"...and all over again– I’m found."
a mini-interview with Sloan Asakura
I had the pleasure of meeting Sloan Asakura through the Periplus Collective, where I was a mentor for two years. Over the course of a year, I met with Sloan online and talked about writing process, applying for residencies, and I had the opportunity to read their work—writing that is beautiful, sensual in the most expansive sense of the word, and haunting.
Sloan Asakura (she/he/they) is a poet and memoirist from Los Angeles. They are a ‘22 Periplus Alum and ‘23 Fall Tin House Resident. Their work has been published in various magazines such as Rigorous, Rogue Agent, The Mantle, The Lantern Review, and Joyland. In their free time, they can be found talking to trees, cooking comfort food, and feeding neighborhood cats.
Take us on a walk through a place that gives you life.
It isn’t how I remember it anymore, but I’ll show you as it is now. It’s a bit overgrown, a bit dilapidated– but so full.
My grandparents bought this house in the 70s. First, they’d moved from Hawai’i to the mainland for my grandmother to attend college. They moved to Los Angeles to work and make money, and initially lived just a couple blocks away from where I live now, on Berendo St. The plan was to go back to Hawai’i, but slowly, they planted roots and began to grow here. Then, after living in a few different houses, they bought this house in Hacienda Heights. And this is all I ever knew of them– this house, this yard.
On the upper half of the yard, there was a rotting porch where the wood would give a bit, like the flesh between your index finger and thumb when you press lightly. There were young plumerias planted in pots– my grandfather would give them to family members once they were matured. There’s a greenhouse my father built for my grandfather, which he hardly used. He planted a mango tree in it and then, when he could no longer walk, it overgrew and now spills out the door like a raincloud leaving a jar. The persimmon tree, planted among crawling desert flowers, would lean over the walkway, casting its speckled shadow. And then there’s the pool, which as a child I refused to leave. There’s an illegal diving board and a slide, which we used to carry the hose up to make it possible to slide down since the slick coating was worn out from sun. On the steps up toward the slide, you can still find generations of spiders living there, in the shade cast by the lip of concrete.
When I was growing up, it was full of orchids. My grandfather had propped up sunlight filters on the lower half of the yard and built shelves for them by stapling mesh to wood and propping them up on cinder blocks. I have memories of the families of spiders living in the cinder blocks, light catching their webs at just the right angle. There were compost bins along the side, where I’d reach in to look at red worms. I imagine Eden this way, rows and rows of orchids, moss hanging, an elephant fern as tall as a man hanging on the back of the garage, fruit trees leaning– and my grandfather, walking among the rows, hands folded behind his back. Now, there’s nothing. He is gone and so are the orchids, the moss, the elephant fern. Just light and shadows, and some Buddha’s belly bamboo growing along the fence.
If ever I feel impossible to find, I come here. I sit with the pair of mourning doves that I swear are my grandparents, smoke through half a pack of cigarettes and talk of growing old. The persimmon tree and the pomegranate tree lean toward me like they’re listening, and all over again– I’m found.
You've lived in the Pacific Northwest--tell us about any connection or disconnection you feel/felt there.
I’d say my time in the Pacific Northwest was some of the best times of my life, and the most challenging. I remember moving there and feeling a lot of fear– a city girl in a sea of trees. It felt like a horror movie each night– there are no darker shadows than those cast by forests. But in the morning, I’d drive to class and the light would pass through the trees over my windshield and I knew I’d never know anything as beautiful as this. There is a reason everyone from the Pacific Northwest loves it so much. I used to joke that everyone from Washington posts a picture of the sunset or trees every day, while Californian’s post a picture of traffic every day. The natural beauty of the world sits in your vision clear as rain. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. I felt, for the first time, I was part of the world.
Still, even if the nature was beautiful, I can’t ignore my experiences as a person of color in a white town. It was, ultimately, what drove me away from Washington. I can say clearly and honestly that I would have stayed there if it was more diverse. But when no one looks like you, and everyone is staring and making comments everywhere you go, it’s hard not to feel suffocated. I experienced so much racism, even by people I considered to be close friends to me. Subjects included affirmative action being unfair, whether or not I was Vietnamese/Chinese, how good my English was, my “bizarre accent,” how my being mixed race was an abomination in the eyes of God– you name it, someone said it. When COVID came, it worsened and worsened. I hope the people there are proud of themselves– my stubborn soul wavered and eventually gave out. I could no longer bear the weight of their ignorance. Despite the beauty of the world I discovered in Washington, I could never call it home. Certainly, it never welcomed me and asked me to leave my shoes at the door– never made me coffee and told me stories of growing roots. But I can go visit my parents there, can walk a boardwalk and hike a mountain, and play pretend for a week or two. Once I’ve worn out my welcome, which happens pretty quickly, I retreat to my pocket of the world where they sell pupusas on the corner and everyone is your friend the second time you meet them.
Today you're any animal you wish: who are you?
I’m a mantis shrimp, seeing 12 primary colors. Hopefully, once I return to my human form, I can remember what the world looked like.
What's a type of art-making that you haven't yet done that you'd like to do?
I would love to do glassblowing. I’ve been talking about it for years, but it’s so difficult to just pick up since you need to take classes at a facility. One day, I’ll do it. But for now, I’ll just admire glass sculptures wherever I see them.
You're alone in the middle of the ocean. What are your thoughts?
I wish everyday could be like this.
