Jizo — Part One
“My fellow Vietnamese-Americans, for what it’s worth, for someone anti-most things to be anti-war, on this, the year of our country’s bicentennial, I wish to celebrate and thereby acknowledge the unification of your glorious country as the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, and present to you this exquisitely detailed picture of an all-women Vietnamese army, marching in formation wearing leaf hats (Nón Lá, I believe they’re called, correct me if I’m wrong). Furthermore, as a symbolic act of apology on the part of one anti-war citizen for the crimes committed against your people—those of the south and the north, and especially those folk otherwise known as the Viet Cong; believe me when I say that were you here, or I there (travel, lodging and visa costs aside) I would kneel before you to beg your forgiveness, perhaps lend a hand to rebuild your victorious but war-torn but unified country, but alas — I intend to place completely out of scale . . . ”
With my drawing completed up to but not including what to place out of scale, and my speech written and rehearsed for all passersby to hear, and the bicentennial of 1976, originally picked as my unveiling date long past, but this year, 1978’s 4th of July, the date I’ve set for the artwork’s unveiling still months away, I hoist my duffel bag with my art supplies and umbrella—because when has it not rained on Memorial Day, it rained yesterday—and set out.
The air smells like wet stones; last night’s rain, clinging and dripping from the bricks, makes my poor building look as if it’s weeping—it is Memorial Day, but what the hell, America save it for the tombstones—and the front yard is a steaming muddy pit of cigarette butts and beer can rings. The “No Littering” sign I placed on the front lawn lies face down in mud, but I’ve got my unemployment check to cash at the currency exchange and a visit to the mall. I’ll clear the front yard on my return, maybe purchase a gallon of bleach to pour and scrub on the pavement. An artificial flower, one of those spinning sunflowers to spruce up the yard and cheer up my building.
The next block looks none the happier, but the sun has come out. I reach into my duffel bag for the umbrella, a piece of shit with a bent shaft, half the spokes broken; panels that hang in a most unsightly manner, and toss it into the bushes. For reasons far beyond my control, as I was told by doctors my mother sent me to talk with, I have always associated bushes with unveilings. So, I am not surprised when passing this unkempt little shrub, to be reminded—as if I need to be—of my unveiling date.
Still several weeks away, Mister Bush. But thanks!
I missed the unveiling for Homage to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam . . . Mr. Bush ha! What if instead of Carter in the White House there was a Mister Bush . . . because of a factory job. I had just handed the woman my application, filled out in a most half-assed manner, such as would have prevented them from contacting me for a future position in their company when some poor slob was fired. Before I knew what was happening, the fired dude with long hair like me stormed past me, and I, a 19-year-old high school graduate with a C average at best, was hired on the spot. I was handed a uniform and a full-time cardboard box assembly job. A job I intended to keep only to the end of June or, at the latest, July 3rd, but ended up working two goddamn years, until recently, thus the missed date. It won’t happen again; I plan to keep track of the time between today, Memorial Day, and July 4th, when I plan to unveil my homage, framed, on a tabletop display easel set atop a newspaper box, or whatever, maybe invite someone from the Vietnamese community to partake. But before any of that can happen, I must decide what the hell to place out of scale, to complete the work. A grief-stricken building? A bush? I don’t think so.