We Can Do Hard Things with Glennon Doyle - Mothers & Sons with Ocean Vuong (and Chase Melton) (Best Of)

Episode Date: May 11, 2025

Glennon’s son, Chase, joins Glennon for a special conversation with his hero, author Ocean Vuong, to discuss: 1. Chase shares with Ocean the impact his work has had in his life–and Glennon thanks Ocean for helping mother her son. 2. What Ocean learned from his mother about how to navigate being an Asian boy in America–and Glennon’s recognition that she did not prepare Chase for the same realities. 3. Ocean’s new book, Time is a Mother, and why watching his own mother die gave Ocean a deep empathy and connection to every person. 4. His relationship to maleness–and why Ocean is interested in “staying and complicating” masculinity. About Ocean: Ocean Vuong, author of the critically acclaimed poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds, and the New York Times bestselling novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous is a recipient of the 2019 MacArthur "Genius Grant" and the winner of the Whiting Award and the T. S. Eliot Prize. In Time Is a Mother, Ocean's newest poetry collection available now, he reckons with his mother’s death, embodying the paradox of sitting within grief while being determined to survive beyond it. His writings have been featured in The Atlantic, Harper's Magazine, The Nation, The New Republic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. Born in Saigon, Vietnam, he currently lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. IG: ⁠ocean_vuong To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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sponsored by Bell Conditions Supply, seniorcanada.com. ["We Can Do Hard Things"] Hello, everyone. Welcome to We Can Do Hard Things. I just told my son, Chase, who's here, that I feel more nervous than I feel when I speak on a stage in front of 5,000 people because of the person we're speaking to today. So today we are speaking with Ocean Vuong. And my son Chase is here. Hello. Hello. Also, Ocean, even though we're nearing our 90th recording of We Can Do Hard Things, you

are the first man we've interviewed outside of Chase's dad. At the beginning of the year when we were dreaming up this pod, our producer, Allison, said to all of us, my dream is for the first man we host to be Ocean Vuong. And when I found out that you were going to come, the first person I told was my son Chase, because he is the one who introduced me to your work years ago. And Chase is a very private person, so he would never have agreed to do this podcast for any other human being on earth. So thank you for doing this because this is a really special day for me to have Chase here too. Thank you. And thank you, Chase, for reading my work and

tending to this conversation. I'm all about mothers and sons. So this is really, really close to my heart. And thank you for being here and for sharing this space. Thank you so much. Oh my gosh. Thank you for starting the conversation, of course. So Ocean Wong is the author of the critically acclaimed poetry collection, Night Sky with Exit Wounds and the the New York Times best-selling novel, On Earth Were Briefly Gorgeous. A recipient of the 2019 MacArthur Genius

Grant, he is also the winner of the Whiting Award and the T.S. Eliot Prize. His writings have been featured in The Atlantic, Harper's Magazine, The Nation, The New Republic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. Born in Saigon, Vietnam, he currently lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. So Ocean, I mentioned that you're the first man on We Can Do Hard Things. And I just wanted to start by asking you, what does it mean to you to be a man? Oh, it's such a deep question. And I think it's one that I think I'm invested in, which is why I go by he-him pronouns even when I don't always feel at home in it or amongst its ranks. In one of my poems, I say, I mean it when I say I'm mostly male. And I think that's kind of my

relationship with maleness and masculinity. I'm interested in complicating it. I don't think the work is finished in maleness. Just because it's been poorly demonstrated does not mean that it's finished, that it's exhausted. It might just be beginning. Because it's also a destination for so many. Masculinity as an expression is a destination for so many trans folks. I don't want to leave it behind because I'm also concerned that those who are in charge of it or have been in power of it would sort of ruin it further. And so, I'm interested in saying what else could we salvage and rebuild here? And of course, we can just say, well, forget it and just away with it, you know, and that's valid too. But I'm interested in the restraint of saying, how do we use this better, if at all? You know, we can't, for example, leave the earth behind.

