced understanding of humanity. Not only an understanding of different cultural perspectives on the world and we humans’ place in it, but more importantly, it gives one an insight into the multitude of similarities we humans share. For example, when I lived in Mexico as a child, there was a popular Mexican dance called ‘El Barillo Cervezero.’ When I moved to the U.S., not only was I surprised to learn that the ‘Beer-Barrel Polka’ was a familiar dance here as well, but that it had originated in Germany! Many ‘differences’ are constructed to eliminate or obscure our similarities. Migration and immigration are more than just bodies crossing land; they are a means for folk customs, games, legends, and traditions to spread and flourish. An immigrant heritage has the power to make one a better citizen of the world.”

join us tonight to hear his work performed aloud.

Kai Katayama’s Uniquely American Story

Sometimes we get a submission that totally blows our socks off. It’s unusual, though, that it comes from a fourth grader.

This spring, Kai Yong-June Katayama sent us his own Ted Talk, entitled “My Uniquely American Story.” He writes movingly about his Korean and Japanese heritage — and what it has felt like to see Asians and Asian Americans unjustly blamed for the COVID-19 pandemic. He pairs this with images of his ancestors, including his great uncle, Kazuo Katayama, who served in the 442nd regimental combat team, a segregated Japanese American unit who fought in World War II.

We are delighted to include a recording of Kai performing his story in Our Stories, Ourselves, our Third Thursday show held in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art, on June 17.

Kai lives in Northern Colorado with his mom, dad, and aunt. He enjoys playing MineCraft, Roblox, skateboarding, and creating science videos, such as his submission to the Poudre School District Science Fair and his performance of “You’ll Be Back” from the Hamilton soundtrack.

He looks forward to playing with his friends in person someday.

Kai was kind enough to answer a few questions about himself in advance of our show.

How did you hear about Play On Words?

My aunt is a writer and a supporter of Play on Words. She saw the call for submissions and said that I should submit my Ted Talk to the show. 

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

I don’t usually like to sing and dance or give speeches in front of people, but I like to share with my class on zoom and I like to record my presentations. Recording is better, because I can go back and fix things with the power of editing! Using technology tools like zoom and video recordings has helped me to express myself without any fear.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

I’m not sure. Maybe it means where you came from. I was born in California. My mom and my Halmoni and Haraboji (grandmother and grandfather in Korean) were born in Korea, but my dad and my grandma were born in Colorado. My dad is Japanese American and my mom is Korean, so that means I have Japanese and Korean heritage.

What else should we know about you?

I’m going to a parkour camp this summer. I hope you will subscribe to my YouTube Channel, Science Kai!

How awesome is this kid. Join us on June 17 to see him perform his story!

c’mon … how could you not subscribe to kai’s youtube channel?

April Halprin Wayland’s “Immigrant”

It’s amazing how much can be communicated in a few short lines. Take this stanza from April Halprin Wayland’s poem, “Immigrant”:

When we finally ran, when we caught the train,
when the giant came,
when the rain rolled in.

We are thrilled to perform this piece on June 17 at Our Stories, Ourselves, our Third Thursday show hosted in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art.

April Halprin Wayland, named UCLA Extension Writer’s Program Outstanding Instructor of the Year, is the author of an award-winning YA novel in poems, children’s poetry, and picture books, which have been praised by The New York Times, Kirkus, and Publishers Weekly.

Her novel in poems for young teens, Girl Coming in for a Landing (Knopf) won the Myra Cohn Livingston Award for Best Poetry Book, Penn State’s Lee Bennett Hopkins Honor Award for Poetry, was nominated by the American Library Association both as a Best Book for Young Adults, and as a Quick Picks for Reluctant Readers. It was selected for the California Collections by California Readers, and is a Junior Library Guild selection.

Her poetry has been published on the Poetry Foundation website and in over 50 anthologies for children, including over 50 poems in Cricket Magazine, which invited her to write a poem for their anniversary issue. She’s one of six children’s authors on the blog, TeachingAuthors.com, through which she connects to the vibrant universe of children’s poets in the Kidlitosphere, and Poetry Friday. For over ten years, she has written a poem a day. Her tagline? 1/2 author, 1/2 poet, 1/2 not good at fractions.

