Cities

& Borders
by Sarah Richards Graba

Panthalassa Pamphlet
February 10, 2017

A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural
boundary. It is in a constant state of transition.
Gloria Anzalda, Borderlands/La Frontera

Perhaps the first time I ever felt starkly racialized was in elementary school, during recess, on the blacktop
having a conversation with a friend. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. Being born in America, in Longmont,
Coloradoa place so historically white that it was a home base of sorts for the Ku Klux Klan in the early
part of the 20th century for northern ColoradoI grew up knowing I was half Korean, but this never made
much of a difference in my daily life. For all practical day-to-day living, I was white, too; my Korean
mother had worked hard to mostly assimilate to her new country, which included raising me and my
younger brother as American as possible.

I had a friend, a young girl my age, who was probably in my class in school. I dont remember her name.
She had brown hair. I have brown hair too, but mine is dark, and hers was lighter, and long. We were only
friends at school, girls who would play tetherball together or try to master the monkey bars, eat lunch at the
same table. One day she told me that she wanted to have me over to her house to play. Or maybe I invited
her over to mine. Either way, she said she would have to ask her mother.

The following day, during recess, we walked out to the blacktop to play tetherball. Some boys played
basketball behind us, dribbling clumsily and launching the ball as hard as they could toward the basket. The
hoops were made out of chainlink and jangled every time they hit the backboard or rim.

I dont remember her exact words. The meaning was: my mom says we cant be friends because you arent
white.

I dont remember what I did, if anything. I dont know if she misunderstood her mother, or if I
misunderstood her words. I do remember the feeling that followed me for the rest of the day, all the way to
the car when my mother picked me up from school. I remember crying in the backseat as I told her. I
remember being sad, confused. And looking back on it now, it was perhaps the first time I felt deeply
ashamed to be who I am.

More recently, I revisited this early memory in therapy. As a 31-year-old, in my mind I put myself back
into my 7-year-old body. This time as the story played out, I punched the young schoolmate in the face.

Anger came later, I imagine. This was a creation of a borderland, the unnatural boundary between being my
whole self and being broken. The residue of this event, and others, permeates my life, shifts and mutates as
other experiences push me back into this borderland. This is a border I return to, a border that lives within
me.

customs angels mounting guard over prohibitions at the gates of foam

- Aim Csaire, Notebook of a Return to the Native Land

Returning home from my first trip abroad. Katie and I play games, watch movies, listen to music, read on
the plane from Frankfurt. Nearing the U.S., the flight attendants pass out our customs declarations form.
Katie and I declare some nonperishable food, some clothes and souvenirs, an umbrella I bought in Bremen,
some wine that she is bringing home.

At Passport Control, we file into the line for U.S. citizens. The official greets us cheerily and stamps our
passports. Welcome home! There are a few questions about our trip, in particular whether we handled
any animals while we were in Ireland. Then we continue to get our bags.

At customs, we get in the Goods to Declare line. Most of the folks from our flight go straight through
after briefly speaking with the official. Some people are pulled aside for searches through their luggage or

on their body, but we dont pay much attention to this. Until they pull me aside. Katie stands beside me as
they open my suitcase. Others being searched: a man in a turban. A brown man with a mustache. A white
woman with stringy blond hair. Its not that there arent white people being searched. But its noticeably
disproportionate.

The customs officer paws through my clothes and books, asking us simple questions about where we were,
what we were doing. He pulls out a small jar and a large tube that somewhat resembles a tube of toothpaste.
He examines these very closely, silently, for several moments. Then he looks at me from under his
eyebrows. What is this?

Uh. Mustard.

He looks at me, suspicious still. Katie tries to help. She translates the German on the tube. Lwensenf
thats the brand name. Senf is mustard. Its just hot mustard.

He looks at Katie. Then he puts the jar and tube back in the suitcase on top of my now-disheveled clothes.
He allows me to re-pack my bag and we are cleared to leave.

One of several. Almost every time I fly, either me or my belongings are searched. Though because I am
usually traveling with white folks, it typically goes quickly. People later told us we shouldnt have declared
anything. But I worry about if they decide to select me for the usual random search, and how much worse
it could be.

Our lines mark out unquiet borders.

Meena Alexander, Poetics of Dislocation

In Cancn, Mexico, after speaking Spanish: Eres mexicano? O puertorriqueo?

In Galway, Ireland, on a tour bus, from the driver: Where are you from?
America.
No, before that.
Um. Colorado?

In Kln, Germany, on the train on the way to the bar: Are you Moroccan?
No. American.
But youre not blond.

In Las Vegas, Nevada, from a guy trying to pick me up at the bar: Are you Hawaiian?

In Odense, Denmark, disembarking the train to visit my distant Danish relatives; they approach Katie, who
is all blond hair and blue eyes: Sarah! So good to meet you!

In America, from people trying for some reason to figure out what part of Asia my blood must be from:
What are you?

