ABSTRACT Title of Document: DISJUNCTED: A COLLECTION OF STORIES Sarah Mieko Fang MFA, 2009 Directed By: Professor William Henry “Hank” Lewis Creative Writing, Department of English This collection of fictionalized work (long short stories, novellas, novel excerpts) represents my thematic interests as a writer: challenging traditional notions of race, class, history, and culture in American identity, via the fictionalized lenses of history, school, and family life. Most of my work tends to involve a wry look at the orthodox views of “truth” and culture, and ranges from sassy cultural musings to wallowing in tragic hybrid space. DISJUNCTED: A COLLECTION OF STORIES By Sarah Mieko Fang Thesis submitted to the Faculty of the Graduate School of the University of Maryland, College Park, in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Masters of Fine Arts 2009 Advisory Committee: Professor Hank Lewis, Chair Professor Maud Casey Professor Howard Norman © Copyright by Sarah Mieko Fang 2009 Preface These works are fictional, of course. ii Dedication To my people. You know who you are. iii Acknowledgements Thank you to the Maryland MFA program for showing me new ways to find art in words. Thanks to Maud Casey, Howard Norman, and Merrill Feitell for their honesty, attention to craft, and their time: in workshop, but especially outside of it. Thank you to Hank Lewis for understanding my voice and where I was coming from, for all of his careful reading and honest talk, for the detailed and thoughtful recommendations that guided this work to higher places. Thank you to Randy Ontiveros for sharing an enlightening and refreshing love of literature. Thank you to the outside writing world which has given me a chance to work with other emerging writers and students of literature thus far: the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, AWP, the New York State Summer Writers Institute, and the Bay Area Writing Project. Thank you to the snarkiest, most socially awkward friends I have ever had, who brightened Maryland days and pushed my writing forward: especially Katherine Ann and Dory. Thanks to everyone in workshop for their constructive input and critical thoughts: DG, MN, LW, TE, BC, and SWD. Thank you to the first-year poets for showing me that poets are people too. Thank you to all of my family and friends for supporting my endeavor to write, especially those who were impromptu readers, encouraging recommenders, and inspirations: SL, KG, HF, AC, RS, TC, JM, DM, VA, SS, GF, CT, SK, JS, RD, JF, RG, DSD. Thank you to all of my wonderful students for reminding me how to keep it real. iv Table of Contents Preface ......................................................................................................................ii Dedication ................................................................................................................iii Acknowledgements ..................................................................................................iv Table of Contents ......................................................................................................v 1: Agni ......................................................................................................................1 2: The Unhelpfulness of Cranes ...............................................................................53 3: The Education of Heriberto Martinez.................................................................113 Introduction .......................................................................................................113 Prologue to an American Education...................................................................118 Marco and the Vans ...........................................................................................121 A Universal Truth: High School Sucks ..............................................................130 Why I Need To Leave Hayward.........................................................................138 Economic Anthropology 101 .............................................................................146 4: Submerged ........................................................................................................165 Afterword..............................................................................................................229 v 1: Agni It was March. Hot and dry. To Mira, the only seasons in Delhi were hot and dry, or hot and rainy, although the natives claimed that winter existed. She was still adjusting to it, even after two years. The frustrating stop-and-go traffic made today’s sun felt even more intense through the windows of her Honda. She’d moved only three kilometers in fifteen minutes, finally removing her arm from the window sill to protect it from the burning rays. She pulled into the clusterfuck that passed for the parking lot of the Karol Bagh market: that in any other country would just be considered an ordinary curb. Here, like everywhere in Delhi, parking must always be done in crowds and heat, controlled by a man whose primary function was to guide cars into impossible spaces. The parking-wallah waved her in with his fingers, beckoning; her car within inches of hitting the others cluttered at the curb on either side of her. He stared at her, probably wondering why she was driving around by herself. Females driving themselves were still an uncommon sight in most of northern India, even in cosmopolitan Delhi, even in the twenty-first century. Women traveled in familial packs, or went around with a trusted companion: a husband, an auntie-ji, a sister, a maid. The outside world was not a place to contend with, alone. Mira lingered in the car a moment, letting the AC stream onto her face, mentally preparing for the oven blast when she opened the door. This was her third time going to Anil’s Sari Palace for the same outfit. The first trip was to buy the sari and get measured for the blouse; the second time was her return on the following 1 Thursday to pick up the blouse that was supposed to be ready the previous Monday (which a phone call on Monday revealed that she should come for it on Wednesday, so to play it safe she went on Thursday); on that Thursday it was ready, but the fitting revealed that the stitching needed some more work, some refinement, a little more taking in of the sleeves; now she was picking up the blouse on the Tuesday following the Sunday it was supposed to have been finished, which hopefully meant it was ready because Amita’s wedding was tonight. At least, the wedding ceremony that Mira and Brian would attend was tonight, the actual name of it escaping Mira. There were too many ceremonies involved in an Indian wedding for Mira to remember, and she knew that Amita’s family already started the initial ceremonies several days ago. Amita worked with both Brian and Mira in the consular division of the US Embassy, her fiancée, Sunil, was the son of prominent jeweler. The embassy folk all planned on going to tonight’s ceremony; this was the one with the banquet and dancing, sort of like an American reception. They’d stand outside waiting for the groom’s family to arrive on horses, brass bands parading with them, announcing their arrival. The families would greet one another and begin a series of prayers, offerings, and feasts, followed by dancing. Tonight’s festivities would be lavish and long. Mira was looking forward to it, even though it was a Tuesday night. Weddings were planned to according to auspicious days, not to workday schedules, something that rankled most of their colleagues, including Brian, who had already complained more than once that it should be on a Friday or a Saturday night so they could enjoy themselves. Mira wished they had attended one of last night’s ceremonies, the one in which Amita and Sunil followed one another around a pit of fire, sealing the 2 marriage. It sounded romantic. Sitting around the fire with family and friends, the flames marking the presence of Agni, the fire god, who bore witness to the marriage. The two of them would have been tied together, to lead each other around the flames, encircling them seven times, first Amita leading, and then Sunil. This made the marriage exist. It sounded so much more meaningful to Mira than saying “I do,” kissing and trading jewelry. Not a series of solo pledges, but an act of solidarity. But it had been a Monday night, and Brian hadn’t felt like going, and while Mira felt comfortable going to the market by herself, she wasn’t confident enough to show up to a wedding alone. They would go tonight. The parking-wallah banged on her window, saying something in Hindi. She caught the word tikhe. He was asking if she was OK. She got out of the car, took the pink parking ticket he handed her and shoved into her pocket. Still, he stared. Her body prickled with resentment. This didn’t happen much to her, because she was good at blending, expecting the outside world to let her belong. A simple illusion for her in Delhi, with her dark complexion and black hair. Large sparkly jewelry and a neatly pressed salwar kameez did nearly the rest to give her the appearance of an Indian woman. The final piece of mastery was the ability to disregard humanity and appear uninterested in the life of the market; the ultimate test was whether the life of the market ignored her in return. Once she was regularly passed over by touts, beggars, and street kids; once the staring stopped, Mira knew she appeared to be a real Dilliwalla. At least until someone asked her something in Hindi