Editors' Note
The Asian Pacific American issue of Poemeleon is finally here. Honestly, we just wanted to put together a really kick-ass (and thoughtful) collection of poetry, to showcase what we think represents one leading edge of Asian Pacific American poetry. Like the many vaunted lists of poets that get thrown around on the internet, our list is by its nature partial, and bound by the time period. We wanted to present a slice of what scholar Timothy Yu calls “a coalitional space,” a certain grouping of poets and poetry, varied but bound by a common, yet permeable political position.
We sent out a call for submissions in early 2016, and between then and now, things happened. Government corruption led to the contamination of Flint, Michigan’s water system, poisoning thousands of African Americans with lead. The death of Justice Antonin Scalia kicked off a fight to fill his seat, in which the Republicans refused to fulfill their duties. Pop superstar Prince died. A gunman massacred at least 50 people in Orlando’s Pulse nightclub. The UK voted to Brexit. Protesters continued their inspiring resistance against the Dakota Access pipeline. Fidel Castro died. And of course, Donald Trump won the Electoral College vote, but not the popular vote.
Within the first 24 hours of his swearing in, the Trump administration removed the President’s Advisory Commission on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders’ White House web page. By the 26th day, about two-thirds of the commission had resigned in protest against the administration’s portrayals of “immigrants, refugees, people of color and people of various faiths as untrustworthy, threatening, and a drain on our nation,” and the president’s executive orders and policies.
Of course, in many ways this is just a blip on the radar. There are myriad examples of how our communities have been in the struggle against anti-immigrant violence, racism, Islamophobia, homophobia, and more for a very long time. We have been in the thick of it, at times the central players, and at other times in solidarity with other groups of people as waves of state and systemic violence have targeted others. We have also been the “middle men,” the foil against which other communities are compared and found wanting. This too we must refuse.
And from existence and struggle also comes creativity. Through these varied creations, within these slices of poetics, we continue to reinforce and re-imagine myth, prayer and memory— vehicles navigating “interconnected places and communities around the world—a struggle contextualized by women of color and of the Third World, sometimes located in the Two-Thirds World, sometimes in the One-Third. So borders here are not fixed,” as Chandra Talpade Mohanty states.
Furthermore, José Esteban Muñoz asserts that, “for queers as well as for people of color, melancholia is not a pathology but an integral part of daily existence and survival.” As writers, in our daily work to live and thrive, in our psychic work to survive and care for each other, we put our lives on the page. We get sad and angry. And we create stories, bodies, identities, and communities. We let our worlds and their histories haunt our creativity. We become more than ourselves, together.
Angela Peñaredondo
Kenji C. Liu