In Writing

I knew I wanted to be a writer
When my best friend slammed a door in my face
And the first thing I did
Was write a letter to apologize.
The night before I told a girl I liked her
I sent her five long texts explaining
That in life you have to take risks
And that I had something to say to her,
But not now, tomorrow,
Which I spent the entire night figuring out–
Words that never made it into the open.
I handed fifteen dollars over to a man
Who told me he needed to buy a train ticket
For his sister,
Whose name he conveniently left out,
And then stalked me for an hour
Until I gave him the money.
I sat in the back corner of a coffee shop
And beat myself up
Because if I wasn’t such a pushover
I would have done something
Instead of waiting until the tragedy passed
To compose a journal entry as an afterthought.

I don’t think writers are weak,
And I don’t think I am weak,
But am I really alive
When I need to put my life to a script to live it?

My Name is Richard Peng

This is the story of who I am.

Once upon an adolescence, I partook in an esoteric, largely misunderstood, yet life-changing extracurricular known as high school speech and debate.

For anyone who doesn’t know or hasn’t heard of speech and debate, it’s an activity and a national organization grounded in the ambitious task of giving teenagers a platform to speak their mind, perform, and cultivate their public speaking abilities. The actual specifics differ from school to school, but in my high school we did almost everything the National Speech and Debate Association recognized as a competitive event. There are the interpretation events: Dramatic, Humorous, Duo, Oral, and Programmed Oral, which are about performing published works by other authors. There are the platform events: Original Oratory, Informative Speaking, and Extemporaneous Speaking, which focus on delivering student-written content on anything from racism to barbecue grills to the nuclear program in Iran. Then there are the debate events: Public Forum, Lincoln-Douglas, Policy, and Congressional Debate. I’m leaving out a few, but for the most part these were the complete package.

When I was in the eleventh grade, I had just begun to come into my own as an actor. My first musical, a middle-school production of Annie in which I played the (uncharacteristically short) Oliver Warbucks, was a huge hit amongst parents and peers, and the subsequent years followed my journey from mediocrity to slightly less embarrassing mediocrity. Naturally, on the dawn of my fourth year as an actor, I felt ready to use my newfound skills to deliver high-stakes, powerful performances in speech and debate. So, for the first time, I decided to pick a piece and compete an interpretation event.

I started with oral interpretation. Oral interpretation is a category in which a student chooses a work of prose and a work (or works) of poetry, usually thematically linked, and performs them while “reading” the pieces out of a six-inch black binder. In hindsight, absurd, but I would be lying if I denied still sometimes pretending to hold a tiny binder in my right hand as I have casual conversations. With hunger and gusto, I began browsing bookstores and websites for potential performance-worthy pieces.

The moment I started looking for pieces was also the moment I was confronted with a predicament I had essentially been repressing for the past fifteen years.

 

A friend of mine, an alumnus who had graduated two years before, reached out to me when he heard about my search and referred me to a short story he had read. It was published in a science-fiction literary magazine, and only recently became available online. I checked it out—it was called The Paper Menagerie, and it was written by author Ken Liu. Like me, Liu is an Asian-American, the difference being he was born in China and I was not. Similarly, the protagonist in his short story is an Asian-American in a more literal sense, born to a Chinese mother and an American father. At first, these concentric worlds represented, to me, just the necessity of performing something audiences could associate with my face. However, I later came to realize there was a chord it struck that was probably the driving force behind any success I achieved.

In the story, a young boy named Jack grows up in the suburbs of Connecticut with a Chinese face but an American identity. After suffering teasing and abuse from classmates for his love of his mother’s origami and paper animals, he begins to resent his “otherness”. He ignores his mother’s efforts to connect him with Chinese culture, decides to learn French, exclusively eat American, and stops talking to her altogether. Years later, after his mother dies of cancer, he finds a note written to him from her in Chinese. It tells him of the hardship she went through growing up in the years of China’s cultural revolution, her search for a home in America, finally finding purpose in her son, only to have everything she’s ever worked for tossed resentfully right back in her face. The story ends with Jack wallowing in guilt and resolving to belatedly reconnect with the part of him he had deliberately sabotaged.

