Dinosaurs Under Heat A Written Creative Work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University In partial fulfillment of ^ ^ the requirements for the Degree Jol(, Master of Fine Arts * 'XQ 6 4 ' 111 Creative Writing by Randall Jong San Francisco, California May 2016 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL I certify that I have read Dinosaurs Under Heat by Randall Jong, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master in Fine Arts Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. Michelle Carter, Professor Maxine Chemoff, Professor II Dinosaurs Under Heat Randall Jong San Francisco, California 2016 After four years in the program, 1 have written a short story collection that ruminates around the themes of identity, race, and family structures. 1 am a Chinese American who grew up in San Francisco. I grew up on American pop culture, the English language, and an unfathomable amount of multiple cultures that is truly difficult to generalize. These stories really ask the question: Under certain guises, what does it mean to be an American? I certify that the Abstract is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work. -£~'~ t - f — 3 it / Chair, Thesis Committee Date III PREFACE AND/OR ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to all my friends, family, faculty, and fellow writers for your support. It’s been a rough few years regarding creativity, but everyone in my life has been truly generous with their encouragement. IV TABLE OF CONTENTS You Wish You Were White......................................................................................................1 The Closest Attempt to Time Traveling................................................................................. 9 Men Who Look Like Veteran Lovers....................................................................................24 Mom, Eat..................................................................................................................................43 The Asian Jack Tatums...........................................................................................................56 Tender Child........................................................................................................................... 72 An Inter-radical Relationship................................................................................................. 87 Dinosaurs Under Heat...........................................................................................................107 V 1 You Wish You Are White Okay - finish taking a piss, wash your hands, check yourself in the mirror. Check for boogers, check your greasy-ass hair, check your lips and lick them if they’re dry. Ask yourself: will that girl by the pool table-the one with the massive triceps and calves despite the little everything else-will she fuck me? Hell yeah, she will. How could she not? You’re wearing your super fitted American Apparel V-neck that clings to the smooth grooves of your muscles. And, remember, you just worked out this afternoon: chest and arms with no mercy. Flex. Keep staring at the mirror. You’ve had five shots of Jameson and a 24oz can of motherfucking Paps. You’re not quite smashed, but you’re feeling tight. Life’s been worse; you’ve survived hundreds of hazy bar-hopping-nights. You’ve been told that you drink like a white dude and got the swagger of a black dude. These generalized opinions somehow keep you some-what sober and get you almost laid. You don’t know why. But you don’t really ask yourself either. Mirrors don’t lie. Even though you’re not a big guy, you’re body parts are proportionate to each other. You’ve got nice bulky shoulders. A co-worker, a white girl, once said you got good skin too, and you sure-as-hell believe her. Oh yeah, you’re Chinese though. You forget sometimes. It’s a strange acknowledgement: I’m this Chinese guy. It’s not that you think you’re anyone else; it’s not that you think you’re actually white or black or brown or whatever. But, yeah, you’re Chinese. It might’ve been easier identifying as Chinese if you spoke the goddamn language or ate the fucking food. But 2 you grew up on canned spaghetti and “Home Improvement” reruns. Don’t feel too bad. Can’t complain. English is universal. Cantonese is just loud-ass chicken scratch. Sure, there’s a part of you that wishes that you went to Chinese school as a child. Sure, there’s a part of you that knows that you can return to school to learn Cantonese or Mandarin. Last week, you’re friend told you that he’s learning Portuguese through Rosetta Stone. But you’re not willing to admit that you’re a little jealous of his ass for being so proactive. But, fuck learning a new