#3 - From the Immigration Limbo
When "going back is not an option"
Hi friends,
I am not the most consistent writer and it’s been a minute since my last post, so thanks for sticking around. Life has been rushing forward at a speed I can hardly catch up with, and keeping record has turned into a luxury.
I got a job at the Art Institute last June after months of residency hopping. Then in September, I moved into my first solo apartment. Everything was seemingly falling into place, except that all was temporary because I’m not American. This February, my F-1 status expired, and I began preparing for my O-1 visa which is deemed for aliens with extraordinary ability. The legal fees amount to over $8,000, and I am not allowed to work, renew my state ID, or leave the country (I risk being barred re-entry) while waiting for my case to get approved. No one can say for certain how long I must wait. For some it takes a month, for others, over a year. I remain in this limbo today.
I never considered myself particularly extraordinary. I was raised to be humble, which in reality translated to constantly being put down and putting myself down. I wouldn’t know how to prove my extraordinariness to USCIS without external help. My lawyer, a stern Korean woman in her late 40s, told me she came to the States for law school. At the end of our first Zoom meeting, she reviewed my CV and said that she could tell I’d done a lot of work to stay here, and that she understood, because “for people like us, going back is not an option.”
My therapist is an Indian immigrant. My college advisor moved from Switzerland to Chicago to pursue her PhD. My gynecologist has a thick Ukrainian accent and adorns her clinic in Ukrainian village with the colors of the Ukrainian flag. Sometimes I think I end up with these people as caretakers and guides in my life not just because they are good at their jobs (which they are), but because I can see that they’ve gone through my struggles themselves. They understand my pain not just because they’ve studied it; they’ve lived it.
I’ve been reading Yiyun Li’s short story collection that came out last year, titled Wednesday’s Child. It’s quite depressing. She writes of loss so casually. Her memoir, Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life, specifically the passage about adopting a second language (this is an excerpt of it that had previously been published in the New Yorker), anchored me like nothing else back in 2019. I carried the book around until it felt apart in my bag.
My friend Nolan said I should teach him Cantonese. We were coworkers at the museum, and one day, about to lift a heavy CRT projector together, he looked me in the eyes and counted down in Cantonese. I wanted to be friends with him then. He’s born and raised in Chicago to immigrant parents and does not actually speak the language. In fact, when he tried to order in Cantonese at the dim sum restaurant, the waiter swiftly switched to English. I took over the ordering. It’s one of the few occasions where I get to speak Cantonese, after all.
When Adam and I were on mushrooms together in Acadia last May, I kept trying to talk to him in Cantonese. Not getting a satisfying response, I then switched to Mandarin, which he studied for four years in high school. He alternated between yes, no, I don’t know, I speak Mandarin, my Mandarin is very good in our pretend conversation. I love him so much but I felt so desperately lonely in that moment.
I listen to Cantopop in the shower every morning and sometimes cry while singing along. I think I miss p, or maybe I just miss speaking my language and being understood while doing it. In a piece I saw by olivier a few months ago, they had scribbled on lyrics from a Kenny Kwan song about the indecipherability of love. Cantopop songs are always like this - melodramatic. On a road trip to DC with an ex-boyfriend, he asked me to play something else because it was “too emotional.” We were visiting his family for Christmas. His mother would try to explain the simplest words (like “curb” and “lox”) to me, and his brother-in-law kept on pestering me for my opinions on China and Xi. I was ordered to watch his sisters’ kids when they discussed family business. Sometimes you think that white people have learned their lessons to not be racist or at least hide their racism, but no. It was so surreal that I didn’t feel angry until a few months later. We had broken up by then.
I am writing this in the library. Ever since losing my job, I’ve been trying to fill up my days by going to the Chicago Public Library. I frequent the branch in Chinatown where I can hear Chinese elders chatter in Cantonese, and Harold Washington for all the Sophie Calle books in their collection. I feel like a middle-aged man who’s just been laid off from his corporate job but is too ashamed to tell the family just yet, leaving the house every day in work clothes, pretending that everything is normal.
I think that’s all I want to say about life these days. At the end of January, my friends helped me throw a fundraiser for my legal fees and we raised $4,663. It was a special day. How lucky I am to be loved and held by chosen family. If you still hope to support me, my venmo is @giverubymoney.
Art-wise, I had a solo show in Springfield, IL earlier this year. It’s largely informed by my time in Maine. Some friends joined me for the closing and Riley wrote this beautiful, tender review. I also had a solo show in Karlsruhe, Germany that I never got to see which made the whole thing feel made up. Funny how a show about myths became mythical itself. Here are some images from the shows.
I was in residency on the Shinnecock Indian Reservation this March. I picked up the flute again and cooked a lot while there. Danielle of the Shinnecock Kelp Farmers taught me so much about land, sea, and symbiosis; I hope to see her this fall when the kelp farm is in full swing. More on that later.
After returning home, I started performing expanded cinema more regularly. Thanks to my musician friends for inviting me to play together - it’s been a great joy and I get to understand my practice better in relation to others. Performance also offers this immediate sense of achievement which I need these days.
It’s really starting to feel like summer these days. Bun and I went to the Botanic Garden and I am wearing shorts as we speak. I think the hot weather may be causing my chronic pain to flare up more? This yoga routine helps a little.
Thanks for reading and talk soon (I hope; am trying to write more).