So who will put together a body torn by border crossings?

Meena Alexander, Poetics of Dislocation

In Kln, we stayed with a friend of Katies who she had met through her then-boyfriends family. When
night fell, we went out drinking, especially to experience Klns beer, Klsch, which was served in these

little glasses, like magic golden vials. On the train they told me that all I would need to know how to say in
German was four beers or four Klsch.

At the end of the night, I think it was about 2:00 AM, we were standing on the platform waiting for the
tram. We were all drunk. Katies friend wanted to hit up the McDonalds across the street, so she left me
and Katie on the platform, saying she would be right back. Katie and I were talking, and I noticed a group
of girls speaking in Turkish. In our previous time in Bremen, I had already been exposed to the Turkish
immigrant population. Katie had shown me the best place to get dner kebab (known as a gyro in the U.S.),
which was insanely popular in Germany due to the large Turkish immigrant population, and being very
popular with ethnic Germans as well.

Two of the Turkish girls approached us. They spoke to us in German, and Katie took over. I could tell that
they were drunk too. When they left I asked Katie what they had said. One of them thought she heard you
say she was a bitch, she said.

In German? I said.

Yeah, she said. We laughed.

We continued talking, enjoying the night, which was balmy and comfortable. A few moments later, we
were attacked. Each of the girls had taken us, scratching us and pulling our hair; I didnt quite know was
happening at first; I was afraid they were trying to rob me. So I pulled my purse under my jacket, held it to
my body with my left hand. The girl had me doubled over, pulling my hair as hard as she could. With my
right hand, I started punching her. I didnt know what I was punching exactly, because I couldnt see
anything but my own dark hair, but I aimed for her body in general. I think it took her by surprise. She
didnt hold on for long, and let me go; I was able to stand up, get my hair out of my eyes, and look around,
getting my bearings. I saw Katie still fighting with the other girl, who seemed to be trying to throw Katie
into a large trash can on the street. I ran up behind her and started punching her in the back of the head as
hard as I could. I think I was yelling out curse words in English, saying, Fuck you fuck you, fucking get
off my friend! She retreated. They both did, running away with their friends into the night.

A few onlookers came over, asked if we were OK, what had happened. At least thats what I assume,
because they were all speaking in German. Katies friend came out of McDonalds shortly after. We called
the police, I guess because we didnt quite know what to do. Katie and I were shaking, from fear or
adrenaline. When the police arrived, they took our statements; Katie had to help them translate my
statement at points, though they spoke English well. The police gave us a ride back to the apartment.

When we got there, Katies friend made some tea to calm our nerves. We spoke of the incident, processing.
Katies friend was trying to be well meaning when she said, You know, those people, theyre just hot-
blooded. They have a very quick temper. Thats just how they are.

I didnt know what to say. My mouth dried, throat tightened. Suddenly I wanted to jump to their defense, to
say that is racist, to say that is overgeneralizing, to say that is unfair. My stomach clutched, like there was a
hand inside of it, trying to reach through the tissue and grab at any other inside organs. Here I was
defending people who had attacked me, people who probably thought I was like the Germans, the
Westerners. And I am a Westerner. But in that moment, I suddenly felt more like the Turks, people who
these Westerners just couldnt understand.

If you ask most Germans, they will say that they dont have a race problem in Germany. Its a sticky topic,
seeing as the country is still under the shadow of World War II, Nazism, and the Holocaust. But most
Germans, at least when I was there a decade ago, still saw Germany as a monoracial country. There was no
race problem because Germany, in their minds, was not made of many races. If you were brown, you were
a foreigner. Even if you were born in Germany, and were a German citizen.

In many ways, America deals with race and racism much more than what I experience in my short time in
Germany. Ive always thought race in America was so fucked up, and it is, but I also learned that its
fucked up everywhere.

When we talk about going there, it is with the tacit acknowledgement that there is not a space. By going
there, we mean a psychological location rather than a geographic one.
Sueyeun Juliette Lee, Underground National

I grew up in the suburbs and currently live in a hybrid suburban/rural area. By that I mean that our home is
in a housing development (surrounded by cattle, horses, coyotes, hawks, owls, rabbits, mice, voles, eagles,
and farms), and I drive just over 5 miles into the next town to shop at the closest grocery store.

I am not a city girl. I dont think I would ever be able to live in a city. I would miss the night too much. I
would miss the dark sky and the stars. But I find visiting cities very pleasurable. In a city, my brown body
becomes one of many. I can dress, look, and walk a certain way that lets others know not to mess with
me, and I can carry a bit of authenticity with that due to my skin tone.

Of course each city is different:

Seattle, Portland, Boston, and Minneapolis: I can posture and generally know it will work well enough for
me to take the bus or rail alone at night. I can even walk around more sketchy areas without much fear of
being bothered.

