What We All Long For by Dionne Brand (phonics story books txt) 📕

was the ridiculous face of the man beside him, the feeling that she had just spied something intimate or secret. The revellers in the street kept moving along in throngs—she had almost forgotten them. A pool of light set itself on that little familiar-unfamiliar knot of her brother and a stranger, a friend, an associate, a partner. The rain continued falling; all of Korea Town was awash in joy.

Tuyen climbed off the car and struggled along the sidewalk, heading home. She wanted to go home quickly to develop the photographs. She wanted to look again at her brother and the man. There was something there that she had to suss out, some intimate fact that she seemed to know but could not put her finger on. She cradled the camera from the rain.

She gradually became aware of someone calling her.

“Tuyen!”

She heard her name above the traffic and car horns. An electric current ran down her neck. God, no, not her brother. She was so sure he hadn’t seen her. “Tuyen, hold up!” The voice was loud and excited. She walked faster, trying to think of where to hide the camera.

“Tuyen!” The voice was closer and breathless. She swung around defensively.

“Tuyen, isn’t this great? Shit, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s fantastic.” It was Oku, his face streaming wet.

Tuyen was so relieved she grabbed him hard, hugging him. Why, a minute ago she’d been so frightened. And frightened of what? Her brother? That was nonsense, she told herself now, but she looked furtively over Oku’s shoulder to the intersection.

“Where the hell are you going?” She tried sounding nonchalant but heard her voice choked on the rain.

“I’m meeting Carla for coffee. Come with me. We were gonna watch the party and then go to the bar—she’s on the corner. Come on. This is so fucking beautiful out here!”

Tuyen was caught up again in the enthusiasm of the day. She hadn’t thought to check for Carla when she rushed out of her apartment—she’d assumed Carla was at work. She suddenly realized that she had been holding on so tightly to the camera that her fingers hurt. What had she been afraid of? She slipped the camera into the bag on her shoulder. Why hadn’t she done that before? Instead, she had carried it like some, some … yes, it came to her—Remedios Varo’s painting Solar Music, in which a figure is pulling a bow across rays of light; in the air small glass prisms break open, revealing scarlet birds. She had been carrying the camera like a delicate glass prism in which she had captured a stunning red bird.

“Come on, come on, come on. Let’s go.”

“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.” She plunged after Oku back into the throng at Bathurst and Bloor. They found the usually subdued Carla waving a Korean flag and singing, “Oh, Pil-seung Korea.”

When they made their way to Cyber’s, a bar on Bloor Street, a half an hour later, Tuyen had put the disturbing thoughts of her brother aside.

“God, I love this place. The joint is fucked up today.”

“Yes, and I’m wet like a mother.”

“Here, use my scarf.” Tuyen pulled a bandanna from her bag and wrapped it around Carla. The camera tumbled around inside. They ordered a jug of draft, three shots of tequila, and French fries, each hopeful that one of them had money to pay. Carla usually paid. She was the one with the steadiest job.

“Word,” Oku started. It was a game they played whenever they went to a bar. Someone would say “word,” and each of them would have to riff on some subject.

“Let me get my drink down first.” Carla threw back the shot and chased it with the draft.

“Stall. You go, Tuyen.”

“No, you go, I’m cold still.”

“Lame. I’ll start.” They both did this to Oku each time. He loved this. He was bursting with it today. “Okay, this city better be ready, this shit is coming down, check it. Days like this are a warning. A promise. I heard one Korean guy say just now this was the happiest day he’d ever had in this city. Now why is that? See this place, some world shit is coming down and some of us are ready and some not. Now why would he say that today? See, some might see that as pitiful. And it is. But, man, I think it’s visionary. That guy just saw possibility. This shit is going to get more fucked up after this June. I like it when shit is all messed up like this. So here it is—millennium, man, the millennium is come and gone. And if not, if not for this sweet gasoline of time and our great beauty, they’d be drowning in this quick rain; if not. If not for my hand in Jackie’s, my throat singing this hymn to the boy visionary in the street in the red rain, this city would burn us all.”

“Word! Word!” Tuyen and Carla acknowledged him, laughing.

“Your turn,” Carla said pointing at Tuyen.

“Okay, okay. I’m not good as him, but here goes. Madonna, Madonna, repeating, repeating that brutalized beaten-up Marilyn Monroe. White folks’ culture is just repetition of some old hackneyed images. Jesus, I’m sick of Madonna. I can’t understand how she can stand walking around in that body. It’s the dried-out pupa sack of Marilyn Monroe. Every generation of Americans gets to fuck over Marilyn Monroe all over again. They get to batter her, jerk off over her, and kill her. The main scary thing about that image is it all depends on bleach, the hair is bleached, the skin is bleached, the body is bleached. They get to corrode her in public. The eyes do damage to her body. I’m tired of them killing Marilyn Monroe over and over again and saying it’s sexy.”

“Word! Word!” Carla and Oku said together.

“And Eminem is only Elvis Presley, another repetition. Like I have to say more?” Tuyen warmed.

“Hey, no, Tuyen, Eminem’s my boy, he’s for real.”

“Sure, kill women, kill