She was kind enough to answer a few questions before our June 17 show.

urselApril Halprin Wayland

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

Geez! My practice has gone through many stages…waves. Wild riptides that nearly pulled me under, others that pulled me far, far away from who I wanted to be. Right now, my writing is a soothing bath. I write a poem every day and let it take as long as it needs.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

It means my DNA is a passport, permanently stamped in the Ural Mountains of Russia, in Galicia (a territory of the Austrian Empire that existed from 1772 to 1918), in Argentina, Canada, Ohio, New Jersey, Northern California and Southern California, and that I have an invisible number tattooed on my right shoulder. 

What else should we know about you?

I was hatched in a beautiful bird’s nest built by my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, who were deeply committed to making our world better. My sister and I, our spouses and children proudly make good trouble in their names.

Also that I have turned into the woman you remember from your childhood who had all those animals. My zoo includes 8 pond turtles (adult and babies), 3 tortoises (adult and babies), a box turtle, a goofy, galumphing dog and a hilarious kitty.

Take a class with April:

  • I’m teaching a 3-hour class on Writing Poetry for Children in UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program on July 17th noon-3pm PST. Register here.
  • I’m teaching a 10-week class on Writing Picture Books for Children in UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program beginning September 21st noon-3pm PST. (Registration opens July 26th)

check out more of her work:

join us june 17 to see us perform april’s work.

Keiko O’Leary’s Recipe for Hamburgers

While the kids at Keiko O’Leary‘s school ate McDonald’s hamburgers, her mom made teriyaki hamburgers at home. We love her poem, “Recipe for Hamburgers, 1985,” and look forward to performing it on June 17 at Our Stories, Ourselves, as part of San Jose Museum of Art’s Third Thursday series.

Keiko first tried non-teriyaki hamburgers in fourth grade. She writes short pieces, including poetry, fiction, and marketing copy. She is also involved in a new online writing community, Prolific Writers Life. A fellow writer from San José, Lorraine Haataia, started the initiative with the vision of a writing community that’s always there when you need it. Writers can share their expertise by offering workshops and events, and they can benefit from the expertise of others by attending. 

POWSJ fans will remember Keiko from our New Year, Nouveau show, in which Alex Draa performed her piece, “The Golden Beauty of Carlina Johansen, Author of Milliner’s Dreams.” She was kind enough to answer a few questions for us in advance of our June 17 show.

Keiko O’Leary

How did you hear about Play On Words?

Wow, it’s been so long. I feel like you’ve always existed. I’ve been involved in San Jose’s literary community for many years. Maybe I heard about you through the Flash Fiction Forum, or the San Jose Poetry Slam, or the Santa Clara County Poet Laureate program, or Poetry Center San Jose … It’s wonderful that we have so many vibrant literary organizations, including ones focused on performance. 

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

I’ve experienced a deep change during the pandemic. I still do mostly the same activities, but my relationship with them is completely different. 

I used to view my creative practice as something I needed to force myself to do more of. I was forever trying out new routines and challenges in an effort to conform to some ideal work level that I could never reach. 

During the pandemic, with my kids at home, I lost all my professional time. At first, I tried to make the sacrifice gracefully, but I failed. 

I came to realize that the only way I could be a good parent was if I made time for self-care. I’m not talking about baths and pedicures. For me, self-care is writing, teaching, making art, giving workshops. Now I view my creative activities as vital to my health and my family’s happiness.

I still do challenges and try new routines, but I approach them with joy instead of with a whip.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

I’m fourth generation on both sides: all eight of my great-grandparents were immigrants to the United States. But they didn’t all come from the same place. 

I grew up in a multicultural family, so switching from culture to culture seems normal to me. But when I was a kid explaining sushi to my friends at school, I hoped that one day I’d experience being part of a group where everyone was the same. This turned out to be impossible. Even within groups I have chosen, I always find myself to be a voice of diversity: a poet among engineers or an engineer among poets. As an adult, I’ve come to accept this as normal and good, and to understand that I’m not alone in being different. 

Everyone has something unique to offer in any group they belong to.

I met Sandra Cisneros when her novel Caramelo first came out, and she gave this advice for writers: think of a group you belong to, say women or actors, and write down ten ways you are different from other people in that group. Do this for ten groups you belong to. Multiply all those differences together, and that’s the place you write from. 

I believe our differences are valuable, and we should not deny our heritage — any of our heritages. 

