Pop Singer: A Dark BWAM / AMBW Romance

by Asia Olanna

  He wanted me to major in certain things, wanted me to have certain jobs, wanted me to be a specific person.

  So when it came time to tell him about what I really majored in, and what kind of jobs I really wanted to have, well…

  Needless to say, there had been a ton of arguing and a ton of fighting. I remember many nights, screeching at the top of my lungs, trying to get him to understand exactly where I was coming from.

  “There’s a huge value in having the arts around,” I had said. I was pacing around and around the island in our kitchen, trying to make my father see the point of what I was doing. He didn’t value the arts at all. And he didn’t like the thought of his daughter being a sculptor. I could already imagine him pulling out the poverty lines.

  “You going to become a starving artist,” he eventually said. “If you don’t shape up, and you don’t start majoring in things that make you some damn money, then I am not going to support you all the way when it comes time to pay rent. I’m not an ATM machine. I’m not someone who can just dish out loads of money whenever you feel like. I’m not someone who can just pay your way through life. You going to have to figure out how you’re going to make it out there.”

  “But I—”

  “I know what you want.” He came around the countertop, as if he were a shark swimming around in a bowl, trapped with an enemy, his own flesh and blood. And how could that possibly be? We were supposed to be like good friends. “I know what you want. I had dreams one time in my life too. Did I ever tell you the time I wanted to become a backup dancer?”

  Okay, so my dad wasn’t exactly a hard-core guy or anything. He was kind of a softie. But he did look out for me, and throughout his yellings, he only wanted to ensure that I would have the brightest future possible.

  “No,” I said, watching him closely. “No, I didn’t know that you wanted to become a dancer before. Tell me more about that.”

  He then explained how at one point, he went to take ballet lessons at a local studio. Of course, being that he was a black man, people made fun of him for miles. There were all sorts of comments and questions about his sexuality. There were all sorts of explanations about why he wasn’t “masculine.” Why he wasn’t “black enough.”

  “I told everyone fuck it,” he said. “But at the end of the day, I wasn’t good enough to be a dancer. And I’m not saying that you’re not good enough to become a sculptor. But you’ve got to face the facts at the same time. How many people make a living off their sculptures? How many people actually have it in them to go all the way? Are you really going to push yourself? Are you going to become a dilettante?”

  At that moment in time, I had already finished my sophomore year in college. I was deciding for myself what path I would take in the future: and a fork appeared in my road. I would either listen to my father and become practical or I would go all the way for myself, and push myself as hard as I possibly could in the arts.

  It’s obvious what decision I chose.

  When I graduated, I remember my father hugging me so tight, but at the same time echoing the same kinds of sentiments. By then, he hadn’t had much faith in me still.

  Especially when I revealed to him that I was going to move halfway across the country to the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

  On the map, it doesn’t seem like a long distance. But in reality, Texas stretches on forever. There’s tons of space between Nebraska and Texas. And there were tons of reasons to worry.

  “How are you going to pay for yourself? Is a day care center really going to fill in all of your bills?”

  We were standing back in the kitchen when we had this discussion. Swimming around the island countertop. Staring at one another, my father in his T-shirt and jeans, me in my sweatpants. I felt as if we were getting nowhere in the discussion of where my life was headed.

  Worse, I was beginning to feel a loss of faith not only from him but from myself. It was as if I didn’t or no longer could believe in where I was going. But at the same time, I needed to prove that I could pay my own way. I needed to prove my worth to my father. That majoring in art history wasn’t a complete miss.

  “I know it sounds a little bit strange,” I said. “But this daycare thing will give me a huge boost in my income.”

  “From zero to… what?”

  “So I’m going to go from zero to a couple grand per month. Can’t you be happy for that? In a low cost of living area, that’s good.”

  He, needless to say, was not pleased at all.

  Still.

  “If those people end up being racist to you, I’m going to fly over there and give them a piece of my mind,” my dad was now saying, right over the phone. I shook my head. The last thing I needed him to do was gallivant across the Atlantic to Asia. And show up next to perfect-man Jong-soo? How embarrassing. No way.

  “I promise nothing bad will happen at all. If anything, this is going to open all sorts of new doors for me. Ones that have been closed off. I’m going to be on my own two feet, and I’ll have the prestige of a major contest behind my back. How many people get to say that they won a contest for the arts? In their specialty? Very few people.”

  “And who exactly sponsored this entire contest?” Dad said.

  I hadn’t told anyone. I’m not going to lie: it was a little bit sketchy. The institution was called the Higher Museum, which didn’t turn up much on the Internet. I mean, there were a couple of reviews about the site and location of the actual museum itself. Lots of five stars. But the actual place was on the very brink of Seoul, and then there was still travel to Daegu. I had a coordinator talking to me via email. But I had never talked with her over the phone. Everything was done online.