Perfect, I thought. What an emotionally manipulative piece with a satisfying ending that teaches us all an important lesson. The irony went right over my head.

The first person I showed my newfound piece to was my mother, who by the end was struggling to hold back sobs. I had only seen my mom cry twice in my life – the first time was when I had inadvertently told a family friend that the present we got them for a Christmas party was actually a re-gift. This was the second. She told me the piece was really impactful, and told me I had done a great job, which I took to be a good sign. It was, for competition—I ended up winning my first tournament in prose reading. But what she probably didn’t tell me was how much of herself she had seen in the mother, and how much of me she had seen in Jack.

A month later, another alumnus reached out to me and offered me a program of poetry that would complement The Paper Menagerie. This set of five poems – Alex Dang’s “What Kind of Asian are You”, George Yamazawa (and collaborators)’s “Unforgettable”, Sam Lai’s “Chinatown”, Franny Choi’s “All Look Same”, and Troy Osaki’s “Legacy” – was specifically constructed around the idea of the Asian-American identity, how an Asian face is so much more than the collective stereotypes surrounding it. Again, a piece that resonated with me long before I understood its implications on myself.

I performed these two pieces to relative competitive success, but the moment that left the most profound impact on me was not actually in performance.

One Tuesday night practice, the task finally presented itself to give my poetry program a title that wraps up its message. There were a few cliché suspects tossed out, such as “What Kind of Asian Are You” (which I eventually settled on), “Asian-American” (far too vague), and “Asian in America” (upsettingly reminiscent of Fresh Off the Boat). Then, someone came up with a title I had never considered, a concept that they had seen used before in another poetry piece regarding racial identity.

My Name is Richard Peng.

Nothing could have summed it up better. With a first name like Richard, the epitome of white America, and a last name like Peng, which screamed otherness, I was by definition the chimera that these poets were struggling to contain in one body. I didn’t choose that title, because it felt derivative considering the inspiration came from another speech piece, but I never let the idea depart from my memory.

 

Like Jack, and like many Asian-American and minority children, I was bullied at a young age because of my race. It didn’t strike me as bullying at the time– I wasn’t punched or kicked, I didn’t go home with bruises on my face every day. I was ashamed to even call it bullying until I had the chance to reflect on the emotional toll it eventually took on me. Mostly, I was called names, intentionally provoked, usually on the bus when there was no adult supervision but often right under the noses of teachers too. One instance I’ll always remember is when a girl began calling me worthless at lunch one day, citing my face and my Asianness as the culprit. I told her I would throw an animal cracker at her if she didn’t stop, and she immediately jumped out of her seat, reporting me to the teacher for making such an audacious threat. I ended up getting a serious warning from the teacher that day, permanently reminding me to stand down.

An essential part of a Chinese upbringing is having respect. This stems partly from the ideology of figures such as Confucius, who remind us to respect our family, our peers, and our elders above all. However, in the midst of all these teachings, perhaps the most important respect is glossed over, which is respect for yourself. Self-respect isn’t an issue for many American families– there is an implied entitlement in the American dream, and children are raised to recognize their own value. This is purely from a cultural standpoint, of course; the game changes when you factor in family dynamics and wealth. But for me, this cultural disparity made all the difference in the world. Instead of defending myself when I was put down, I shrunk into myself and quietly took the abuse. Over time, it began to color how I saw people like me.

I was playing a game freshman year of high school with a few friends of mine, where you go around a circle and ask each other questions. Unsurprisingly, someone eventually asked, “Who do you want to date?” Everyone began chattering. “Well, I think Emily–”, “I know who Johnny would want to–”, “I’ve always wanted to ask Amelia–”, etc. The first thought that came to my mind? “Nobody Asian”. I said it out loud, and the room went quiet. There was a discomfort settling in the space as it dawned on me that I had said something so fundamentally more messed-up than anything anyone else could have conjured. Finally, a good friend of mine broke the tension by giving me a quizzical look and simply saying, “Richard, what?”.

 

“Richard, what?” is the same reaction I got when I performed my poetry for the first time to my coach. “Is that really how you feel?” Almost instinctively, I recoiled with, “No! No, I’m not angry. It’s just a piece.”