Houston, LA, Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Chicago: a different story. In LA, my native-of-Oakland friend
wouldnt let me stand out on the street at night to wait for my ride Not in this neighborhood, he said.
But these places also feel, in many ways, the best. Sometimes I forget how much I miss seeing diverse
faces on the street, different languages on signs and on the radio and in restaurants.

Missoula, Laramie, Kennesaw, Raleigh, or any of those cities across Kansas and Oklahoma and Texas
where we stop to fill up gas: Very different for the totally opposite reason. In these places it is best if I act
as white as possible. And, also: knowing that this will not save me, in the end.

when did you leave the country why did you leave this country why are you returning to the country
Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Dictee

You know, they have a plan, Heather tells me as I take a seat in the chair.

Oh?

Yes. Apparently they are both going to retire in five years and then take us to Korea, together.

She starts combing out my wet hair, preparing to cut it. With Heather, the oldest daughter of my moms
best friend Ki, I share a unique history that includes basement mongrelism, a knack for lying (and thus both
becoming writers), and each of us with one and one : our own mother, and the others.

Neither of us have been to Korea. Our mothers immigrated to the U.S. in their 20s, with very little good
ties to family due to their own personal tragic pasts. So it has been a long time for them. 40 years, give or
take.

That would be awesome, I say.

We are quiet. She clips the ends of my hair and I watch her in the mirror. Then:

It will be a different Korea. It will be new to them, too.

On Saturday, I go to Korean language class. With one semester down, I am now able to read Hangul,
though I dont know the words meanings once Ive sounded them out. I can say simple things, like
describing a flavor, or asking where something is, or introducing myself.

Mom says it's a waste of time, waste of money, waste of effort.

What are you going to use that for? It's America, speak English!

I've been learning English for so long. Forget Korean.

You could learn that for free from the internet.

At the same time, she wants to help me with my homework. I dont know if she feels guilt that she stopped
speaking Korean to me when I was a child. I dont remember this, but according to my mother, when I first
went to school, preschool perhaps, I came home crying because the other kids were making fun of how I
spoke, that I would use Korean words for things. It broke her heart. She decided then to stop speaking
Korean to me.

It breaks my heart too. To think of all the things the immigration had taken from her, and now she had to
give up a language, by and large. Im afraid of bringing up the violence again, the violence of a language
being torn away.

But she probably doesnt see it this way. She likely believes it was a choice she made, not something
assimilation forced her to do. Nothing can force her to do anything. So perhaps there is guilt that she
abandoned the language. She left everything about Korea behind. Why return. Why attempt to return.

The first day of Korean language class this semester comes one day after the announcement of the refugee
and immigration ban that Donald Trump &co. command via executive order. The ban affects seven
countries from the Middle East, and though not in language, in practice and intent it is a ban against
Muslims trying to enter the U.S. The ban includes green card holders, those with visas, and refugees.
Muslim U.S. citizens are not included, but there is a promise of vigilance for this population. It is very
like the rhetoric, language, and justification for the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII. That
is: we imprisoned our own citizens based on ethnicity, due to military necessity or the safety of the
American people.

My husband Wesley and I drive to church on Sunday. NPR discusses the executive order. I sigh.

Soon, your mom wont be able to leave the country and get back in, he says.

I know.

Its too easy for them to say she might be coming from North Korea.

The hum of the highway fills the car as the news rolls on. I think of my mom and Auntie Kis five-year
plan to take their daughters to Korea. About how we may not be able to get back in. And, I dont say it
aloud to Wes: Soon, we may not be able to even get out.

 Su cuerpo es una bocacalle.
- Gloria Anzalda, Borderlands/La Frontera

The skin is a border. Keeping insides in. Keeping the external world out. There are orifices, holes dug into
skin and muscle and bone, in order to pass through. Because some things must pass through the border. The
border is permeable, it must be in order to function. Doors and gates that allow. Who am I to say what is
allowed?

Cutting through the body is a road. Walk the road through the torso and kick up dust. The tree of bone
there, a rib. Cartilage and veins hang from it like a willows crown. The dust disintegrates, turns to mud.
Drag feet through the body, water rushing in around the ankles. The wetlands of the lungs. Marsh and
reeds; a toad sits beneath the shade of a mushroom cap.

Sometimes the border is crisp and clear. A lining of tissue that plainly cannot be penetrated. But at this
intersection, the fog rolls in. The road is no longer a road. How does one move in a swamp? Perhaps by
growing gills or fins. Becoming scaly. Not being afraid to move down into the muck, in order to resurface.

The intersection, after all, does not have to happen on a horizontal plane. The road that leads out could very
well be below. Subterranean. Sous boue. .

By diving deep, we may find another gate. The orifice that opens. The gap.

Questions:
Do we have enough strength to contract the muscles and launch across?
Do we have enough buoyancy to rise?
Do we have enough conviction to inhale?

It takes conviction to live these days. A feeling of trust. Trust that there will be oxygen enough.

Her body is an intersection. A crossroads. The borderland is a wound. And I will not be afraid to walk it.