sexism « Yuri Kageyama

Little YELLOW Slut

Reworked to add a new line: “Charlie Chan’s Angel”

Little YELLOW Slut
By Yuri Kageyama

You know her:
That Little YELLOW Slut, proudly gleefully
YELLOW-ly hanging on Big Master’s arm,
War bride, geisha,
GI’s home away from home,
Whore for last samurai,
Hula dancer with seaweed hair,
Yoko Ohno,
Akihabara cafe maid,
Hi-Hi Puffy Ami/Yumi,
Kawaiiii like keitai,
Back-up dancer for Gwen Stefani,
Your real-life Second Life avatar
Eager to deliver your freakiest fetish fantasies,
Disco queen, skirt up the crotch,
Fish-net stockings, bow-legged, anorexic, raisin nipples, tip-toeing Roppongi on
Stiletto heels.

Yessu, i spikku ingrishhu, i raikku gaijeeen, they kiss you,
hold your hand, open doors for me,
open legs for you, giggling pidgin, covering mouth,
so happy to be
Little YELLOW Slut.

Everybody’s seen her:
That Little YELLOW Slut, waiting at
Home, cooking rice, the Japanese
Condoleezza Rice,
Smelling of sushi,
Breath and vagina,
Fish and vinegar,
Fermented rice,
Honored to be
Cleaning lady,
Flight attendant for Singapore Airlines,
Charlie Chan’s Angel,
Nurse maid, gardener, Japan-expert’s wife,
Mochi manga face,
Yodeling minyo, growling enka,
Sex toy, slant-eyes closed, licking, tasting, swallowing STD semen,
Every drop.

Yessu, i wanna baby who looohkuh gaijeen, double-fold eye, translucent skin, international school PTA,
maybe grow up to be fashion model, even joshi-ana,
not-not-not happy to be
Little YELLOW Slut.

I recognize her:
That Little YELLOW Slut, rejecting
Japanese, rejected by Japanese,
Ashamed,
Empty inside,
They all look alike,
Faceless, hoping to forget, escape
To America,
Slant-eyed clitoris,
Adopted orphan,
Dream come true for pedophiles,
Serving sake, pouring tea, spilling honey,
Naturalized citizen,
Buying Gucci,
Docile doll,
Rag-doll, Miss Universe, manic harakiri depressive, rape victim, she is
You, she is me.

Hai, hai, eigo wakarimasen, worship Big Master for mind, matter, muscle, money, body size correlates to penis size,
waiting to be sexually harassed, so sorry, so many,
so sad to be
Little YELLOW Slut.

Dear Sir

Dear Sir,
do you love my daughter?
really love my daughter?
yes the one with the violin
holes in her jeans
she doesn’t know she doesn’t need you
just knows she wants
maybe the warmth of that moving wormlike fetus stirring growing within her
maybe the hotness of those orgasmic waves coming and going and coming within her
maybe that wet loneliness of wanting you and wanting you when you aren’t even gone
she sees only you
but do you love my daughter?
really love my daughter?
yes the one selling matches
begging at the train station
she needs to find herself
not end up being
maybe just one your many conquests, that pretty thing to have at your side
maybe that soul-mate you’re keeping while you’re feeling too guilty to dump her
maybe that convenience for cooking, counseling, coming that you don’t even need
she will die for you
but do you love my daughter?
really love my daughter?
yes that search for love
of that woman for that man
it never ends, repeating
again and again
maybe that blood trickling painless between our thighs on the abortion table
maybe that joy of a bouquet you bring smelling of grease from the construction site
maybe that other woman you hide like a fetish priest wishing my daughter’s death
she isn’t afraid
but do you love my daughter?
really love my daughter?

For women only

perfume,
rubbing shoulders,
we rattle silently over the tracks
blouses, tucked bags, even powdered chins,
up too close to really see;
we sense only relief
we smell no greasy beards or sweaty suits or
beer breath of the morning after _
this morning commuter train
“josei senyo sha”
reserved
for women only,
introduced to protect the gentle sex
from those groping dark hands
preying prying fingers, stroking thigh,
poking panties,
pretending to be penises
right in public transport,
“josei senyo sha”
this is the kindness of Japanese society:
let chikan go unchecked,
forgiven for their mischief,
and give us, women, this special spot
farthest from the action
farthest from the ticket gates
the first car up front,
and the most dangerous
if we crash

May 4 Reading of "an ode to the Caucasian male"

Carl Freire and I reading “an ode to the Caucasian male” at What the Dickens in Tokyo.

Published in “Peeling,” by Yuri Kageyama, Berkeley, Calif.: I. Reed Press, 1988.
First published in “Women Talking, Women Listening.”

an ode to the Caucasian male

white man
white man
with the silky blond hair
the emerald-blue eyes
and the cool million dollar grin
I won’t mind being a Suzy Wong for you.
cuz
I’m tired of the laundry-men
and the dirty restaurant cooks
who can only smell of won ton soup
and talk about chowmein
they don’t have the powers,
the style you do
seems you’ve got to be white
to really be a man
the long sleek legs
with the acid rock walk
in the hot tight pants
where the warm prick dwells
it’s okay
you see only the race in me
just a stereotype, not my personality
it’s okay
cuz, white man
you have
whiteness
to give.

an ode to the Caucasian male

Poetry by Yuri Kageyama.
Guitar and music arrangement by Carl Freire.
Recorded in Green Village Studios, Tokyo, April 13, 2008.
“an Ode to the Caucasian male,” from Yuri Kageyama, “Peeling,” Berkeley, Calif: I. Reed Press, 1988.
First published in “Women Talking, Women Listening.”

an ode to the Caucasian male

Girl Talk

Women can talk about anything from handbags to sex to perfect desserts and makeup and teething in babies and politics and social change and global warming without having to prove who’s on top.
This is because in this sexist world, women have learned that communication is not about power or about who rules vs. who gets to grovel in the mud.
What is being said is not important.
What is being communicated is this: I care about you.
I read an interview once with Dustin Hoffman when he played a man masquerading around as a woman in the movie “Tootsie” about how he envied the way women can talk to each other.
In this sexist world, girl talk about fashion, let’s say, is looked down upon as proof that the person who is doing the talking is dumb.
For a long time, I didn’t realize this was happening (… and that’s why smart women feel they have to look ugly, wear no makeup and show they are above such trivial girl talk concerns.)
Next time you hear giggles in the office and women oohing and aahing over new boots, thank God for the gift among women to find in such simple joys a way to give love.