We have to find a way to make it better, to find new ways for it to nourish us. So I'm interested in complicating masculinity. And I'm seeing that already happening. The trend now I've noticed is for boys to wear pearls, right? Very straight identifying, cis-head boys to wear pearls. And I said, oh my, you know, that would be a death note when I was growing up for a boy to wear pearls and to do it so proudly. And so we realized that these complex expressions of gender were already complicated by our ancestors. We go back a millennia, everyone wore jewelry and makeup, right? And yet, you know, so maleness was identified in other ways. So I'm interested in kind of salvaging that and seeing how we can kind of have fun and complicating it. It charges us with this task of innovation. So as an artist, I feel obligated to say,

just as I don't want to throw language away, I don't want to throw all the generous expressions away because there's still something of value of use. I see myself as a junkyard artist. I'm taking an imperial language and looking for value in how I can recast it in the present. And it's no different than my work as a poet. I feel that way about Christianity. Yes, I do. I feel like I don't want to abandon it just because I haven't aligned with its PR agents. Right, right. And we realized that the PR agents changes depending on what's trendy or who's in power, what regime is holding the purse straps, right? This happens with language too. And we ban books, we cancel various languages. Like what's happening now with the crisis and the terrible conflict

in Ukraine, I think I worry that in our powerlessness, our helplessness, which is so common amongst us all, so easy to empathize with, I'm hearing we should cancel Russian literature. And I think it's important that a lot of these Russian writers were killed in the gulags by their own regimes. And it's important to think that regimes do not possess language, they do not possess culture, they seek to control it, but they do not own it. The language predates the regime and it will survive after the regime. And so conflating that gets us into murky waters. And I think the same with faith and religion. That's why I think one of my heroes is Thomas Merton. He complicated it so much. He had such a wide quest for this mystical knowledge, even as a Trappist monk, which truly really

inspired me. I think he's one of my most inspirational writers and thinkers because he says, where you are or who you are, ontologically as a label, is only where you start. You cannot end where you begin. The label is not a finite container. It's a project. It's a field of knowledge. Right? When I say I'm Asian American, I'm talking about a journey. I'm not talking about a checkbox. Right? People try to put me into a checkbox, but I'm saying, I don't know what this is yet. That's right. How could you know? How could any of us know? That's right. Dr. Maya Angelo used to say, when someone said to her, I'm a Christian, she would say, really?

Already? Yeah, that's beautiful. So does gender feel to you because I understand why language and the earth need to be saved or kept or re-understood by each person who experiences them. What is it about gender to you that feels important enough to save? And also is gender something that you feel, your maleness, is that something that you feel inside of you? Like you feel like it was born in you

or does it feel like something you learned from culture? I never felt like a male. I think it was what I was put in, and it's where I learned to embody myself and where I want to kind of open and widen. I wanted to be more capacious. And I think that's kind of my mode as an artist. At the same time, I think if we don't find it useful for any one of us,

we can let it go. And I think this is what's hard for me to wrap around with so much, particularly this thinking around control. It's like, just because it doesn't work for one of us doesn't mean that that should be the rule for everyone. And I think this is where so many folks on the right seek to control these conversations. If gender has to be black and white, left and right, male and female, to me, and it has to be that way for everyone else. And I think part of my upbringing being raised by women was that I didn't know men. I wasn't interested in it. And guess what?

It didn't feel like a broken family. Just because a father wasn't there doesn't mean that my family was fractured. I was raised by a grandmother, a mother, and two aunts. And to me, if there's enough love, difficult love. But when there's enough love, that's a complete family. That's right. And so I think for me, the gender expression that I saw was what was comfortable to these women, which could be different from other women. It's culturally inflected. And I think my decision to kind of stay and complicate is kind of how I approach my art

and my living as well. I don't want to flee the country because when Trump was in power, everyone wanted to leave to Canada. Some of us did. And I said, I'm an American writer. I owe it to myself, my family, my community to stay here and fight and look and see thoroughly. That's the job of the artist is to see thoroughly, keep everything accountable. Stay and complicate.

Oh, I love that. Ocean, you wrote, to be an American boy and then an American boy with a gun is to move from one end of a cage to another. Can you tell us what you meant by that American boyhood? Growing up in New England, I think I got a close look at boyhoods of all kinds, but even white hyper-masculine boyhoods. And I saw that what was presumed to be an identity of utmost power, we often talk about privilege, which is true. On the other hand, I saw that it was actually destroying whiteness as well. Like white privilege wilts the wielder. And we often lose sight of that in these conversations.