  But then again, I was born in, like, the 90s or thereabouts. Didn’t it make sense that almost everything was done online? Even college applications were. How many people except those who went to Ivy League schools have an interview for college? Business schools barely did those anymore. Only maybe for the high elites did you have to do so.

  I found my happy voice and said to my dad, “It’s going to be all right. It’s sponsored by the Higher Museum.”

  There was a pause on the other line. I knew my dad had never heard of them. I barely knew who they were too. But to keep the illusion of knowledge up, I said, “If anything’s wrong, I’ll come crawling back to you. I promise.”

  Dad laughed. “All right then.”

  Although that was not true. I did not want to move back home, at any cost, no matter what. I was too prideful and too stubborn to really do that. Which was the other reason why I decided to go to Texas—far enough to keep him satisfied but not so close where he’d be all up in my shit.

  I was still sitting on my bed, about to get ready for work. I had on my uniform, all the while Latasha was herself changing into her own clothes—a nice lace-up A-line skirt and a blouse. She was far more prestigious being a bank manager in my father’s eyes than me.

  “I’m just saying,” he said, his voice breaking over the phone. “I just want you to be safe is all.”

  “I understand, dad. But if anything bad happens at all, I can just come back home. I said that already. Besides, I’m going to South Korea, not North Korea. I hope you know the difference.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I don’t think they’re not any less racist!”

  I rolled my eyes. They couldn’t possibly have been any more regressive than the people I had met in the United States.

  Besides, there were ignorant people no matter where you went. Black or white, Asian or Hispanic. There were tons of people who didn’t know other cultures or ethnicities or races or sexualities or whatever it might be.

  “Everyone needs to trust me and let me put in my two weeks’ notice. Only once I’m on the plane will I have my regrets. And they’re going to be small regrets. Like, not bringing along my favorite haircare products or something. I promise you,” I said, ready to hang up, “I’m not going to regret going to Korea. I’m so ready t
o begin a new life someplace else. Be happy that I won.”

  I could feel the joy creeping back into my voice again.

  “I’m always going to be looking out for you,” dad said. “Because you’re always my baby girl.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet dad. But seriously, we don’t live in a dangerous world anymore. Trust in me this one time.”

  “I will,” he said, “but the last time I trusted you, you ended up at a daycare center.”

  I sighed. There really wasn’t any way to get my father to see the light. We said our goodbyes, saying sweet nothings into the phone. Then I hung up, placing my cell phone down into my pocket. I spruced up my hair—I was going all natural that particular day, yes honey—and turned to face Latasha, who finished dressing. Sometimes, girl, she could take forever to get her clothes on. And she was itty-bitty.

  But she had always liked dressing business professional. I couldn’t blame her, considering she looked great, especially when she got on her red pumps. Divine mama!

  “Are you off the phone now?” Latasha said, coming over to me. She started stabbing at her ears, pushing in two earrings. She looked over herself in the mirror. Her apartment was right next door, but we often liked to prepare together in the mornings. It made everything seem less lonely, and it made our lives feel as if we were one with each other. Like we were sisters or something.

  Or at least, I felt like that.

  Even if I knew Latasha didn’t exactly treat me like a sister all the time.

  I’m not going to lie, a part of me wanted to escape from the United States because I felt a sense of loneliness. Because going abroad would mean not facing people like Latasha anymore. People who were very invested in themselves, and could only spare a chance to worry about others in little pieces, fragments of their lives.

  No more frenemies, only foreigners.

  I had a fantasy that in Korea I would discover a family. I would find a community of other artists and we would all live in harmony or something. Like communally. Everything would be shared. And I would have no more worries. And maybe no more taxes.

  Okay, don’t blame me for sounding a little bit like a hippie-anarchist. But I was young back then and wanting more out of my life. Seeking meaning and all that. When you’re young, that’s what everything feels like.

  Important.

  “I told him everything,” I said. “I really got down and deep into my feelings. I think he respects me now. Or at least, I want to believe that he does.”

  I fixed a piece of my hair that was flying away from my forehead, leaned close into the mirror to make sure that I didn’t have any nose hairs or something really disgusting, and then I walked away to the front door.

  “And we’re off,” Latasha said.

  Because our jobs were really close, we often carpooled together. Latasha drove better than me. So we rode in her car. I always got into the passenger seat first, calling shotgun even though neither of us needed to.

  I kicked up my legs, turning the air-conditioning on high. Even in the springtime, the humidity in Dallas, the heat—it really was cray.

  It was almost as if God was angry for all of us down on planet earth. I swear. Like he was beating a drum or smashing his radiant fist right on our heads.

