食蟹记

Grace，江南人士。上不了台面的那种。
喜食带骨头，嚼不动，隐隐约约有肉却嚼不出肉的东西。比如说蟹，虾，鸭舌，鸡掌，等等。
Grace小时候最痛恨拎不清的菜。所有有陷的东西，搅混在一起的，比如说饺子，包子之类的，都在名单之列。
到什么地步呢，就是吃饺子的时候，Grace固执地认为，所有肉馅里都必定多多少少有肥肉的，所以她要很细心地把肥肉和瘦肉分开来，再把瘦肉给吃掉。
于是，全家被Grace逼得一年只能吃一次饺子。吃的时候还要绕着Grace走，因为怕看到Grace做分解试验的恶心场景。
Grace直到现在都清楚地记得小时候要被父母逼迫痛骂才能吃下一个小笼包，然后可怜兮兮大哭一场，变成全餐厅的spectacle，让爹娘握拳再也不要出来享受周末小笼包早饭的美味。
Grace的爹正好是相反的。他曾经说鸡身上最好吃的部分是胸脯，因为没有骨头。Grace小时候，她爹偶尔还做饭的时候，每年过年都要做熏鱼。那是她爹唯一吃的鱼，因为肉厚实，并且骨头很大。
Grace来美国之后，发现洋人真是不懂得吃骨头的乐趣。凡是肉，都是要被debone了，才是好肉。比如说鸡胸脯，牛排等等。连鱼都是没有骨头的。Grace常想她爹要是来了这里，肯定觉得这是食的天堂。
最贵的海鲜是龙虾。当然了，Grace也喜欢吃龙虾。可是往往吃完了之后，惋惜龙虾壳是肯定要扔掉的，于是开始怀念小小的连壳一起吃的盐水虾。美味啊。
在洋人的地盘里，Grace于是两眼一黑，开始了大块吃肉的生活。
她常常做的菜里面竟然有一道是火鸡丸子，就是买一pound肥肉瘦肉混一起的grounded turkey meat，然后和豆腐一起作成丸子，然后放到chicken broth里面煮。当然了，那火鸡肉的盒子上面写着97% fat free。所以Grace很Ah Q地想想和小时候被迫吃的小笼包比，这个还是好很多了。
今日Grace在沉寂了3个月之后，终于把厚厚一摞prelim answer放到每个老师的mail box里面了。于是决定重拾旧业，奖励自己，怎么着也要吃一些嚼不动的东西才成。
她于是先是去韩国店，在冷柜里一番苦战之后找到了一盒冻到地老天荒的蟹。大喜。遂买回之。然后发现不知道该怎么下手。冻的蟹不可以蒸吧，怎么炒呢，没有黄酒啊。
七晕八昏地终于把蟹做好了。
现在Grace在充斥着蟹的味道房间里打这篇文章。
琢磨着一个很俗气的问题，这些年来，是生活改变了她，还是她改变了生活。

夏天

我脸上的pimple草长萤飞，一刻都不得停歇。要是有什么实在的符号直观地反映我的心理生存状态，这就是我的pimple的数量和大小。

我和Tahoe厮混了若干个星期。我想念那只常常趴在地上忧心忡忡叹气，憎恶洗澡，让我懂得很原始的爱的定义的大狗。

新生们开始成群结队地在绿街上晃悠。我也想象他们一样。一个人和某种文化脱节是不困难的。困难的是在找回来。或者是永远不可能有完全的复原的。原来我还是象若干年以前一样，把无病呻吟当作一种情趣。

还有什么好值得纪念的东西，一个夏天沉湎于无止境的阅读和写作中，本身是一种值得纪念的回忆么。

爸爸在电话中和我说要保重身体，尤其是我小时候常常贫血。跨越重洋跨越时光换来的牵挂，这样的付出是不是太沉重了。我当时离开中国是不是就是为了刻意制造出这个距离来，好让怀念和悔恨诞生和重复在这个无法填满的空间里面。

看着祖父母的一生被通俗的明星演绎，被大众的目光所消费，愤怒悲凉到无以复加。这是我的记忆，我的，为什么要被夺走呢。原来我在研究中置之度外地批评谴责的文化现象就这样荒诞地发生在我的生活中。不知不觉，我就由批判者变成了当事人。

最后的最后，我吃了一个夏天的韩国菜。所以大概我想的和写的也都充满了辛辣的味道了。

Philly, Philly

Too short a visit. Conference. Awkward social skills. How do I improve? Why shall I improve? Is it about me suppressing another facet of myself?




I love Gayle and Sue. Awesome Australians.




I love Deb and Kelley. Who said women should always dress up and carry themselves like 'women'?