And I think it's important for white folks to see that, this thing that was constructed and hoisted on me, the benefits of which I enjoy, is also crippling me in the soul. It's hurting the soul. And I think I realized I saw these boys in ways that their mothers and fathers don't even see them. And I saw suffering, you know? And that's what they grab these guns and these weapons and these mediums of masculinity, which is often mediums of death, right? Even the way sports

is performed, it's around the strategies of war. That's not to say sports are bad, it's that our investment in them as tied to the self-worth of maleness and masculinity is so limiting and it's so painful when you see a boy fail to achieve that narrow, narrow slot. It is like moving from one side of a cage to another. There's this idea of freedom, but in fact, you're still trapped. You don't really have true freedom because your expressions of masculinity are still in the confines given to you by John Wayne. That's right. Right? And I think we've gone so far, quote unquote, technologically, in weapons, even in medicine,

but when it comes to our spirit, we're still such a primitive culture. And in that way, it's important to me to remind America that we are so young. How can we be finished with anything? Masculinity, femininity, anything. How can we say that we can confidently exhaust those conversations when we've just started? American is one of those words. It's a label, but it's a label we're working towards, an ongoing forever project that we can stay and complicate. That's beautiful. Why do fintechs like Float choose Visa? As a more trusted, more secure payments network,

Visa provides scale, expertise, and innovative payment solutions. Learn more at visa.ca slash fintech. Ocean, one of the reasons I just have been so looking forward to this hour is because your work is so beautifully wrapped around motherhood and sonhood. So much of your art is an exploration of your mother.

She passed away. Can you tell us about your mother? Yeah, it's a challenge as an artist because for me, it's important for me to tell of my experience of my mother, but not tell her story. I don't have the right to tell her story, which is why fiction and poetry is where I align. And in those mediums, I've created sort of a simulation that looks like my life, but it's enacted in different ways. And so in a way, it's a conduit, it's a hologram

of my life and my mother's life, but it's not ours. So what folks read is a simulation. It's a parallel universe, if you will. You believe in the multiverse theory. I think the multiverse exists here and it exists in art. With my mother, it's an ethical line. It's like, I don't have the right to tell this woman's story. I can't possess her with language. That's her life. But I wanted to create that interface because it's such a unique one, the idea of the single mother refugee immigrant who is absolutely traumatized by this American war brought forth by American foreign policy. And so I always say that my Americanness, my citizenship began way before I ever arrived in this country. My Americanness began when American bombs started to fall in Southern Vietnam.

And that widens the scope of what America is and who gets to be American. It's not just the American dream of prosperity, it's also imperialism. And again, thoroughness. And I think I wanted to be thorough with my mother to honor her, to express this complicated relationship, but also respect and dignify her. And I think to me, I'm very nervous of the term universal because I feel like there are things that a black man or person experiences that I can never experience. So I'm nervous, I'm skeptical of this universal conduit that often gets thrown around, particularly around literature, that it's only useful if it's universal. I think it's actually useful when it's not universal, so we can see how lives

live that we've never can be empathetic with, that we've never felt and never will be. That's actually a really great thing. But the one thing that I feel is most universal is losing your mother, watching your mother take her last breath. I think every son will go through that or experience that loss if they're not there, or even experience the loss of someone who has mothered them, right, which is very specific and gendered as well. And so for me, I think death was such an incredible thing to witness because it was the closest thing I saw to truth. It's not even honest because honesty is a vehicle for truth, but death is truth without a medium. It's truth as is. You don't get a say. You don't get to say when or how you get to experience it,

whether you're ready or not. And I think it changed my life watching my mother die, because now I realize everyone I see, you too included, it's like, you know, one day you're going to watch your mother die, you know? And I suddenly feel so much closer to you for that, Chase. I feel so much closer to a stranger. And on the other hand of that, there are strangers whose mothers already passed and all of a sudden I feel closer to them as well. And I think for all this hopefulness in art of bridging gaps, I think just the reckoning with death is one of the most universal bridges that I've experienced so far. Wow.

Oh yeah. Speaking of your mother, so she came to your first reading and I think one of the stories you've told was how afterwards she came, you came up to her and she was crying and she said she was just so happy to see all these old white people clapping for you, just standing up and listening to you. Could you tell us about that night and maybe just what it was like to experience this mother-son relationship particularly so tied with your work as well. It was a special night. It happened in Hartford at the Harriet Beecher Stowe house.