I wasn’t angry; that part was true. I was and continue to be immensely thankful for every opportunity that came my way because of the privileges I enjoy as an American citizen. My life would be very, very different had I grown up in China with the rest of my extended family. But I did resent the lack of flexibility the world I lived in created for someone like me. I didn’t want to just be known as “that kid who’s good at math”, or “that Asian kid”, and have people refer to me as “ching chong” instead of my name. I didn’t want Jackie Chan to be the only role model I was allowed to have, or to play exclusively in the school orchestra. In fact, every move I made could be seen as deliberately thwarting the stereotypes associated with my Asianness. I preferred to excel in English as opposed to math and science. I played drums in the school band. I took up choir and theater and hung out almost exclusively with white kids. I was so insecure and set in my mental hierarchy that I even sometimes looked down on my own sisters, who appeared so much more comfortable living the lives our parents intended for us.

I had come to associate my Chinese-ness with hate, ugliness, and a condemnation to failure. Exactly the way Jack did in The Paper Menagerie. I even believed for the longest time that I would never find someone who loves me because this simple feature would stand in the way. I still have trouble shaking the thought now.

Something changed, however, when I got to college.

 

I will never forget a presentation on diversity my freshman orientation at Princeton University. Our speaker, a prominent and incredibly inspiring African-American man whose name I cannot remember, to my own detriment, played a game where students stood if they identified with certain labels he projected on a screen. This was not the first time I had done this activity, so I knew what to expect. Man, woman, heterosexual, homosexual, African-American, Latino, Asian, international, liberal, conservative, rich, poor, and so on. I watched as group after group of students literally stood up unabashedly for who they were. I stood too, but tentatively. Then, a category I hadn’t expected was called– stand up if you are in an interracial relationship. Instinctively, I got to my feet. I was in a long-distance relationship with a girl from high school, and she was not Asian. That was all there was to it for me. But as I looked around at the fifty-or-so standing kids out of a class of thirteen-hundred, something amazing happened. There was a huge, spontaneous round of applause. Students cheered for what this signified, the ability not just to look past race and cross unprecedented borders, but also to fully accept and love each other for our differences. They loved that I was loved, that my face and skin color did not stand in the way of the fundamental recognition of my humanity. I was stunned.

I was also fortunate to encounter and befriend an arsenal of people who saw value in my heritage. Friends who dedicated themselves to learning mandarin, who were endlessly fascinated by Chinese culture, politics and literature, and who envied me for the resources I possessed as a member of both the American and the Chinese community. Crazy as it sounds, I was beginning to get out-Chinese’d by people who didn’t even start learning the language until that year! These same friends also insisted on the acquisition of whole plethora of languages, and recognized the value of cultural proficiency and fluency. I became pretty indignant, probably for the wrong reasons, but ultimately began to hone my mandarin skills again.

Having spent a lifetime apologizing for my race, it felt startling heretical to suddenly be proud of it. In an act of reconciliation, I began reaching out to my parents in an attempt to understand their upbringing. I also began taking action to create spaces within the communities I had joined, like theater, that focused on tolerating and welcoming different identities instead of institutionally homogenizing all of its members. I began seeing myself as a liaison between two worlds instead of being forced to choose one at the cost of the other. It was, and still is, a huge breath of fresh air.

 

That leads us to now.

I wish I could end this essay with a satisfying conclusion that ties everything up with a neat little ribbon and proves I’ve grown, but I can’t. I’m barely out of my teens, and the scars of my youth are still ever-present in the way I carry myself and regard Asianness. But what I can say is the world is changing, and so is the way that I think about who I am: a shining example of the power of both nature and nurture. I am my parents’ son, and I can never forget the ancestors that bestowed my family name upon me. But I am also who I make myself to be, which is embodied by the name I call myself. This is true of everyone, regardless of race. It may have only been a recent epiphany, but I am immensely grateful that, unlike Jack, I did not wait until it was too late to come to terms with my identity.

My name is Richard Peng.

What’s yours?

Running out of Time

There are moments that stick with you not because of how life changing they are, but because the later moments cast an illuminating light on them, revealing them to be moments of pure character. One such moment for me is the time I waited for days at recess in fourth grade for a girl to sit down and play checkers with me.