I claim my heritage in every line I belong to, not just as a person of Japanese descent and Irish descent, but also as an American, a writer, an artist, a computer scientist, a linguist, a woman, a queer person, a human being, a life form of the planet Earth.

What else should we know about you?

I love sending real mail, especially postcards and handmade pop-up cards. I also have an email list where I send (digital images of) handwritten letters. I write letters of encouragement and practical tips for creative people who want to improve their craft, organize their life, and see the big picture while taking meaningful action today. People can sign up at http://keikooleary.com/list/signup.html.

Join us June 17 to hear Keiko’s poem performed aloud.

Sebastian Gomez Biggeri

“I taught myself to U the O’s, fizz the TH’s and water down the R’s. San Fernando. Los Gatos. San Hosey. Love and fear made this place real, like the vaccine scar on my arm,” writes Sebastian Gomez Biggeri, a Latino visual artist living and working in San Jose.

We were mesmerized by Sebastian’s turns of phrase in both English and Spanish and are delighted to perform a series of his short pieces on June 17 in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art. He is currently exploring a series of vignettes comprised of short writings, drawings, and digital art, and will be participating in the Cultura Power Fellowship through Movimiento de Arte y Cultura Latino Americana (MACLA).

Sebastian Gomez Biggeri, photographed by Juliana Rico.

Sebastian was kind enough to answer a few questions about himself and his work in advance of the show. We are providing his answers in Spanish and English.

How did you hear about Play On Words?

My partner may have forwarded it to me, or perhaps I learned about it through the SJMA. 

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

Siempre he percibido el presente como algo muy precario, y la pandemia hasta ahora no ha catalizado ningún cambio fundamental. Al contrario, parece ser otro estertor más de la gran pesadilla que se devora a sí misma con nosotros adentro.

Pero si me ha ayudado a desprenderme de ciertas pretensiones que me demoraban creativamente. Hay cierto consuelo en la melancolía de las escalas geológicas, la certeza de que el plástico y las penas eventualmente serán otra capa sedimentaria. Un proceso mucho más lento pero no muy diferente al régimen de una cultura curada algorítmicamente, donde todo es novedad e inmediatamente sepultado para siempre bajo el flujo de información. 

Sumándole a esto un momento de verdadera crisis material donde mi interés se enfocó más en la solidaridad comunitaria y la acción política, mi práctica artística logró reconciliarse con lo efímero. El mío es un acto insignificante pero universal, como regar las plantas o caminar con una piedra en el zapato.

Our present always felt utterly precarious, and the pandemic so far hasn’t catalyzed any fundamental change. On the contrary, it only has exacerbated the ongoing conditions, one more gasp of the great nightmare that devours itself, with all of us in it.

Nonetheless, the sudden direness made obvious for me that certain pretensions had become creative obstacles.

There’s solace in the melancholy of geologic time scales. The certainty that plastic waste and sorrows eventually will be just another rock layer. A process much slower but not that different from the regime of a culture algorithmically curated where everything is novelty and immediately buried forever under the flow of information.

In a moment of true material crisis where my focus and energy turned into mutual aid and political involvement, I was able to reconcile my artistic practice with the transience of its fruits. An insignificant but universal act, like watering the plants or walking around with a stone in my shoe.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

Herencia es una palabra pesada para alguien que siempre vivió de paso, pero con los años he descubierto cosas de mi origen que atesoro. No sabría decir cuánto se debe a la nostalgia del expatriado y que otro tanto a la erosión que va revelando nuestros rasgos más fundamentales. Cualquiera sea el caso, es parte de una conversación continua con los demás que me obliga a ser honesto conmigo mismo. La complacencia de estetizar las afecciones regionales nos termina transformando en caricaturas. Me tomó tiempo entender que el exotismo es una dinámica colonial, es la sintetización benigna e inoculada de lo foráneo. El rol que me hacía sentir especial es un viejo yugo imperial. La verdadera herencia son las costumbres con las que entendemos la justicia, el amor, y la soledad. 

Heritage ended up being two faces of the same coin for me, depending where I am. As an immigrant, I can’t tell how much of it is nostalgia and what’s due to our fundamental characteristics contrasting against the foreign landscape. However it may be, it is part of a continuous dialogue with others that compels me to be honest with myself. Indulging in exotic affectations turns us into caricatures, for exoticism is the synthesis of a colonialist dynamic that inoculates what’s foreign and processes it into something benign. Partaking in the role that made me and others feel special but void is an old yoke. I see my heritage as the elusive customs through which I understand justice, love, and loneliness.

