Change takes time.
Trying to convince second- and third-generation Asian-Americans to speak up and speak out about "dirty laundry" is a hard task. After all, the sins of the daughters and sons may bring shame upon the family - and that is not tolerated.
However, not having an outlet to discuss problems causes far too many young people to choose suicide over talking.
Vanessa Yee has set a goal to change that mindset of silence.
Together with
Judy Phu and
Sun Kim, she is interviewing three Asian-American friends about their hopes and dreams and fears, their history and cultural roots... and how their parents view speaking out.
She was driven to do this
in response to her own actions of subterfuge and silence when her mother was gravely ill and hospitalized. Rather than share this problem with her professors at the university, she found herself hiding the truth. She, who had thought herself so modernized, had fallen into the habits of her more traditional elders.
In her words,
“I call my movie “˜The Laundromat’ because it’s this third-party operation where you go wash your (dirty) laundry. You’re anonymous … you go there because you don’t have your own laundry machines,” Yee said. “I wanted it to be about creating a space for people to bring their laundry and secrets.”
I can relate to these concerns. When I was young, with an alcoholic and physically abusive father, I knew the life I was living was not that of those I knew at school. And I kept my mouth shut about the problems at home. After my parents divorced, when I was 15 years old, it was as if a dark cloud had been lifted from my life. I tentatively talked about the divorce and the way life had been to others - and found they had similar stories. That was a learning experience about sharing and support.
I must also admit to being drawn to the use of the laundromat motif. I do not own a washer and dryer, never have. Every three weeks or so, I bundle up my clothes and go to
the laundromat owned by Nami, a Vietnamese woman.
I have been going there since April of 1996. I was working down the street from her establishment and could easily go there either before or after work.
I watched as her youngest son grew from the boy who helped her mop and sweep to the young man who had a job of his own. Then he married and moved out of town and had children. Nami would put up photos of the children as they were born and as they grew and she and I would talk about them.
She and I talk about a lot of things. My mother's death, my father's death, my stepdad's death. The births of my first great-niece and first great-nephew. My travels to here, there, everywhere. My divorce. My youngest brother's incarceration. Her teen-aged son, her daughter-in-law, the house in Atlanta. Her husband and his health and her frustration with his actions. Her sister's failing health. Her daughter's death.
She told me once that I am the only person she talks to about these things.
I'm glad to be there for her, as she is for me.
In honor of Nami, I have pledged my age for the Laundromat Care Package.
And when I'm asked how I wish to be listed in
the film's end credits, I'll have her name with mine and we will watch the film together.
But the T-shirt will be mine alone.
(smile)