The day was as fair as my heart was young when it finally came time to say goodbye to the old, brick building I had known as Abby Kelly Foster Charter Public School. We had had an ice cream party that morning celebrating kids with perfect attendance, and naturally I was invited. Being a bad student as a concept didn’t really exist for me, and despite the ridiculously early time I had to wake up each morning as a nine-year-old, I trudged through the year without missing a single day. Someone else was supposed to be at the ice cream party too. Her name was Stephanie Smith. She was the same year as me but had only come to Abby Kelly that fall. With a bob cut, an oddly soothing voice that lacked the sharpness of immaturity, a smile that could cure any bodily ailment, and an openness that contrasted almost ironically with my reclusiveness, I was totally captivated from the moment we first crossed paths. Stephanie didn’t show up to the full-attendance ice cream party, but that was only a mild disappointment. The real challenge I faced that day wasn’t speaking to her, but rather asking her to sit down with me at recess and play me in a game of checkers, from which our love would blossom and we would date and kiss and get married.

Unfortunately for my ego, I had already waited for her on a wooden bench on the playground every day for the past week, without any significant progress. Scratch that. Without any progress. I watched her run with friends, laughing, all the while letting the feeling of melting wash over my chest. But today was different, I insisted. Today was the last day of school, so it was my absolute final chance to muster up the courage to ask her to play with me. A bold move considering I was barely even a blip on her radar.

I grew weary with anticipation in the hours between the ice cream party and the midday recess. My hands were sweating in the pockets of my uniform – khaki shorts – as I contemplated the moves I would make. Would I be red or black? Would I win or lose? What even are the official rules for checkers? Finally, as the first half of the day drew to a close, the teachers let the elementary schoolers – fourth graders were first – out for one last skirmish on the playground. I immediately went for my bench by the jungle gym. Sitting down, I inadvertently glanced at the monkey bars, which I could not complete despite my tiny weight. I looked away, suddenly conscious of my incompetence.

Here’s what I was going to say:

Me:      Hey. (I was embarrassed to say people’s names)
Her:     Hi.
Me:      It’s the last day of school, and I was just wondering, since we haven’t really talked much, if you wanted to play checkers with me?
Her:     Of course!

She sits down and we begin playing. She smiles a lot. I don’t smile back because I am convinced I have an ugly smile.

Me:      So tell me a little about yourself.
Her:     Well, – Insert life story –.
Me:      Wow, that’s so cool.
Her:     Yeah. How about you?
Me:      I’m pretty normal. I like riding my bike and playing video games. I love math and my favorite movie is called Kung Pow: Enter the Fist. It’s really funny. I do Kung Fu.
Her:     Woah.
Me:      It’s whatever. I play the piano and my birthday is in September and I have two twin sisters. Yeah.
Her:     That sounds really interesting!
Me:      Do you want to be my girlfriend?
Her:     Ok.

They hold hands and kiss. She stops running around with her friends and spends all her time with me, a fantasy that only confirms the possessive disposition men have toward women in relationships.

I was going over this conversation for the umpteenth time when I suddenly realized she was nowhere to be found. I checked all of her usual hangout spots with a sweep of my eyes, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. She probably wasn’t in school today. A wave of panic hit me before numbing into the sullen coldness of shock. Was that it? Had I missed my chance forever?

I waited and waited to be proven wrong, but with every passing second my fear was only further confirmed. Stephanie was gone. I hung my head and stroked the little cardboard box in the palm of my left hand. It was a tiny box of checkers, magnetic to stabilize the pieces, and it was looking about as small as I felt in that moment. I was so nervous that, like grabbing an elusive fish in a stream, I let the time slip right between my fingers. No amount of self-kicking would be able to put this one right.

I remember crying later that day at home, partly for what I would never have the chance to say, but mostly for what I did have the chance to say but never did. Years and years later, I felt that same kind of fear when I fell in love with another girl and came up against a ticking clock ­– a self-imposed timer to confess my feelings at the cast party of a show. Yeah, I never really said it. Again. But this time I was just a little bit closer. And we ended up dating for three years so I guess not all hope is lost, right?