What else should we know about you?

I was born and raised in Argentina, and I’m a graphic designer by trade. Since last year I’ve been intermittently working on vignettes and short stories @gunsgermsandmemes. I’d also like to plug a new podcast by Juliana Rico that focuses on conversations about art with BIPOC creatives, @artinmotionpodcast.

Join us on June 17 for our stories, ourselves, to see sebastian’s work performed aloud.

Lyra Halprin Rescues Esther

Lyra Halprin’s mother never liked raising money for raffles. It wasn’t until many years later that she discovered why: Saralee’s family hosted raffles to earn the money needed to help their family in Europe escape persecution. Somehow, selling candy door to door just didn’t seem that important.

We were moved by the voice and narrative in Lyra’s essay, “Rescuing Esther,” which ties the story of her family fleeing Europe to Trump-era America, where she was eager to show recent arrivals to the U.S. that they were, indeed, welcome and necessary parts of the community. We’re excited to read an excerpt of this piece on June 17 as a part of Our Stories, Ourselves, in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art.

Lyra is a Northern California writer whose stories have aired on NPR, Capital Public Radio-Sacramento, and KQED-San Francisco, and appeared in newspapers, magazines and online venues. A former reporter, she worked for 20+ years as a public information person for the University of California sustainable agriculture programs. She is working on stories about growing up in an activist family in the 1950s and ‘60s and believes the secret to living in this crazy world is having a big humor gene, a loving family and a soft dog.

She was kind enough to answer a few questions in advance of our June show.

Lyra @ Davis Central Park rally 2017 for immigrants

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

I used to meet with 2 writers every month, sending them what I was working on ahead of time. Now we meet every week, talk a little, then leaving the camera on we write.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

The dreams, fears, delights and memories we/they bring with us/them.

What else should we know about you?

A writer friend described her students stumbling into “completely unconfined, holy gears in their writing,” words that bring tears to my eyes because they explain how I often feel at the keyboard. I cherish those holy gears as I’ve been working on transforming my essays and journal entries into memoir stories about a girl growing up a feminist in California in the 1950s-70s. My stories feel more urgent in the wake of our frightening political reality.

I’m reminded that members of my family perished in the Holocaust, and family and friends were blacklisted during the McCarthy Era, but I grew up in a vibrant activist household filled with hope and optimism. I want to share that with my children, other young people, and those grappling with feelings of hopelessness to show that natural beauty, art, music, and progressive action can thrive and sustain us during chaotic times.

Join us June 17 to hear Lyra’s work performed aloud.

Yunlu Shen and “Gung Haggis Fat Choy”

Sometimes the best traditions are the ones we invent ourselves. That’s what Yunlu Shen discovered as a Chinese Canadian transplant reading the work of Scottish poet Robert Burns. Seeking community in a new city, Yunlu hosted Gung Haggis Fat Choy, a mash-up of the Chinese New Year and Burns Night, a celebration of the poet’s birthday.

We fell in love with Yunlu’s essay, “To a Chinese Mouse,” and are excited to perform it on June 17 at Our Stories, Ourselves, in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art.

A structural engineer working in New York City, Yunlu likes to read and go on long bike adventures in beautiful places. She kindly answered a few questions for us in advance of our show.

How did you hear about Play On Words?

I first heard about Play On Words from writer friends in the Bay Area.

How has your creative practice changed during the pandemic?

I began writing more letters to friends during the pandemic. That process often generated ideas for other pieces. I also became more patient. The lock-down created more time and space for introspection and drew me closer to the physical process of writing. I write more drafts by hand and set them aside for longer between editing.

What does “immigrant heritage” mean to you?

As someone who moved to North America at the age of 11, immigrant heritage is an direct and personal experience for me. Over the past two decades I have also learned to love the cultural contributions from other immigrant communities and how well they sometimes complement one another. There is a banjo-guzheng duet by Abigail Washburn and Wu Fei, Wusuli Boat Song/The Water is Wide, that melds together a Chinese folk song and an American folk song of Scottish origin. It’s a beautiful example of shared immigrant heritage in America and resonates with me deeply.

What else should we know about you?