You know, so it was so confounded in this American moment. And I didn't understand it at first. I just thought, I thought, mom, there's more to success than just having white people celebrate you. You know, and I'm coming from my millennial gaze. I didn't see at first why it was so important to her because I realized that these were her clients, right? They look like her clients, older white folks. And her clients, when she does nails, something I think is actually in art, in itself, much more complicated than what I do.

Never once have she been applauded for doing that art for 30 years. And so when her son stands up and does that, she finally gets this applaud. And they were applauding her for giving birth to this poet. So she got to bask in it. But it was also equally bitter for me and bittersweet and sad because it reminded me that to get that recognition as an Asian American, you have to be exceptional. You can't just get that as a default, right? You have to kind of earn your way towards value and worth. And this is what makes me really sad about what's happening with Asian women being attacked. And the centuries of objectifying our women and turning them into sex objects have dehumanized them to the point where it's almost like an extermination, like you can just do this without any sense

that there is a human being here. And I think that mode of having to work to get to the starting line of human worth, particularly amongst Asian Americans, is something so perennial in our culture that you realize we're all behind the starting line. We start in the negative. And then when you're a poet, when you have recognition from institutions, now you're at plus one or five or what have you, and then they applaud. And I think this is what really affects me with the spa murders that happened two years ago. Suddenly my book sales went up.

What does it feel like to be relevant only when Asian women die? And then all of a sudden there's these media outlets creating these book lists. Read these books, and often my books are included, to understand Asian representation. And I think it's really fascinating the role of empathy plays here. It's like, why do you have to read our stories in order to value us enough to not kill us? Why can't that value be from the default? It says a lot about the project whiteness has with empathy, that it's so far that it has to be worked towards rather than just simply deserved, right? Why can't we just deserve the protection of self-worth and value? Why do you have to read eight Asian books in order to say, now I realize how valuable they are to us, right? So again, it's still bittersweet. So I think that moment years ago was beginning of

my career. I start seeing that moment again and again in different forms. It suddenly became an allegory for how so many Asian American artists live. It's always bittersweet. You're celebrated when people die. You're celebrated only in these lists where it's just curated towards a specific goal. And then it's over, right? Until another killing spree happens. And I think that is a sad moment for any writer. And I think it's difficult, especially for the children of Asian parents or young folks like you, Chae Soo or Asian yourself, you realize, my goodness, is my only way to traffic in the world, is my only way of being recognized is when I'm

in pain. What does that feel like? To be valuable or deserving of empathy and love only when you're brutalized. That's kind of like the Asian American plight. If we're visible at all, we're visible as a corpse. You say, Ocean, that your mother's advice about how to survive as an Asian boy in America was to disappear, to be invisible, to not stand out because you already had one strike against you being Vietnamese. It seems she was trying to protect you from racism by warning you ahead of time and trying to tell you to stay small so you'd be a smaller target. I think about that all the time, every day now, because like your mom, I raised an Asian boy, a Japanese boy in America. And recently, only recently, he bravely shared with me a truth of his childhood,

which is that I did not warn him nor protect him at all. I looked at him every day of my life and his life, and I just assumed somehow subconsciously that my whiteness was his whiteness and would protect him without him having to learn to protect himself. But it didn't. He dealt with racism in every school and every town we've ever lived in, but he just dealt with it alone because he didn't have a guide like your mother who understood it. You say in every mixed race family things are complicated.

Right? Yeah. Yeah. Well, Chase, how did you feel about that? How did you navigate that? I'm interested in your perspective here. It's very interesting. I'm only a quarter Japanese. So sometimes I do some self-gaslighting and I'm wondering how much I've actually experienced. And so there's that, which is of course also very complicated, but I don't know. It's really interesting. I think there was a lot of forgetting in our family with just assimilation, which I feel like is something that is essentially not pursuable in the end. I just remember very subtle playground stuff

that would be repressed and then would come up in certain memories. And then I would remember, oh, that was racist or that was a violent act. Actually, only really recently have I I think given myself the space to understand that fully. Definitely from reading your work, but also just with the recent resurgence in the violence against Asian people and especially Asian women. It's very interesting to deal with that like latency period between something that happened to you, which of course still continues, but then realizing that that has stuck with you for such a long time without you really dealing with it or even giving yourself the grace to process it. Right. That's really courageous to kind of unpack a lot of that. And I think you're right. The body,

you know, it holds so much, it knows so much more. The subliminal mind knows so much more than we do. And I think it comes down to how Asian symbols on the body are represented and has to do with passing. And if I saw you on the street, I would see an Asian person. And I think that's so much of that is out of our control. It's so out of our realm of understanding, which is why the protection, that mantra is so important because my mother was anticipating how the world would see me. And she taught me vigilance.