My excursions to the bench that week in pursuit of love solidified me as a hopeless romantic. It reminds me of my soft-spoken, introverted, permissive nature despite all the faces I wear now as a friend, actor, brother, and sometimes therapist. But mostly, it teaches me about where I have room to grow. No matter who I am and what I believe, I need to more than anything be willing to take risks and let my heart ride out the tidal waves of adrenaline that life often incurs. I need to poke a little hole in the dam that I’ve constructed as a defense mechanism, allowing the river of emotion I hold in check the tiniest outlet from which to pour. And finally, I need to always be confident, knowing that no opportunity lasts forever, no blessing falls into your lap without you making an effort to seek it out. Everything is time sensitive.

It’s probably for the better that I didn’t get to know Stephanie very well. I didn’t have much to say to her, and my plan wasn’t by any means foolproof. Plus, early romances have an uncanny tendency to not work out in the end. But then again, I guess I’ll never know.

The Gargoyle

Enraptured in your fire,
I tried to breathe my own.
My darling you’re a dragon,
But I am made of stone.
Our eyes have met in daylight
And yours would dart away, yet
Beneath the shadow of your face
A smile met my gaze.
I slipped and fell a thousand miles
How hard I fell in love!
Then perched upon my windowsill
I waited, watched above.
Your brilliant flame would spark to life
The pupil of the sun,
And gliding on your angel wings
My stoic heart you won.
You drew up closer gracefully
My anticipation grew, but
Before you grazed my stony lips
Above my head you flew.
Each day I settled eagerly
And tried to catch your eye,
Your stare was fixed afar, alas
Whenever you’d come by.
One day you flew with someone else,
A dragon quite like you.
You danced around each other love,
And danced right out of view.
I could not cry or lash at you
Nor did I have the wit,
You revel in your ecstasy
I hold my tongue and sit.
Our eyes would meet again one time,
No smile was my bait.
A dragon’s meant for happiness.
A statue’s meant to wait.

An Unquiet Mind – A Reflection

Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind is an acclaimed bestseller and details the author’s experience studying and riding out the tumultuous highs and lows of manic-depressive illness. Her language is captivating and her insights are profound; despite the labelling of the condition as an “illness”, Jamison owes much of who she is and the passion with which she experiences life to this unlucky companion, and she is grateful for the intensity that it has brought her, the vivacity that it allowed.

A few things immediately struck me. The conciseness and resoluteness of her language was startlingly matter-of-fact in the recounting of a journey that is anything but. She captures irrationality with vivid descriptions of her manic episodes, particularly the one involving buying out an entire pharmacy’s supply of snake-bite treatment kits, and she captures the absolute deadness of depression and realization of the destruction left in her wake. But just as important as the actual illness itself is the journey from beginning to end – an upbringing with a father experiencing similar episodes, a struggle to get and later to maintain treatment, an interest in mood disorders piqued by her personal exposure to the subject, and multiple chapters of love that ultimately provided her with the strength to make it through. A story like this demands a kind of linear retelling, because it is these experiences in order that shed light little by little on the full picture. It was the escalation of her mania that egged Jamison into seeking medication, the frustration with lithium that led to her year-long bout of depression and subsequent suicide attempt, which finally pushed her back onto her regiment and set her up for her eventual stabilization.

Jamison ends her memoir with a series of reflections, giving us a few “Kay” takeaways. First, the unquestionable best treatment for psychiatric illnesses is a combination of medication and therapy. One without the other is ineffectual in achieving both acute and long-lasting recovery. While there is now research showing the efficacy of CBT and other non-medicinal treatments such as exercise in cases of mild to medium depression, medication is a stigmatized part of mental illness that absolutely needs to become accepted as an indispensable piece of treatment. Second, people with manic-depressive disorder have made significant contributions to society, and that efforts to “eliminate” this illness and others through celibacy, abortion, or gene editing may be seriously misguided. I agree. The recent neurodiversity movement, particularly among the ASD community (although there is a significant split between high-functioning and low-functioning autistic individuals — more on this another time) is a verbatim reflection of this sentiment, that the positive energies of mania and other mental illnesses are a breeding ground for imagination and motivation, and inspire so-called crazy ideas that might ultimately change how we think about reality. Jamison herself has contributed endlessly to patient care, research, and the integration of mental illness with art, particularly music and poetry. There’s no denying that, despite her lowest lows, her highs have generated a fantastic amount of productivity and innovation. Perhaps instead of trying to erase mental illness, we should instead focus on developing more effective methods of reigning them in – controlling irrational and intrusive behaviors and thoughts without forcing those who experience them to conform to our perception of “normalcy”. In the immortal words of Hannah Montana, “you get the best of both worlds”.

