The Creative Work Fund invites letters of inquiry for collaborative projects between media or performing artists and nonprofit organizations. Artists must reside and organizations must be based in Alameda, Contra Costa, San Francisco or Solano counties. Grants range from $10,000- $35,000. Printed guidelines will be available in September or may be found now at www.creativeworkfund.org. Letters of inquiry are due by 5:00 PM Friday, November 4, 2005. For information, call 415-398-4474.

By Diana Phuong

Editor’s Note: In June, the Arts and Culture Commission of Contra Costa County arranged a ceremony in the chambers of the Board of Supervisors to honor students selected to enroll in the California Summer School for the Arts in Valencia. Each student was asked to present examples of their work in the arts. Diana Phuong of Richmond drew rapt attention with an essay she wrote. In response to requests for copies, AC5 is pleased to publish it in this newsletter.

"I Am My Mother's Freedom"

SHE CAPS LIDS over the soy sauce and chili oil filled cups on the counter. "Ma," I timidly say.

Rrrrriiiing! She takes three steps to the right of me, reaching the phone. "Vegi Food, may I help you?"

She calls out the order to my dad in the kitchen. Ding! She walks over to find an eager customer waiting. "Oh! All ready? Eat everything! Good! How's your son?" Her weariness is invisible behind her rosy cheeks and tea-stained smile. I stand there in a pout almost, again being second to another customer.
"Ma!" I say like a hungry kitten. "Mom, what's your American Dream?" She doesn't understand so I translate it into Fukienese. "Why I am here?" she reorganizes in broken English with inklings of annoyance and sadness in her voice. "Freedom."

Flashing images of Thai pirates attacking refugees as they cross the South China Sea in a fishing boat destined for Pulau Bidong, Malaysia, the picture of my family crying when they arrived at the airport in Michigan; not from the excitement of arrival, but for my grandfather who'll never see paradise because ashes are incapable of such things, the deep wrinkles under my mom's light brown irises, and the memories of birthdays and holidays filled with festive delicacies produce tears that immediately impair my interview. She waitresses seven days a week at a Chinese restaurant, yet she still runs the household to the best of her ability. She uses her invisible mother-child leash to keep me within a two meter radius, terrified that if I wander too far off, she will see me fall before she can reach out her hand for me to grab onto.

'Freedom' sloshes around in my mouth.

MY MOM’S LIFE is asphyxiating within struggle's grasp. She is the third daughter of seven children, a mother of four teens, a wife to a tired, calloused-palm cook with sun-beaten skin, and an obedient servant to the system of routine. She kills herself physically and suppresses all there is to suppress, so her strength will be reflected through my hands. I yell in my head, "Freedom? We're in America where opportunities are endless! We can spin and dance to the sounds of falling leaves, Mom! You are swimming in a country of freedom!"

Naively, I get upset about my mother getting only a seventh grade education, coming to California to enroll in adult school, then enduring 20 years of taking other people's orders. Eventually, I realize that she is the bearer of comfort and a woman who is willing to donate her time for the happiness of others. A junior at some mediocre high school, my dream is to enlighten my daily acquaintances with a realization of what they want from this world. I am my mother's freedom. Her struggles have given me the capability of linking our family's history with modern America, connecting cultures across this plain of red, white and blue. So with her influence, I can now ask, "How may I help you?"