She says that you can tell if someone respects you just by the way they look at you when you enter a store. And I would go into a store, and I was an innocent kid, but my mother says, the clerk is not liking us here. This is not. Let's hurry up and get out. They're unfriendly. And this hypervigilance became actually a praxis, a way to be an artist.

Again, I'm turning these limitations into assets, but how sad and exhausting to live your life and constantly have to see if you're wanted in any certain space, space that you have the right to be in. And I think this is the most prominent issue when we talk about white privilege, right? Because people get really nervous around that. They say, well, there's poor whites too. And it's not about economics only. It's about access to space. It's about the advantage of being anywhere in this country and being legible as a human being, which was certainly not possible for Ahmaud Arbery, who couldn't run in a certain space. He was not legible as a jogger and lost his life for it. I saw this happen again and again in stores where my mother would go into in the mall, she would pick something up, and a clerk would say, oh, that's too expensive for you.

And you don't think much of it, like, you know, as a kid, but then looking back, I said, what did that? And my mother would just say, oh, I'm so sorry, just an issue. We would be completely out of there. What does that mean when it happens again and again, right, that you realize that your face predetermines where you can go, right? Even now, when I was doing research on my novel, researching Melville. I went to the Pittsfield library in Pittsfield, Massachusetts where Melville's artifacts are stored. There's a little private room where you can request to view his cigar boxes and his boots and his desk.

I was interested in that. I was a professor at the time, still am at UMass, and I went and I asked the clerk, a white woman, and I was with my partner who's a white man. He drives, I can't drive, so I needed him to get there. We walked up to the desk together and I said, ma'am, can I get the keys and look at Melville's artifacts? She looked at us, then she looked at my partner

and she says, you know, you can't tutor him in there. Oh my God. And so it's this, yes, I'm a quote unquote famous author, but under what stage, in what context. Because if I'm out in the world, I'm just a chink. And that's the majority of my life. In very carefully selected, there has to be an event, a brochure, an email blast, a bio, an introducer, And then I'm okay. I'm guarded by my prestige because America, seeing an ocean bomb, it turns out, doesn't solve our anti-Asian racism. It only says, well, he's the exceptional exception. But when I leave this event, I'm going to see everyone else the same way.

Right. And so I'm going to go back to the default. And when I walked up to that counter without an introduction, without a bio, I'm the default, right. And, and it just knocks you down. And that's nothing compared to what, you know, so many of us experience. And it also helped me cause it didn't ruin my day. You know, we always talk about microaggressions, but we also have to say that there's so much

strength in what my mother taught me. I was like, okay, of course you would say that. And I just, I became, I was invincible. You know, I was like, all right, well, just hurry up and let me get in so I can do my work. You know, and I didn't, I wasn't traumatized. I think it's important for me too, being raised by women who survived war, to remind myself that not all suffering equals trauma.

Right? There's no way, right? Some of us experience difficulties and at certain points, however, not all of it is an immediate transference to trauma. How we decide to live, we still have so much control over. We could be victims of racism, victims of war, victims of domestic violence as my mother was. But whether we lived in victimhood or not, it's up to us. And I never saw my mother live as a victim.

It's the most powerful thing to this day. It's such a, I guess, so emotional thinking about it because I think, how could she not? She experienced so many things that are worse than what I experienced, but I never, ever saw her consider herself a victim. She treated everybody one at a time, and every day it was like a new start for her. Every day was like a blank page. And I think I embody that when I write. A lot of people ask me, Ocean, how are you so vulnerable in your work? It must be so hard. And I almost feel guilty. I said, it's not hard. I've watched these women embody that every single day. And I'm sitting at a desk relatively safe in a quiet room with a sheet of paper. This is my job.

