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Remembering Queer Moments

Memories are collected every moment. What I cannot remember and what sticks in my mind for years always fascinates me. I am also intrigued by the interpretations of memories. For the same incident, my recollection can be so different from what my friend remembers. Yet, you know as well as I do, memories fade. We are always chasing after an image, somebody’s words, a warm touch with an elusive recollection of a past perception.

Being an Asian Pacific Islander American lesbian, my memories are coated with a queer lens and selectively filtered. It is about forgetting that time when I participated on a panel for a live Chinese radio show, and one caller after another, accused me of being everything from a pervert to a man-hater.

Who knew that a language so dear to me could be so hurtful?

It is about forgetting that time when I was so angry that my brother got hit to the ground because his “friend” thought he was gay in high school.

Memories can haunt you, make you smile and fuel your desire to want more of them.

Memories take on a more serious role in histories. Different communities hold ownership to their memories of what happened to them, which in turn, informs them on what needs to be done now. Historical memories are also the basic premises for: redress movements with Japanese Canadian and Japanese American communities; sovereignty rights with Pacific Islanders; land claims with Aboriginal communities; addressing war crimes with Korean, Filipino and Chinese women during World War II; and basic human rights with queer Asian Pacific Islander populations, just to name a few.

They are significant pieces of information simply because communities need to put together the pieces of the past in order to make sense of the present. There is a lot of pain in the communal exercise of remembering. There is also no guarantee that governments and institutions will validate those memories. But they have brought communities together, shaped social activist agendas and translated thoughts into political actions.

On Aug. 18, I attended a conference titled “Moving Forward with a Sense of the Past,” presented by Asian Pacific Islander Queer Women and Transgender Coalition (APIQWTC). The conference consisted of workshops that addressed areas of interest for queer APIA women and transgender communities. Three decades of social activism were represented among conference participants.

Longtime lesbian activists, Trinity Ordona and Doreena Wong delivered their opening remarks to the crowd. Ordona spoke on the history of queer APIA movements in the Bay Area. Wong commented on the ongoing challenges facing queer community organizing. Both speakers touched on the critical question: Where do we go from here?

With 25 years of experience in social activism, Ordona, Wong and others hold community memories of what it meant to be queer and APIA from the 1970s to the present day.

Documentation of histories is not an easy task. It has the potential to define a community. But there are always texts-in-progress, as lost histories surface and unspoken voices are heard. We build our movements on these archival documents and collective memories of activists.

At the conference, I noticed a lot of hugs and countless “so-nice-to-see-you-agains” at the registration desk, the refreshments area and the main hall. When was the last time I saw that person? When will I see her/him again? I value these moments of queer reunions. They reminded me of old friends I should keep contact with. More importantly, they reminded me of those friends who could not come to the conference for various reasons.

I remember the first time I registered for an APIA lesbian and bisexual women’s retreat in Santa Cruz. I did not know anyone who was going, but I knew that by filling out the application I was doing something special for myself. I did not make the trip, but the note that one of the organizers sent me saying “I’m sorry that you can’t come this time, maybe next time?” holds deep meanings for me. I felt that I was being accepted as an APIA lesbian.

For the same reason, I kept going to all the queer APIA conferences I could. I ended up coordinating a queer East & Southeast Asian conference (Lotus Roots, 1996) and helped to plan another one in Vancouver BC, Canada (Lotus Roots: The Lotus Blossoms, 1997).

At the closing remarks of the APIQWTC conference, Catherine Jisun Anh, a queer APIA youth activist, referred to the conference as a site to reconnect with generations of activists. She reiterated the significance of intergenerational dialogue, and called for the community’s responsibility in linking the dots for our past, present and future. What is the collective vision for queer APIA women and transgender people? What does taking the next step mean for us, individually and collectively? How can we keep our passion alive in queer community organizing?

A partial answer to these questions is to cross dangerous territories. Communities have boundaries. Consciously and quietly, we choose to accept some and choose to ignore others. It is sometimes so easy to let go of past struggles, of how much we have gained and how much we have lost. Arbitrary borders keep us safe. We justify safety by saying that it’s a language barrier, it’s a matter of differences, or it’s not the same experience as we have experienced it. Crossing dangerous territories means taking a leap of faith into the unknown. It means inviting others, who may have very different opinions and backgrounds than we do. It also means constantly exploring with fully open eyes into our past and continuously learning from it.

There are no starting points or finish lines for memories. I continue to revisit them and change them as I interpret them, moment by moment. A friend of mine, Francisco Ibanez, once told me that the body remembers. When a limb is amputated, the patient often experiences phantom pain, a pain where the arm or the leg would have been. Being queer and APIA often splits up our whole selves into gender, racial, class, health status and political categories. I think being continuously active in community organizing is about feeling those emotions as they link to your self, and learning to cope and to live fully and wholly at the same time.

It is also about remembering the first time that your fingertips touched your partner, the split second of fear you felt as a visible queer person, the naughty glance that would have given you away to a potential lover.

I ask you to feel those memories.

Denise Tang works at Asian & Pacific Islander Wellness Center.