{"id":129002,"date":"2018-09-04T09:00:05","date_gmt":"2018-09-04T13:00:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=129002"},"modified":"2018-10-17T14:27:44","modified_gmt":"2018-10-17T18:27:44","slug":"because-the-story-was-mine","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/09\/04\/because-the-story-was-mine\/","title":{"rendered":"Because the Story Was Mine"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember the first time someone asked me what I was. The question has always oueen a part of my landscape, as common as denim or dirt. Now people ask it of my daughter. The question itself is funny\u2014what are you?\u2014so nonsensical, so naked of etiquette, frenzied to know. Sometimes it\u2019s friendly, a password whispered in front of a door, asking if we are the same. Usually, it\u2019s not. I used to try to play games with the question, beat it. Well, I would say, I have a bachelor\u2019s degree in political science and English literature. Now, made sad and wise by age, I just tell people what they want to know, reeling it off like a rhyme: my mother is white from England; my father is Chinese from Singapore; I was born in Canada. Is there something necessarily humiliating about having to list your race\u2014and your parents\u2019 race and your grandparents\u2019 race\u2014before you can gain entry into conversation? If so, it\u2019s only because we\u2019ve made race something to be ashamed of. This is what I tell myself: you can think your way out of this trouble, this pain.<\/p>\n

I never wanted to write fiction that was rooted in where I came from. That where<\/em> is overexposed, like a stripped nerve. This is a problem for writers of color\u2014or for anyone who knows there\u2019s a narrative attached to their body, a narrative over which they have no control. Telling the truth, just being me, felt like a crude performance. Writing about my life was giving into the lust of the dominant gaze. And there was no way I could write my story and pass it off as pure fiction: I reverse migrated with my family from Canada to my father\u2019s country, Singapore, and then I migrated back to Canada, my birth country, as an adult. This journey was so embarrassingly specific, so convoluted, it could not be masked well enough to be a story of its own, loosed from autobiography.<\/p>\n

Instead, I swung hard in the opposite direction. I wrote angry, reactionary work, telling the world all the ways it was wrong. I published a novella of feminist fiction in 2007 because if my writing didn\u2019t have a righteous point to make, how could I justify doing something as bourgeois as writing?\u00a0(Bougie in the Marxist sense not the Migos sense.) An instructor told me that when you write, you have to leave the soapbox behind\u2014you can\u2019t let politics determine the story. Because he was white, I ignored him. Maybe it was easy for him to put aside politics, but mine weren\u2019t something I could take off like a T-shirt. Then, at a workshop for writers of color, another teacher said the same thing, a little differently: if you can\u2019t get past your own morality, you will be judging your story too much to write it. This was a ground-shaking relief. It gave me a choice that wasn\u2019t either turning my cheek or slapping back. It gave me permission to walk away.\u00a0<\/p>\n

In the summer of 2009, my literary career going quite poorly, I got a job in a distant suburb teaching English to laid-off autoworkers eight hours a day. I caught a bus at the end of the subway line and rolled for forty minutes through an industrial park. Every day, there was almost no one else\u2014just me and industry and humidity and a couple eight-year-olds going to see their grandma. It gave me time to think. I thought about a relationship that had ended two years earlier, one I had believed would last forever. When it ended, it triggered an avalanche of other endings, ones I\u2019d never laid to rest: how abruptly I had left behind one life after another as my parents and I moved continents, sometimes twice in one year, and then how I\u2019d moved one last time, without them, the loss of their presence like a fissure in the earth that would never again be filled. At the time, I\u2019d done what Oblonsky does in Anna Karenina<\/em>: \u201cThere was no answer except the usual answer life gives to the most complicated and insoluble questions: put it out of your mind.\u201d But now, on this daily bus ride, I faced those endings. In this Pacific expanse of sadness, a joyful idea bubbled up: My past does not determine my future. I don\u2019t know what will happen next.<\/p>\n

I had found a story: I would write a novel about grief that ended with that thought. Maybe because I had a fantasy that my grief would end there, on the back row of that bus. It was unlikely, but it was a healthier fantasy than the one where if I just wrote one more ideological novel, racism would end.<\/p>\n

I began looking for a plot to bear my idea. Someone who is bereaved is stuck in time; they can\u2019t move forward. What if I actually stranded a character in time? So I started writing a time-travel novel. For the first time in my writing career, I felt delight. As a totally imagined world unspooled before me, there was a place I could go that was somewhere else. And in this free place, where I was alone, without the eyes of the world or my stingy self, something odd happened.<\/p>\n

I wanted to write true science fiction: What would it be like to realistically time travel? I researched the U.S. visa system, labor bonds, first-person accounts of migrant work. But in order to write about the emotional landscape of displacement\u2014what it would really feel like to arrive in a strange time where you knew nobody\u2014there was only one place to look to get at the bodily truth. I had to return to those first days I spent in Toronto at nineteen, marveling at the wideness of light switches and how revolving doors worked; how the telephone wires were strung overhead, parceling out the sky, instead of buried in the ground; how lonely it was to be the only person with the eyes to see what was native to everyone else. I had to write about my life. And so I filled my protagonist\u2019s world with things from my own: she suffers because she won\u2019t ask for help, lest she reveal her foreignness; she closes her eyes and pretends that when she opens them, everything will be the way it was; she can\u2019t fill her Sundays.<\/p>\n

In trying to get away from my story, I\u2019d walked in a circle and returned home. But now everything looked different. Writing my story as sci-fi was safer, more insulated against the gaze. But that\u2019s not why I did it. I did it because it was good for the story and because the story was mine. We don\u2019t have to fight for control of something that\u2019s already ours. It\u2019s ours. Let us tend to the stories that are in us. Let us let go of the stories other people tell themselves.<\/p>\n

In explaining his own halting journey to \u201cwriting what you know,\u201d Kazuo Ishiguro describes<\/a> why he was driven to write about his family\u2019s homeland, which he left at age five:<\/p>\n

I was starting to accept that \u2018my\u2019 Japan perhaps didn\u2019t much correspond to any place I could go to on a plane \u2026 the Japan that existed in my head might always have been an emotional construct put together by a child out of memory, imagination and speculation \u2026 What I was doing was getting down on paper that world\u2019s special colours, mores, etiquettes, its dignity, its shortcomings, everything I\u2019d ever thought about the place, before they faded forever from my mind. It was my wish to re-build my Japan in fiction, to make it safe, so that I could thereafter point to a book and say: \u2018Yes, there\u2019s my Japan, inside there.\u2019<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

When we are writing fiction, even science fiction, we are asking our reader: Can you see me as I see myself? Can you see the places of my life? In a world like ours, such an act is a bonkers, bad-idea, foolhardy leap of faith. It is a kind of love.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thea<\/span>\u00a0Lim<\/span>\u00a0is the author of\u00a0<\/em>An Ocean of Minutes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  I can\u2019t remember the first time someone asked me what I was. The question has always oueen a part of my landscape, as common as denim or dirt. Now people ask it of my daughter. The question itself is funny\u2014what are you?\u2014so nonsensical, so naked of etiquette, frenzied to know. Sometimes it\u2019s friendly, a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1583,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-129002","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBecause the Story Was Mine<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I never wanted to write fiction that was rooted in where I came from. 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