I chose to quest into the deep mysteries and the deep brightness and the darkness of being a human being. This is what I signed up for. I'm going to dig. I'm going to be vulnerable. I have to, but it's nothing compared to what they experience. You decided not to disappear. It's amazing that all of this protection warning about disappearing and then you become an

artist, which is sort of all about appearing. You said it is so easy for a small yellow child to vanish. The real work is to be known, and one of the best ways to be known is to be an artist. Can you talk to us about art as a way to exist and to insist on appearing? I became an artist out of limitations. I started at business school and I dropped out. So I was a failure, which is how many artists begin. Often how we live every day.

We live in failure. We're used to it. I mean, it's all about rejection. You know, you have to master no to get to your yes, that's the way every artist lives. And so, you know, I couldn't do much else. I didn't really have the attention span to work a mini-old job. I did all that. I worked in fast food.

I worked in cafes. I worked in tobacco farms. And so being an artist was the only place where I really thrived and not everybody can get a life doing it, you know? But I gave it my all. I told my mother, I said, okay, I'm sorry that I dropped out of business school.

I can't do it. If I'm gonna learn to lie, I want to lie in my art. And I said, I sold her. I said, give me a chance, you know, give me a chance to two years, it's all I'll do. I'm going to treat this as a job. I'm going to go to the library and just write and read. And if I can get a lifeline within two years, I'll keep it up. And if I don't, I'll go back to school and get a degree in education and be an elementary school teacher or something or work in a nail salon. And so for me, it's so important to be an Asian American

artist because when it comes to Asian American prodigy or talent, we're often perceived as conduits. The math whiz or the musical prodigy, holding the violin to play Eurocentric masters, Bach, Beethoven. But when you decide to make your own story, when you become a painter, a screenwriter, a musician, which is happening now, Japanese breakfast, Mitsuki. And I think that a lot of folks don't have an uneasy relationship with someone like Mitsuki who is so bold and powerful and unapologetic. And immediately we would be received with pretentious, too hard, too cold. And it's like, we're supposed to be accommodating. This has to do with how Asian Americans are expected to perform in the culture. We're supposed to open the door. How many times have I eaten in a Vietnamese restaurant, went to the bathroom,

and on the way back, a white table would turn to me and say, excuse me, can you get me a glass of water? And it's like, again, what is legible in this body? So to be an Asian American artist, you're up against hundreds of years of erasure. So when you come behind the curtain and say, I'm not here to make any cuisine, I'm not here to sew anybody's pants, I'm not even here to open the door for you. I'm here because I have thoughts and I have things to say and I have things to contribute in ways that tie me to the endeavor,

the very American tradition of making. People are going to see you as inconceivable, but that's okay, it's important. It's probably the most important thing that we can do right now. And so it's a hard journey. I don't know if I recommend it, but I think to me, if art making satisfies you and gives you pleasure, you should follow it until it's unfeasible, economically economically. I'm not going to say,

be poor to be an artist. I don't want to romanticize that. I've been there. I've eaten ramen noodles out of upturned Frisbee discs. It's been bad. So I don't want to romanticize that. I say, if it gives you pleasure, do it. If it doesn't, you can do something else. But just know that there's a beautiful hill to climb when it comes to being an Asian American artist. When you get there, you'll find your people like we're finding each other now because I'm an artist. And that's an incredible thing to do when you make it. And there's more of us here now, right?

There's elders with their hands extended. And it's a deep honor to me to be a part of that, to have people look up to me. I don't see that as a burden at all. It's a great joy. Just in the lens of Asian American artists too, I just would not be able to live with myself if I didn't say like the work that you and also just the new resurgence and you mentioned Mitsuki which is so ridiculous that you mentioned Mitsuki like that's so crazy. I just love her. Yeah, Japanese Breakfast, Sasami, like all these new artists that are coming in and

being so inconceivable with their art. It's just really working and I can only really speak to my circle but all of my Asian American friends and even beyond that, we feel very seen by all these people being not universal but incredibly specific with their stories. Of course, we've all had completely converse experiences. My ancestors were Japanese. They were colonizers. There's no similarity, but there also is being in America, this homogenous treatment. And so like learning from these artists who are telling their stories, they kind of make our identities, which are messy and new, like incredibly conceivable.

