Reflections of America

Serial Essays that Saved a Woman's Life

Sherry Quan Lee

• Publisher: Modern History Press
• Year: 2008
• ISBN:
  9781615999859
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Poésie

How to Write a Suicide Note examines the life of a Chinese/Black woman who grew up passing for white, who grew up poor, who loves women but has always married white men. Writing has saved her life. It has allowed her to name the historical trauma--the racist, sexist, classist experiences that have kept her from being fully alive, that have screamed at her loudly and consistently that she was no good, and would never be any good-and that no one could love her. Writing has given her the creative power to name the experiences that dictated who she was, even before she was born, and write notes to them, suicide notes.
Sherry Quan Lee believes writing saves lives; writing has saved her life. Acclaim for How to Write a Suicide Note "How to Write a Suicide Note is a haunting portrait of the daughter of an African mother and a Chinese father. Sherry dares to be who she isn't supposed to be, feel what she isn't supposed to feel, and destroys racial and gender myths as she integrates her bi-racial identity into all that she is. Through her raw honesty and vulnerability, Sherry captures a range of emotions most people are afraid to confront, or even share. Her work is a gift to the mental health community."
--Beth Kyong Lo, M.A., Clinical Psychologist "Sherry Quan Lee offers us, in How to Write a Suicide Note, a deep breathing meditation on how love is under continuous revision. And like all the best Blues singers, Quan Lee voices the lowdown, dirty paces that living puts us through, but without regret or surrender."
Wesley Brown, author of Darktown Strutters and Tragic Magic "I love the female aspects, the sex, and the strong voice Sherry Quan Lee uses to share her private life in How To Write A Suicide Note. I love the wit, the tongue-in-cheek, the trippiness of it all. I love the metaphors, especially the lover and suicide ones. I love the free-associations, the 'raving, ravenous, relentless' back and forth. Quan Lee breaks the rules and finds her genius. How to Write a Suicide Note is a passionate, risk-taking, outrageous, life-affirming book and love letter."
Sharon Doubiago, author of Body and Soul, Hard Country; and other works Modern History Press is an imprint of Loving Healing Press

Scatter the Trash

Suicide Note Number Two

Dear Father-in-Law,

This is my last will and testimony. I am killing the white girl.
I leave to you the Polynesian girl, the one your son claims
that I am. (I am not from Polynesia. My father is from China.
My mother is Negro. Would you like to see my birth certificate?)

I assume, considering your son's fear, the color black
is distasteful to you. I myself wear it well, but not often.
It makes other people uncomfortable, including my Black mother.

Truth is a legacy I will leave to my children, your grandchildren.
They will not live with the lie I've lived with all of my life.
What they do with the truth is up to them. I will honor
who they are.

(Choice is only an option if you know what your options are.)

It will be difficult for my sons, your grandsons, but not as difficult
as it has been for me living with secrets. They will have a mother
who knows and acknowledges they are beautiful, and smart.
A mother who knows they are afraid. A mother who is afraid
for them.

Your son pleads, “my parents like you, why tell them you are Black and have them not like you?”

My response, “because I don't like my masqueraded self.
I don't like my silence. I don't like lying under white sheets.
I don't like any man loving me for who I am not,
for who they want me to be. I do not like being afraid.
I do not like powdering my face, straightening my hair.
How many times will I be asked by people who see me
with my brown babies, is your husband Black?”

No, but I will wish he was.

I have no visibility and that makes me sad.
Black people recognize me, though, and Asians.
You, like many white men, say “but you're different.”

“Yes, I am.”

My dreams were the same dreams as other high school girls.
Love, marriage, children, a house in the suburbs, a two car garage.

Your wealth helped me achieve my dreams. But I am not happy.
My dreams are nightmares.

Your son went to college, he doesn't have the student loans I will
someday acquire. (All students of color don't receive scholarships.)
What did he learn? How many empty bottles of booze it takes
to fill the basement of a rented house? His wealth dangling
from a family tree.

With your money we purchased a rambler with a white picket fence.
I appreciate your generosity. But, I'm tired of fences.
Will your generosity continue when I kill the white girl?

I have no regrets, death is life.

Nevertheless, your grandchildren will love and respect you.
They will embrace their Bohemian/German grandparents
as well as their Black/Chinese grandparents, although intimacy
will never be possible.

They will worry about their lonely mother, accepting her and not
as she searches for love

but they will not ache for her the way she aches

and, they will not understand why they themselves sometimes ache

my sons will not die young or by their own will;
I will die for them and hope it makes a difference

martyrs are heroes only after they die.

Hereby, I leave my words in what is now a public void,
cram white space with black ink, purge invisibility and silence
with incantations.

There will be more in-laws, more beginnings and endings—
great-grandsons who may or may not wish to know who they are.

With no regrets,

It's about money

when you have the time you don't have the money
when you have the money you don't have the time.

Most of the time I don't have the money

but, I've had access to money
the last husband, the first girlfriend

I am not lazy.

Gypsy woman: I ran, I searched, I believed
happiness was a door I could open,
that love was someplace I hadn't yet been

there were roadblocks

there were marriages and children and education,
there was dancing and drinking and shopping and sex

don't settle for less, don't settle. I never did. Perhaps
I should have.

You can't manage money you don't have

I was taught this in college

I didn't think it was about being poor, I thought
it was about being stupid.

The divorce settlement was fair: a condo, a used car,
and a retirement portfolio.

Within three years it was gone,
money spent like the girlfriend I was trying to impress

washers and dryers
stoves and refrigerators
another bed

paint and sheetrock

a new bathroom
a new roof

wastebaskets

towels and sheets

desks

patios and decks

Japanese Maple trees

tennis shoes and sweat pants

airline tickets

casinos

restaurants
entertainment/entertaining
margaritas and red wine

gifts

dry cleaning

dog food
dog grooming

locks and keys

it wasn't her fault. She didn't know I was spending
my future. She wanted to give me everything—she did,
but it wasn't enough. I wanted to give her everything too.

Filing bankruptcy didn't make me a free woman
some things still had to be paid: student loans

and taxes and guilt and remorse. I work three jobs but,
I'm always broke and broken. I've got a low credit line
credit card that is always maxed, and a loan for an antique bed
which was a spur of the moment need to honor sleeping
alone again

sure, I'd like to spend to improve the economy, but spending
takes money. Can the President live on $30,000 a year
and still shop, still golf? How soon would his credit
and personality run out?

I am most distressed, most depressed, most suicidal
when I don't have money

(or a lover).

A girlfriend asked, “How much?”
How much insurance would it take to keep you?
Apparently not enough

insurance might have been a Freudian slip.
I'm sure it was assurance that I desired.

So You Want Me to Write About

My Chinese Father

Asians are in, you say, write about your father

Did I tell you he was short?

I am angry. This is a good time to write.

Kung Fu, lucky bamboo, Chinese calligraphy

Asians sell books, you say, write about your father

prosperity, good fortune, happiness and health

When you are angry, keep writing.

East meets West

My father left China when his father died,
left his mother, brother and sister never
to see them again

I am not angry with my father

an immigrant, father was nine, a kid fending for himself
selling vegetables off the back of a flat bed truck

Your father is exotic you say, write about your father

mandarin collars and take out food box purses
made in China, mail order brides, girl babies

My father left me when I was five...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Acclaim for How to Write a Suicide Note
• Reflections of America Series
• Dedication
• Suicide otlines
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• The Dying is Almost Over
• Scatter the Trash
• Mad at Love
• A Strong Embrace
• I Want to Live
• Notes
• About the Author
• About the Artist