  My skin turned into a limp noodle always. I closed my eyes once I was against the hot leather seating of Latasha’s beat up convertible. She might’ve been a manager at a bank, but she couldn’t afford a new car with her student loans. She still had a lot—up to her eyeballs in debt.

  “Now,” she said, “where are we headed to?”

  I played along. “To work.”

  Latasha turned the wheel. She pulled out of the parking lot. Around us, there were glittering steel roofs, the entire apartment complex lording over us with its huge shadow, its protection of black about to unveil us into the hot sunlight. I put my hand down by the air vents, cranking all the way to maximum cool. I looked over to Latasha, as she tilted her head backwards.

  “We’re going to work,” I said again.

  “That’s right,” Latasha said, her earrings swinging about her face. “And what are we going to do today?”

  “We’re going to have a great time,” I said.

  I turned on the music. Some R&B tunes, a quick beat to bring us out of our sadness. The post-college world was not what we expected it to be. Filled with dreary tasks and all sorts of deadlines. People to answer to and bills to pay. Being an adult definitely sucked.

  Of course, I had my out: in the form of a letter in my right hand, my sweaty, right hand. My two weeks’ notice, clutched close to my thigh, underneath and next to my purse. My two weeks’ notice!

  What would absolve me of all of my duties at the daycare.

  No longer would I have to answer to the rude and unwashed.

  No longer would I have to deal with the enormous task of handling other people’s children.

  The thankless task, I should say. Because so many people would come on in and expect five-star service for so little pay.

  I kicked up my feet and stared at the horizon. Latasha turned the wheel again, pulling onto the road.

  “So,” Latasha said, “we’re going to have a great time. Now what does that mean?”

  “It means that you’re going to make a lot of money and I’m going to finally quit my job!”

  Latasha laughed. Then I giggled along with her, turning up our jam. We rocked back and forth to the music, enjoying the sultry voice. The song was called Never Again and it was sung by Lylyah Swinger. God. I loved her back then. We almost made the highway break in half from all of our car’s bouncing up and down. My shoulders slammed into the window next to me, and I had to roll them down so I could force my arm out against the sky.

  “Yes, girl!” Latasha would say. “We’ve got so much going on for us, girl. We don’t have to answer to anybody. Think positive. Yes!”

  Although both of us knew that wasn’t true at all. We would have to answer to bosses in the future. To bills. To all sorts of demands and requests from society.

  We would have to deal with our adult world no matter what. No matter how gruesome it got.

  “Now,” she said. “When you go to work, don’t think too hard about all of the stuff that you’re gonna have to do. Just think about handing in your two weeks’ notice and being done with that, girl.”

  “I’m just so ready for it. But I’m nervous at the same time. If you were me, how would you feel about going abroad?”

  “Girl,” Latasha said, waving her hand to the music. “I know that I sounded a little bit skeptical the other day. But I’m just telling you. I really want you to be successful. I’m looking out for you is all. And if I ever sound like I’m not on your side, it’s because I’m just trying to voice my concern. Look, if you’re gonna go to Korea, make your money over there, then fine. I think it’s great for you in the end. I don’t know anything about Asia. But if those are the kinds of guys that turn you on—”

  I nearly rolled my eyes out of my head! Latasha had opinions no less better than my dad. About Asian people. About the Eastern world.

  Whatever.

  I knew they had misconceptions wrapped around their brain cells, constricting their logic and philosophies.

  “I mean,” I said, “if it turns out that the people there are really horrible. I’m going to come back here with my tail between my legs. But there’s no way I’m going to pass up a chance to meet the guy of my dreams.”

  I flipped out my phone again, bringing up Jong-soo’s face. When we were at a red light, I flashed it over at Latasha again. Tall, muscular, and chiseled, Jong-soo was an exceptional specimen of Korean beauty. I couldn’t imagine any other guy on all of America’s continental crust who had possessed any sort of good looks like he did. I’m telling you: spec-i-men.

  And he sung well.

  Of course, that was really the important part. Right? Meeting a good singer, another artist. Word had it on the streets that he wrote all of his own music
by himself.

  “But they all say that,” Latasha said, waving away my phone. She floored through the green light that came up, I think partly annoyed at my insistence about Jong-soo. “They all say that they write their own music. Look at any of the major singers in town. They’re all going to say that they do all of their shit by themselves. But, girl, I don’t know if they do, do they?”

  “Even some of the painters of old used commissioned artists that were lesser renowned to do the easy parts. Wouldn’t you believe it? Some of the best painters in all of France and Spain had their apprentices paint the backgrounds of their pieces because they felt like they had to concentrate on the foreground. Even some sculptors have their apprentices do the wire work and the less sexy stuff of art. That’s what we have to do sometimes. We have a definite amount of time on planet Earth, after all.”