So I just wanted to say like the effect that this work is having, however incredibly radical it is and incredibly new, it's like 100% working to fuel this new young people generation. We're very thankful. Thank you for saying that. You put it absolutely aptly. I think that's exactly what's happening. Ocean, the way that you do write about and around your mother is so beautiful and so

honest and there was so much love and beauty and power, and there was also some abuse. You say of the women in your family, the poison of war entered them, they passed it down to me. You also, I've heard you say in an interview, not in your writing, I don't think, but this is our species wide endeavor. How do we change what happened to us into how we live better?

So we were all raised, everyone on this couch has been raised by beautiful, imperfect mothers, and every mother is parenting imperfectly. So how do we use this to live better? How do we move beyond anger? How do we find forgiveness, resolution, peace, power? How do we work together on this species-wide endeavor? I think the seeking to understand where our loved one's pain comes from. Maybe that's the thesis of all of my work.

Where does pain come from? And I think when you ask that question, the answers that you get, and you'll probably get many answers at many stages in your quest to answer that question, you start to realize that the complexity of the various violences we experience with our mothers or otherwise come from them being hurt and come from systems that began way before they were even born, that they were up against so much. And I think it doesn't erase the harm that we've experienced, but it throws it into context and it amplifies them as people who tried their best. It's actually really beautiful in retrospect to

see that every mother had their limit, which actually renders them human. Because the problem of how we write about motherhood is that it's often abstracted into these tropes and stereotypes, right? The doting mother, the obsessed mother, the tiger mom. Like nobody talks about the trope of the tiger mom as something seated in the anxiety of failing in a country where you've seen your parents starve, when you see your village burn to death. So it's like where does these trauma responses come from? They come from the quest towards care. It's sort of misguided or in Buddhism, we call it unskillful rather than bad. We say this is unskillful care. This is an unskillful expression of love.

And I think it's hard to come to that moment to say, well, how is my abuse an unskillful expression, right? And I can't speak for others, but for me, I saw that the violence in my mother was an expression of her powerlessness. She had no agency as a person, as a woman in her relationships with men, in her relationship with the world, with society at her job.

And so, you know, it just exploded out of this frustration. And it's always around, her frustration was always a desire to make me better, to protect me. It sounds so, um, antithetical, but that's what trauma is. Trauma doesn't make sense. It should never make sense, right?

When we think about PTSD, we're talking about people who are displaced in memory. They are acting as if the danger is around the corner, even when they're in relative safety. This happens is true with survivors of domestic violence, it's true with refugees and veterans. If you think about the veterans hypervigilance and paranoia, they're thinking, she's thinking in the war zone. And if there is a war zone, it would probably serve her, right? And I think that's important too, where I think of a lot of the Holocaust scholars trying to reorient what we think about epigenetic trauma as something also akin to epigenetic

strength. It wasn't just the passing of trauma or baggage or suffering. It was the passing of strength, right? Vigilance, even paranoia, this desire to control. My mother would, before she went to the DMV, for example, she would prepare days in advance, the paper, the files, the money, cash to slip whatever guard that was giving her problems. She prepared to go to the DMV like she was preparing for war. On one hand, it's really sad to see, but I saw that, oh, this is a skill.

For so much unskilled love, there is skill here. There's innovation here. There is survival. Nobody survives by accident. Nobody survives by accident. Survival is a creative act. Yes, it is. So your newest poetry book is called Time is the Mother.

We have it right here. Can you tell us a bit about what that title means? It feels like it could contain multitudes. Thank you. Thank you for the Whitman nod. I hope everything I do contains more than one thing. I think this is where my practice is most queer, where I don't want any sentence I write to mean one thing. It should mean it should be a fork, which is antithetical to the project of the sentence. The sentence, many linguists call it a patriarchal tool because it's so finite, it's linear in form, and it arrives at a period. And I think so we're taking this very linear form and turning it into a fork in the road,

turning it into a multiplicity. And time as a mother is similar, right? And I think I like to be subversive and to seek alterity in my work, right? What else? I'm not always interested in opposition. Because opposition, you know, the theory of opposition is that we're always fighting and

opposing the dominant force, which means we can't have room for ourselves. We're always holding up the wall, the roof that's collapsing. Call it whatever you want, hegemony, imperialism, colonialism, patriarchy, but we're holding it up. And then what else can we do? How do we make anything? We're just spending all of our energy holding up the roof from collapsing on us.

