Not-so-casual Xenophobia, Klexos, & Leonard / Leonardo obscura

Did you know that there is a word for the art and nuance of dwelling in the past? Just learned it. I’m totally mesmerized. Lose yourself here: klexos.

Consider this as a variant of Leonardo da Vinci quotables: Memory is a work of art never finished, only abandoned. Because the more we revisit our past lives, the more we perhaps notice that which we didn’t before. But also, the more we go back in time, the more we finesse our reality and maybe even bring back something with us anew. Our context shifts and our identity perhaps gets an additional brushstroke here and there. Here’s an exercise. Try looking back and perhaps noticing the moments of bias and hidden racism here and there and basically everywhere. Less of a treasure hunt, more of a digging deeper into the highly awkward and ignorant folds of our unconscious consciousness. (Also try repeating that last bit, but with a Twilight Zone-esque eerie soundtrack in the background.)

As I read and watch more shows, I’ve started to pick up on some trends. The phrase “gaining purchase,” as if a grip on a rock or cliff face, comes up frequently. But perhaps more meaningful, the blatant racism of H.P. Lovecraft, comes up quite often. And if you didn’t know, well, now you do.

Here is a reference to his raging xenophobic sentiments because I’d rather not re-type them here. I had no idea just how awful his politics and racism were until just barely a few years ago. One day, a generous and wise human pointed it out in a way that didn’t make me feel stupid, regardless of my actual reality.

“I do love them,” George agreed. “But stories are like people, Atticus. Loving them doesn’t make them perfect. You try to cherish their virtues and overlook their flaws. The flaws are still there, though.” “But you don’t get mad. Not like Pop does.”

“No, that’s true, I don’t get mad. Not at stories. They do disappoint me sometimes.” He looked at the shelves. “Sometimes, they stab me in the heart.” ― Matt Ruff, Lovecraft Country

It’s a relatable emotion. Similar to finding one of your nostalgic favorite singers from long ago supporting alt-right wing hateful political stances on Twitter. Suddenly, you question whether you should shower-sing-along to their music anymore. Probably not. Or learning that in fact, J.K. Rowling is heavily biased against Trans lives. Re-watching Harry Potter over and over used to bring me so much joy. Now, it’s just another form of heartbreak in this day and age of sticking to one’s prejudiced guns.

“The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions.” ―Leonardo da Vinci

And now for a completely different opinion. I cannot share enough just how enjoyable N.K. Jemisin’s stories and characters are. I finished her Broken Earth trilogy the year before last, her short story collection “How Long ‘Till Black Future Month” last year and just read her latest novel this past week where I found yet again more Lovecraft realness striking home.

“Dangerous mental machines…Yeah. That was H.P. Lovecraft’s fun little label for folks in Chinatown–sorry, ‘Asiatic filth.’ He was willing to concede that they might be as intelligent as white people because they knew how to make a buck. But he didn’t think they had souls.” ― N.K. Jemisin, The City We Became

This line really hurt. This whole scene in the Bronx Art Gallery I thought was brilliant, but yeah, it stung a bit deep. It reminds me of some of my own crushing insecurities from childhood.

Input and Output.

I used to debate whether or not I was actually a robot. Just today I said to myself “Self, we have been indulging in enough input, maybe let’s try some output.” As in, I’ve been binge reading and show watching a bit much lately so maybe we should try writing for a bit. That’s a point for the stereotype brigade right there. Ha. If only I were a model efficient Asian stereotype. I imagine my living space would be much neater and that I wouldn’t sore-throat-ugly-cry while watching Inside Out. 

I recall a phase where I believed I couldn’t cry. Several years in my late teens, I started to consider my time-lapse of never crying and was convinced that I somehow didn’t have the ability any more. Like I was just a machine, (regardless of all the very human things I did like eating, drinking, as well as the very human removal of that which I ate and drank). All that suddenly changed, while watching Mulan in a Berkeley theater one summer in the late nineties. It may have been the beginning of a tumultuous time. Tears of renewal? I might not have understood it then, but I was definitely emotionally overwhelmed by the story of the brave tomboy Asian heroine, a real first for American cinema.

Ever notice how the creation of an alien in the old Star Trek universe basically led to racial othering/profiling? Don’t get me wrong. I still think the original series helped bring down walls and tackled some taboos of the time. BUT STILL. Rather let’s think of Mr. Spock. He clearly started off as a not-so-casual racist depiction of an Asian stereotype born from the golden age of sci-fi, an iconic representation of an entire intelligent species that values cold efficiency over emotion. His non-alien counterpart, Hikaru Sulu, Asian scientist turned helmsman who rarely had more than one facial expression in the original series, essentially sported the same vein. Granted, due to the longevity of their series, both characters evolved and were given more nuance, eventually. I was particularly thrilled that the newer reboot re-evaluated and fleshed out both of these characters in brilliant ways both playing homage but also breaking out of tropes. Kudos and of course, RIP to Leonard Nimoy.

I suppose at the heart of all the many adaptations of works, the remakes of films done over and over and over, is the grandiose combo of the pull to the creation of art and klexos. Our need to revisit an idea, a character, a story til the end of time is just so restorative and often neverending.

“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” ― Leonardo da Vinci