"Gush" is the only word that describes my verbage toward David Henry Hwang at the "Chinglish" opening party. I simply gushed. In case you don't believe me, I told him that "Chinglish" is the leading edge of American theater. I recall telling him that his play left my heart feeling like the size of Montana. There were, I believe, other equally mismatched metaphors blended in the mix. Yes, it was an unedited gush.
But here's why.
Asian-Americans have a voice, and I heard it loud and clear tonight. Until now, I have fretted over the silence that encases most of Asian communication - the unspoken implications, the frozen pauses, and most of all, the ideaologic chasms which devour both languages. "How," I used to wonder, "could I ever verbalize this bizarre collision of cultures?"
Yet he did it. David Henry Hwang's play articulates my Asian-American confusion comedically, brilliantly and poignantly. Sure, this is about what is lost in translation of signage (e.g., handicapped restrooms being labelled as "deformed man's toilet). But words often miss other, more evasive ideas such as expectations of love, the meaning of marriage, the definition of pride and, of course, the meaning of communication itself.
Hwang treats us all like the cosmopolitan 21st century creatures that we are with supertitles and a story imbedded in international commerce. Yet this is still just a story of two people trying to understand each other. This is still a story of people trying to live their best lives. And therein lies the power of Story -- because strangers can reflect and evoke our most personal revelations about ourselves. Thus, perhaps on a higher plane, we are never strangers. You see, I couldn't help but gush.