For me, I'm interested in alterity. What happens if I let go of that roof, right? There's a great risk because it could fall on you. But what would I do? What can I make? And while I can't always let go of that roof in my body, in life, in real time, because the world is its own machine of destruction and power, I can let go in my work. The work is kind of this, again, this simulation,

this virtual reality based on reality. So the poem and language is so important to me because it's the time where I get to drop my hands and make something on my own account, something that white men for so long just got to do. They got to write about going on safari, write about having affairs in the suburbs. The mid-century American, the male novel was full of this. And it has such the privilege of choice and luxury. That title has to mean multiple things. And so for me, it's like, you know, time is

a mother. And underneath that is the word time is a mother. And it's, and I really love that because I love it when, when in our lexicon, we often say that, right? Oh, that storm was a mother. And in Vietnamese, a similar thing happens where we say instead of, which is motherfucker, we say often, we say, no, right? Like mother, because something is interesting because I think we realized that we don't want to say that word. We want to just signal it as a meaning, but we don't want to articulate that horrible line, right? We don't really mean it, but we're using it as a way to code and to kind of color what's happening, right? This idea of destruction and damage, which I really respect. I said, oh, it's interesting that both cultures rarely are related, but in this case, the American

lexicon and the Vietnamese lexicon kind of can't stomach saying that. So I think that's really beautiful to kind of stop short and let the silence finish something you don't want to say. So writing is as much about making as it is about leaving space for the imagination. And also, I wanted to have this large disagreement with the trope of father time. Father time waits for no one, and I never felt that time to me resembled a father. To me, it was a mother because it gives birth to all things. The present is a capacious moment, right? The present mothers us. Every moment in the present is the womb holding life. So to me, time is more mother than probably anything I've ever known. And so it took me

three books to have the courage to have a statement like that right out of the gate. I really had to kind of earn my stripes to be able to be confident enough in my work to say, this is my thesis. This is how I feel. I've heard you talk about the title on earth. We're briefly gorgeous. Can you just tell us why you chose that line as the title? Oh, there's so many reasons, but you know, I think but I think often when we think about Asian-ness, it's tied

to femininity. When we think about femininity, it's tied to beauty being merely decorous. In other words, there's purple flowery prose and then there's meat and potato pros, right? And we see how those are so gendered, right? And so the purple pro is frivolous, decorous, extra. We can do without it, but God forbid, if we didn't have meat and potatoes, laconic, steely pros, then we wouldn't have anything. And I wanted to shift that conversation and realize that there's so much gendered ways that we value things, even in literature, even in a phrase.

So for me, it's so important to have that statement that we are beautiful, even if it's brief, even being beautiful for your whole life, your whole life relative to the rest of the human history, is a blip. It's a brief thing. But it's everything. It's substantial. To center beauty.

And I think the most radical thing we can do with Asian American art, but even around conversation of gender, non-binaryness and queerness is frivolousness. What if queerness is just for nothing? What if we put down our hands holding up this wall that's crushing us and for a moment, what would we do?

Would we just clap for ourselves? Yes, we would. Yes, we would. Right? I would. And so for me, that title is just a moment of me just clapping. I just want to, I don't know how I'm going to say this because I wasn't planning to say this, but I'm thinking about the years before Chase and I had had conversations about what it was like for him to be Japanese in the world

and to be the only non-white passing person in our family and to be queer before we had talked about him being queer or me being queer and him having all of your books. queer and him having all of your books. I mean, I'm picturing him reading over and over again, On Earth Were Briefly Gorgeous and your first book of poetry, Exit Night Sky with Exit Wounds. And I'm just thinking about him reading those books and handing them to me.

And I just want to thank you because I know that you were mothering him during that time. That your work was mothering him and showing him who he was and what he could be and all of the beauty of him. And so thank you for that. Thank you. Thank you so much for saying that. And here's to more queer mothers. Yes. Of all kinds. That's right. And I do also just want to say that I will,

you mentioned in the beginning that at some point Chase will lose me. When I am dying and you are saying goodbye to me, I will be remembering this hour. Wow. This will be something that I will remember. It's big. Together in our last moments ocean. Thank you. Thank you so much. It's a deep honor and thank you for having me. Absolutely. Such an honor.

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