language. You’re almost thirty. You can’t even retain a hot girl’s number without writing it down and studying it multiple times. How can you expect to retain squiggly lines and ridiculous inflections? Did I say “watermelon ” or “car-engine” ? Neither. You just made a loud-ass chicken noise. “Can I use the sink?” someone says behind you. Don’t look too eager to get out of his way. In fact: fuck him. Let him squeeze by you if he wants to wash his filthy hands so badly. Keep yourself in the mirror. This is mirror time, and you’re having a serious moment. You can’t help but see this other guy’s ugly-ass face. He’s Chinese too. You can tell the difference between Chinese and everything else. You can tell that a Chinese’s face is a face that has a flat nose that looks like a deformed cauliflower, giant nostrils, bigger-than-usual eyes (for an Asian), and a dark slave-like tan. This very description disgusts you because it reminds you of farm-life. Farm-life sucks. Probably. You don’t really know. You’re a city kid. But this guy is a farmer. “You a farmer?” you ask. A legitimate question. 3 “What? Fuck you, dude.” “Yeah, well, fuck you, farmer.” The guy eyeballs you like he’s going to hit you. But he doesn’t do shit, and storms out of the restroom without wiping his wet-ass hands. What a loser! You mean: what a farmer! Seriously, though, you have nothing against farmers. You have nothing against Chinese people. You just - you don’t know why you’re so aggressive right now. Actually you do! Blame the media. Blame the lack of Chinese American pop culture. Blame the history books - third through twelfth grade - that only had a couple paragraphs about Asians in America yet had scrolling encyclopedias dedicated to George Washington and his white ass. More than ninety percent of your grammar school class were Chinese kids, and you guys learned more about white and black people than your own kind. Lincoln was cool. Fredrick Douglass was dope. Johnny Joe-Blow Chan didn’t exist. So what the fuck? Maybe that’s why you forget you’re Chinese. Maybe that’s why you feel strangely anonymous. You think about calling your Ma to explain all these buried feelings. Call your Ma. Wait a second -fu c k it, call her! By the first ring, you’re hoping she picks up. By the third, you’re hoping she doesn’t. You’re debating whether or not to dive right into the heart of your issues or ask for a few favors like doing a load of laundry at her house or taking some silverware. You should probably hang up. Too late- “Hello? Donald.” “Uh, Ma?” 4 “Yes. Are you okay?” “No. I mean: yeah. It’s nothing. I just thought - 1 don’t know - I’d call you and say some stuff. ” “Okay. What kind of stuff?” “I don’t know. Being Chinese.” “What about being Chinese? We’re Chinese.” “But, like, whyV “Donald, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Well, it’s hard to explain. Being Chinese. It’s kind of a lame race.” “What the hell does that mean - a lame race?” “Yeah. It’s lame. It sucks. It just sucks. It’s sucky.” “I don’t understand. Why are you calling me so late?” “I hate you.” Hang up right before her confused whimpers turn into actual sobs. Holy shit, you feel terrible. But in many ways you meant what you said. When you say you hate your Ma, you mean you hate the confusion. You hate being divided between what you’re expected to be and what you actually are. And you hate that what you actually are is a smorgasbord of shit, a collage of micro-culture that has multiple fucking roots. You read shit that marginalizes you. You read shit that generalizes you. You read shit that doesn’t talk about you at all. That’s why you rarely fucking read. You assume, you hope, most people of any background goes through these series of feelings. But even those people, 5 like your friends, don’t really know nor want to talk about it. And when you bring up race, or try to bring up race, they sense it and look at you like you’re causing unnecessary damage. Once you asked a friend “do you ever wish you were white?” And your friend responds, “Oh my god, dude. Have some self-respect.” You’ve been spending too much time in the bathroom. Your friends are wondering where the hell you are. They think you’re puking. And, remember, that girl with massive triceps. She’s not staying in this dive-ass place forever. Go outside. Take action. Before you actually talk to her, you seek comfort with your friend who is waiting for his drink. Head butt his shoulder. He looks at you funny, as if you told him that you stabbed your Ma’s heart (which you kind of did already) or that you’re planning to stab his. “Bro,” he says. “You’re drooling everywhere.” “What?” Wipe your lips. Goddamn, they’re wet. “The bartender is staring at you,” your friend says.