We happened to win the best paper award. The question then becomes, is it important or not; to what extent shall I consider it as an achievement to enhance self-esteem; and to what extent shall I think all honors are not more than illustrations of how others think of me, while how I perceive myself is more important than everything else.



For the first time, my body was so filled up by wine, margarita's and cocktails.




In the end, I didn't have a chance to have Philly cheese steak.

Knowledge

Whose knowledge it is? And whose right it is to construct knowledge?

Several days ago when I read Rey Chow's comment on "Western anthropologists persistently neglect the colonial situation persistently lies at the origin of their field of research in most part of the world", I was shattered by her fierce criticism. I thought that I could never write such confrontational words.

Little did I know that exactly 3 days later, I was put in a even more confrontational situation - an anthropologist, a full professor, a colonialist with her stubborn Western ideas on what China is and Chinese should be; and me, a graduate student looking for a committee member. I found my situation was even more difficult than Rey Chow's - the disproportional power structure in between of us made it impossible for me to utter the powerful and emotional thoughts that Rey Chow has put in my heart.

The Chinese people's opinions and words shouldn't be accounted for because the video was not made for them. It was taken-for-grantedly made for the West. Thus, the voices from those who are supposedly represented in the video should be subdued. In its reflexivity, China is only important when it's positioned in relation to the West. How Chinese consume and interpret this video doesn't matter because the Western world don't care.

And this is the logic of constructing knowledge that has been practicing for hundreds of years. This is the knowledge that they want to see and repeat, the construction of which, ironically, conspires with the imperialism/colonialism. And it misleads us to believe in this is all about an objective world that you can grasp and see.

Knowledge.Objectivity.Positionality.

monologue

A moment of fun can be easily superseded by the following stress.
I feel that stress is like an inside demon swallowing me, making me hate, be anxious, depressed, and angry.
Everyday I see books on my table piled up higher and higher.
And everyday I'm getting more and more lost in my own writing.
Thank you for your caring concern, but please don't send me condolence if you see this message.
I just need a quiet moment to acknowledge and mock my own weakness.
Then pretend that I am a strong woman to let life continue.

Murmur a story

We three Asians, sitting separately in the suddenly spacious coffee shop with lots of empty tables and chairs, on the afternoon of the last day of the final week.

Three lonely people.

I'm a spy.

He must be Taiwanese or Chinese. He must have been in the States for a long time. And he is browsing pictures of the landscapes of Shanghai on Wikipedia. Unbelievably tall skyscrapers. So arrogant, militant and resisting. Does he know that there is a Shanghainese girl sitting behind him? Does he know that the pictures he is looking at is a Shanghai in the touristific images? Would he want to know the Shanghai that's in my memory?

A lonely guy.

She must be Taiwanese or Chinese. She is super sensitive. She only wears safe colors - black or blue. But she always have cute accessories. Once I saw her wearing a turquoise ring. very low key but elegant. She must know that I've been observing her. She hides well. I remember she has an Indian boyfriend. A very gentle yet masculine guy. I like her and I want to be her friend. But I don't know how to invite myself without breaking the silence awkwardly and abruptly.

Three laptops.

The common air we breathe in.

Three parallel life stories.

Mom

Every time before I call my mom, I always think that no big deal, that I can handle it, like I have been doing it for all my 25 years of life. When the moment that the two phones connected, and a familiar voice said "wei", I know that I'm wrong again, that my continuity in the life here in U.S is interrupted, that I've traveled to my perverse past in China, that something between me and my mom will never be changed and forgiven.

I often feel that it's quite unfair for Nick because every time after I call my mom, which, of course, involve a lot of yelling (to two American ears),anger,crying (some times), he feels so sorry for me. He feels that once I pick up the phone, starting to speak Chinese, I'm turned into a different strange person. If he knows the complexity and the history that I don't know how to describe between me and mom. The way that my mom never thinks there's any distance between me and her, never thinks that her words and actions may hurt me, because I'm her inner self - how could a daughter ever be angry with her mother? How could an inner self ever fight against and contradict drastically with her?

Every time after I talk to my mom, I couldn't help but staying silent - a moment silence that I need to travel back to my normal life. What has happened? Can I ever use a simple word such as 'good', or 'I just talked to my mom' to describe what's going on in my mind and life?

Heavy memory. Unbearable. Yesterday I was still an outraged teenager who was angry with my mom all the time because her habitual ignorance of my feelings and thoughts. Overnight, I have to, no matter I really want or not, put away all those memories to generate sympathy and forgivingness for my mom. Stop thinking about yesterday, for its existence is no longer meaningful. But it's my past, why I have to give it away.

I love you, Mom. I know that our relationship is not something that belongs to an ordinary mom and daughter's, despite how much I hope it is, so that life will be so much simpler and easier, so that I won't be so splitting.

I love you, Mom. No matter what.