I spend most of my day designing structures – skyscrapers, airports, museums. But I think the act of creation is really the same process, whether we are constructing sentences, ideas, or buildings.

JOIN US JUNE 17 TO SEE YUNLU’S WORK PERFORMED ALOUD.

Julian Parayno-Stoll’s “Jar”

What would you do if you discovered a jar of bullets in your family home?

We were taken by the voice and language in Julian Parayno-Stoll’s “The Jar,” which describes a young protagonist witnessing his father adding bullets to a peanut butter jar. We’ll be performing this short piece at Our Stories, Ourselves on Thursday, June 17, with the San Jose Museum of Art.

Julian (he/him) is a mixed/mestizo Pilipinx American whose writing has been performed at De Anza College’s virtual Euphrat Museum, Flash Fiction Forum, San José Poetry Center’s Bauchhaar, and Play On Words San José. He received a BA in Philosophy from UC Santa Cruz. Raised on Kumeyaay land (San Diego), he currently resides on the unceded ancestral lands of the Tamien Ohlone people (San José, California).

He answered some questions for us in advance of the show.

Julian Parayno-Stoll

HOW DID YOU HEAR ABOUT PLAY ON WORDS?

I was invited to submit to Play On Words by a wonderful creative writing mentor, Lita Kurth, who saw potential in my (very) short story. For that, I am very thankful.

HOW HAS YOUR CREATIVE PRACTICE CHANGED DURING THE PANDEMIC?

In a sense, my creative writing practice began during the pandemic. Although I have l always enjoyed reading and (to a smaller extent) writing out my thoughts, I became more invested in creative writing last summer when I was settling into a kind of despair over the pandemic, the hypermilitarization of the police, the massive climate change-fueled wildfires, and the realities of surviving under capitalism. At that time, writing felt like both an extremely frivolous activity and an essential practice for me to process these things. I feel immensely grateful for the work done by writers such as Ocean Vuong and Gina Apostol, because their books have shown me how the act of making art can be a means for engaging with the world from a new, more thoughtful angle. Despite much trying, I haven’t been able to maintain any kind of writing schedule during the pandemic. But when I do write, that’s the intention I now want to bring to my desk.

WHAT DOES “IMMIGRANT HERITAGE” MEAN TO YOU?

To me, being someone of “immigrant heritage” means multiple different things. On the one hand, my specific position as a mixed/mestizo son of a Pilipina immigrant beautician and caregiver and a white former sheriff’s deputy demands that I recognize my Pilipinx heritage in the context of the incredibly violent systems of white supremacist, patriarchal settler colonialism and American imperialism. On the other hand, as is common for many second generation children of immigrants, it means that there is a certain feeling of “disconnection” from this heritage. For example, I still have never been to the Philippines, cannot speak any Philippine language, and have not met many of my own family members. So in this sense, recognizing my “immigrant heritage” means grappling with the ever-present need to learn more about where I come from and to decolonize myself by engaging with these histories. But in the final and most important sense, my “immigrant heritage” means that I am a present manifestation of a long lineage of beauty which has persisted despite great hostility. In this sense, it is about the love I have for my mother and her family, which is my foundation for trying to bring into fruition, in slow steps, day by day, a different and better kind of world.

WHAT ELSE SHOULD WE KNOW ABOUT YOU?

Thank you Play on Words! I’m very excited to see “The Jar” reimagined with someone else’s voice!

JOIN US JUNE 17 TO SEE JULIAN’S WORK PERFORMED.

The “Minutes” of Muse Lee

Imagine a modern-day Hamlet in which the protagonist’s son is a Black Korean-American man living in LA. Intrigued? Yeah, so are we — which is why we are delighted to perform an excerpt of Muse Lee’s “Minutes” at Our Stories, Ourselves, our June 17 virtual show in partnership with the San Jose Museum of Art.

Muse Lee (he/him) is the writer and co-executive producer of ARISTOS: the Musical, a pop/rock Iliad adaptation featuring an international cast and crew collaborating remotely during the pandemic. An artist and educator, he taught writing and performance behind bars as a member of the Medea Project: Theater for Incarcerated Women/HIV Circle, and taught a novel writing course at a court school to youth involved in the juvenile justice system.

At Los Angeles Opera, he founded and led the Opera 90012 Ambassador Program, a training program for teens interested in arts administration. In 2019, Muse graduated with a B.A. in English from Stanford University, where he served for three years as a teaching assistant in the Theatre and Performance Studies Department. He is currently writing the textbook Acting for Non-Majors with noted Stanford theatre lecturer Kay Kostopoulos.

