I am obsessed with Alexander Chee’s writing. He is a good writer. His words take me back, to when I first touched beauty and God, before I knew such concepts exist. He is also a brave writer. I feast on his words and grow stronger from the nourishment. Like I am real. Like I am not crazy (at least not the only one). Like he understands the burning under my skin – our skin. Relief.
I was recommended to Chee’s work years before. I didn’t read any – not ready for topics around sexual assault, race, gender, and trauma. I was determined to pretend all is well. As monsters napping in the deep sea, unresolved trauma wakes up and searches for a snack. Guess who is close by.
Chee is gay, half white, half Korean, a American writer, a teacher, an activist. Each descriptive, a war inside – messy, bloody, present. My grief finds Chee’s work. Here, drink this. It won’t erase anything. It won’t protect you from future pain. It’s only water, upon which your life relies.
Chee’s work help me see I am a part of his activism. He makes me care. Hello, look over here, I am a human too – I need you to see me as such. You need to know that I exist. I can’t be diminished; I can’t be disowned; I am you. And you need my help.
Hurry. I buy Chee’s novel, Edinburgh, for my best friend, in China. Here is water, my friend, drink up.
Couple lines by Alexander Chee that I’ll keep close:
“I’d always prized silence for being the absence of other noises. In this house I come to see how one can prize silence for being articulate, as well.”
“…my back aching, but the beauty of work is that it builds you while you build. I become stronger.”
