Originally published on Facebook on June 16, 2023.
I rarely have the time to read these days, to the point where academic reading for research has become a guilty pleasure. So now that I’ve returned home, and have a bit of a break, I took this chance to read AFTERPARTIES by the late queer Khmer American author Anthony Veasna So. I just want to say, to see Khmer American writers achieve the attention and success that he did—it makes me proud and hopeful. May we, in the near future, and far into it, be delighted, surprised, challenged, nurtured, and empowered by many more Khmer and Khmer American writers and artists to come.
First off, to appreciate the value of this book, I think it’s necessary to understand the situation and environment of many Khmer Americans. For those of us who are second-generation like Anthony and myself, our parents and siblings survived the unfathomable horrors of the Khmer Rouge genocide, pushed through the human trafficking and lack of resources in refugee camps along the Thai border, and were thrown into American communities of cyclical poverty, violence, and suffering that were exacerbated by barriers of race, culture, and language. In many ways, we inherited a legacy of loss, brokenness, and fracturing, as was constantly conveyed to us in newspapers, books, movies, and television segments.
Following the tropes of American literature and media, the dichotomy of being neither Khmer nor American enough was hammered into us. And we came to think of ourselves and see the world that way. Even when people talked about anything Asian, Khmer and other Southeast Asian communities were largely invisible—unless, of course, there was a gang shooting down the street or it had something to do with the Khmer Rouge. This double-pronged reality of being unseen while being allowed only certain images, spaces, and possibilities was the reality for many second-generation Khmer Americans such as Anthony and myself. And, in the case of Anthony and I, as two gay Khmer American men, myself now the founder of Cambodia’s first gay dance company, we had the added weight of only seeing crude caricatures of LGBTQ people in movies and shows like Jerry Springer. We got the message: We were not enough.
With this in mind, we can recognize the value of Anthony’s book, which, in many ways, represents the intergenerational journey, growth, and transcendence that reflects the experiences of many refugee and immigrant communities. It is that flower that breaks through concrete and shatters earth and stone, to be commended for its sheer will, resilient existence, and individual character.
Reading AFTERPARTIES, I am constantly aware of Anthony’s personal perspective and world, which spans richly across lands, lives, realms, and times through an interconnected web of family, friends, lovers, and realities (including those that may have been embellished and colored). It brings to light the struggles, spirituality, strength, and love of Khmer American families and communities, especially important as we often did not have the capacity to communicate and express the nature of these things amongst ourselves. The choices in transcription of Khmer words, although small details, such as in the word “Pou” which means “uncle” and which I would instead transcribe as “Pu,” as well as in “Cha” as opposed to the proper “Achar,” reflects the mishearing and misunderstanding that characterizes the gaps in language, culture, and history that has riddled our experiences as second-generation Khmer Americans. Furthermore, it emphasizes the personal experience of Anthony, as well as his individual idiosyncrasies and particularities.
AFTERPARTIES is wonderfully Anthony Veasna So. It also suffers from this fact as well. This is exemplified in the high school badminton players in “Superking Son Scores Again” and Rithy in “The Monks” who, despite differences in age, personality, and time, well, kind of all sound like Anthony. In fact, in a work that jumps between the experiences, perspectives, and spaces of different characters, everyone rather much sounds the same and seems to carry and speak with Anthony’s voice, humor, and cultural references. Perhaps it is the voice of Anthony, as a writer looking back, reflecting upon and even projecting onto the past. I was often unsure of what was being said in Khmer or English, and felt that changes in diction, grammar, and thought processes might have made for a more realistic, dynamic, and diverse intertwining of characters. The best example of this type of writing I can recall is William Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying.”
That said, Anthony shines brilliantly in stories such as “The Shop” and “Human Development,” segments exploring family, relationships, and life which seem to come from first-hand experience. There is a confidence and authenticity to these sections, which flow with a natural rhythm and power. The irreverent content, characterized by sex and modern loneliness, reflects a particularly American form of queer defiance, which may perhaps be a result of Anthony’s liberal college education and social circles. In fact, “Somaly Serey, Serey Somaly,” though written in another person’s perspective but is beautifully put to text (compare to “Three Women of Chuck’s Donuts”), may partly be so believable and convincing because this character, a female nurse caring for her dying relative, shares with Anthony that experience of higher education that has been so unattainable for our parents and elders—and for many within second-generation Khmer America even.
In short, most recently, after a long hike in the mountains surrounding Seattle, I found myself at a dinner table eating pho with a chosen family of Khmer Americans. Like Anthony, some of us were born and raised on these unceded lands while others were born in the refugee camps or recently emigrated from Cambodia. In relaying my thoughts and feelings about the book, of wishing that I was pulled and absorbed into Anthony’s world through the senses, of how it sometimes felt too plot-driven, my beloved sister Bong Navin acknowledged my opinions and said, “But I have never felt more seen. You want him to be the writer that he would have been in five or ten years.”
Indeed, AFTERPARTIES in its shortcomings and strengths left me wanting and wishing, left me hungry for more. I felt I was offered a potent seed of possibility, in the writing and life of a fellow Khmer American writer and artist who has led, and in many ways, could have been the torch bearer for contemporary Khmer American literature. Like Bong Navin, I am thankful for Anthony’s journey as a writer which has been wonderfully encapsulated in such a meaningful book, and for being seen and made seen by Anthony. Furthermore, I want to thank Anthony for, despite the harshness and complexities of life, making our generation enough. More than enough, even. And I hope that, Anthony, wherever in the universe you are, I hope that you return to us across the borders of lives and times to continue to share your gift of a self.