During the pandemic, Muse has been been producing the album of my musical Aristos (www.aristosmusical.com), a pop/rock Iliad adaptation that sings the love story of Achilles and Patroclus. Slated for release in summer 2021, the crowdfunded project features an international ensemble, production team, and fanbase, all creating and connecting remotely from our own homes. 

The musical proudly tells Homer’s immortal story — one that has come to symbolize Western culture —through the voices of a majority queer, BIPOC cast, comprised of earnest aspiring performers, professional actors, beloved music teachers, retired opera singers, renowned stage directors, and everything in between. Our artists range from ages 13-70 and hail from seven different countries. The show can be found on Instagram as aristosmusical and on Youtube as ARISTOStheMusical!

Muse answered a few questions for us in advance of the June show.

Muse Lee

HOW DID YOU HEAR ABOUT PLAY ON WORDS?

I met Melinda Marks (POW co-founder and casting director) when I auditioned for a show she was directing! While an Aristos conflict meant that I didn’t get the chance to work with her at the time, she reached out to me some months later about performing in “Play on Words: Beyond Boundaries.” I’d grown woefully used to a certain stiff-necked atmosphere in university theatre spaces, and I was enchanted by the energy of the rehearsal: a gaggle of artists bringing life to stories in a cozy apartment on a Saturday morning. I knew that this was a group I wanted to be a part of as long as they would have me!

HOW HAS YOUR CREATIVE PRACTICE CHANGED DURING THE PANDEMIC?

It’s actually become more extroverted! My practice used to be very cloistered, but the pandemic pushed me to find new ways of creating and connecting. I’ve held Zoom readings with my friends, where we showed up in hilarious costumes fashioned out of whatever we could find in the closet. I’ve attended virtual performances and tuned into audio dramas, joyfully reacting over chat with other audience members in real time. I’ve worked with artists all over the world, our tenuous, wonderful connections flickering at the mercy of our WiFi. 

These are all ways I had never really engaged with storytelling before. Sure, there’s nothing like live theatre, but there’s something to be said about how not having that option gives you the opportunity to reimagine theatre entirely. The productions I’ve seen over the last year involved artists of all levels of experience, of diverse ability statuses, and from all over the world. People could pop in and take part after school, or before their evening shift, or during their lunch break. While the pandemic delivered a devastating blow to the theatre industry, I was also humbled by how it forced me to reexamine my preconceptions about what performance could be, who could participate, and who it could reach. So much of what I had taken for granted about the world of performance had vanished in a blink of an eye — including its gilded barriers.

WHAT DOES “IMMIGRANT HERITAGE” MEAN TO YOU?

It’s the way I was alone in New York and thought I was doing just fine, but then I walked into a Korean restaurant and felt a weight lift off me that I didn’t even know was there.

WHAT ELSE SHOULD WE KNOW ABOUT YOU?

I knocked out the first draft of my featured PoW piece, “Minutes,” at the end of my senior year of college, but I’d actually been trying to write this Korean-American Hamlet for three years. I was going to write from the perspective of the Ophelia parallel character, Jiyun, exploring her heartbreak and grief at losing her boyfriend. I tried and tried, but it just wasn’t working. Which was incredibly frustrating, because I loved the premise so much and really wanted to do something with it!

Then, in my last quarter before graduating, I was in a course about adapting Shakespeare. The final had two options: you could either write an essay about an existing adaptation or you could make your own. I leapt at the chance to make my own. By then, I had realized that I was transmasc and gay. Within just a few months, I would also finally embrace that I was on the aromantic spectrum. I sat down to take another shot at my Hamlet. This time, I wrote from the perspective of the Horatio parallel, Hoseung, who quietly watched his friend fall apart as he swallowed down the feelings he didn’t understand and wasn’t allowed to have. I wrote in one night what I hadn’t been able to write in three years. 

The piece that became “Minutes” was my very first queer work, and I cannot express how much it liberated me to write the kinds of love stories I had yearned to tell my whole life. I think this piece was, to paraphrase Greta Gerwig, me trying to explain myself to myself. 

JOIN US JUNE 17 TO SEE MUSE’S WORK PERFORMED ALOUD.