One of my major focuses as a student of psychology is learning how best to reduce the stigma surrounding mental illness. However, while people like Mouseheart and the doctor that bluntly advised Jamison not to have children because of her disorder are not uncommon, neither are people who are infinitely loving, understanding, and compassionate. Yes, even men. It is very heartening to see the positive responses by lovers, coworkers, and professionals in the field of research and medicine to Jamison’s mental illness, and the depth with which they can love and cherish her, treating her with sensitivity but not condescension. If there is one thing we can take away from this book, it is that people are people, and that rather than treat them like aberrations when their lives differ significantly from ours, we should validate their experiences and appreciate them for who they are. After all, no matter who we are, our “normal” is someone else’s “crazy as f***”.

Blame

Why are you angry at me
When I have done nothing to hurt you?
You make me feel dirty
The way you glare
And you make me feel deaf
The way you insist
I am wrong.
Blessed are the holy,
You tell me,
And damned are the wicked.
Define those words
In terms other than
Me, and
You,
And maybe I will agree.

A Brief Thanks

To start, DO NOT GO TO MY OTHER BLOG. I started it when I was 15, forgot about it for the next half-decade, and found it again about three hours ago, much to my horror. This site is where I will publish my thoughts, writings, and short stories. You’re in the right place. If you are not interested in the thank you’s, skip to the red text.

I want to give a shoutout to the Lewis Center of the Arts at Princeton University for helping me begin this project by providing me with a financial stimulus. I’m currently sitting in the Edna Barnes Salomon Room of the New York Public Library by Bryant Park, which would not be possible without their generous funding.

I also want to give a heartfelt thanks to a few people who have encouraged my art and inspire me every day. First, my family – my dad, who is an enigma I have sought my entire life to understand. My mother, who has the most unwavering work ethic I have ever encountered. My sisters, who outshine me in almost everything they do, be it speech and debate or writing itself (can’t wait to read their own blogs someday).

To my high school theater and music teachers – Jennifer Micarelli Webb, Michael Lapomardo, and Nathan Colby – who have set me on this track and journey, I am infinitely grateful. Without your guidance and support, I may have given up on my pursuits long before I found my passion for them. To the college professors who have inspired me most (so far) – Suzanne Agins, Nathan Davis, Angela Flournoy, Casey Lew-Williams, George Laufenberg, Paul Muldoon, Steven Mackey, Bob Sandberg, and Migdalia Cruz, you are the reason I am not afraid to take the leap and go after what I believe in. Thank you.

Student theater at Princeton fills me with hope regarding what young people have the capability to do. Thank you to the Princeton Triangle Club, PUP, Theatre Intime, and the Playwrights Guild for giving me so many opportunities to write, perform, tech, and generally learn more about the world of theater.

And last but certainly not least, I want to thank my amazing friends. Madelyn Stewich, Ben Harris, Natasha Fern – friends from high school who I hope never to lose – and the wonderful people I’ve met in college – Yash Govil, Jaclyn Hovsmith, Michele Montas, Asher Muldoon, Morgan Carmen, Sophie Evans, Kevin Zou, Jane Blaugrund, Victoria Davidjohn, Glenna Jane Galarion, Abby Spare, and many, many more. I admire each and every one of you in so many endless ways, and a little piece of you is in everything I write.

SO now that those are out of the way…

I’m hoping to publish short stories, poems, and other bits and pieces of writing on this blog as time goes on. I’ll be spending the next two months in New York City doing my own research regarding mental illness, writing, and theater. It’s really very freelance, but intense regarding writing. If you have any thoughts or opportunities to connect with theater or mental health organizations, definitely reach out to me at richardzihanpeng@gmail.com!

There isn’t much more to say at the moment, but check back frequently for content. Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy!