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Sam Cacas

Recent Projects

Currently working on: (1)Nonfiction work titled Black-Asian connections: cultural, social, and political commonalities of two races throughout history (2) How to Ride a Cable, a novel about San Francisco (3) Verbs of an Ilokano, a novel about a Filipino

Searchable Keywords

ethnic fiction, Asian American, Black

Specialties or Categories of Interest

Fiction Writing

Experience, Credits, and/or Awards

Book has been featured in LA18.tv, AsianWeek.com, World Journal (the largest Chinese language newspaper in America), and Sam Cacas writes a column on Black-Asian unity for Asianweek.com

Excerpts from Reviews or References

BlAsian Exchanges, a novel by Sam Cacas is a story of protagonist Earvin Ilokano's chronicle of the challenges he faces to be true to himself as a writer and the consequences of his decision. In addition, he recalls the history behind his attraction for Black women and Black culture in relation to his ethnic (Filipino American) and his racial (Asian American) heritage. He recruits Black women from the Internet to stoke the writing process of his first tome. Consequently, these Internet exchanges test the loyalty of his marriage . . . - Review of Dora Love on Amazon.com

From The Book

BLASIAN EXCHANGES, A NOVEL

By Sam Cacas

Chapter One

"They are all of one mind, their hearts are set upon song and their spirit is free from care. He is happy whom the Muses love. For though a man has sorrow and grief in his soul, yet when the servant of the Muses sings, at once he forgets his dark thoughts and remembers not his troubles. Such is the holy gift of the Muses to men." - Hesiod

It was a mere five 'til five once my fingers had danced on the keyboards for a few minutes and my eyes saw these two ads I'd typed:

Black sisters: please be my muse? - m4w – 34

I am a MARRIED Asian male writer seeking a platonic friendship with any Black women out there who might be interested in serving as my muse. I am in the process of writing my first novel about my attraction for and romances with Black women throughout my life and would like to hear a sister's reaction to my story. What I had in mind was maybe we could do coffee or have a phone conversation while I read parts of my novel to you. Other subsequent interactions, e.g., an IM chat or e-mail exchanges, are possible. Romantic experience with Asian men not required but openness to seeing Asian men as a romantic option and interest in what I'm writing about is. Look forward to hearing from you and hooking up. Again, I am repeating what I noted at the outset: I am MARRIED so if anyone has any problems with that please disregard this post. Absent some minimal / innocent flirting that comes with any platonic friendship with those of the opposite sex, I intend to keep it real and stay true to my wife.

Attractive, Urban-bred 27yo SAM iso SBF for LTR!!!!!!

Yo Ladies!

I'm a fun-loving 33 year old single Asian man seeking an erudite, eclectic, and sensual Black woman (30+) to spend my time with. I'm looking for a sistah of creative mind and body; a woman of pleasure and romance; a woman that loves to explore and discover new places with the right man.

I'm from a Black city so I know what time it is. And I've been intimate with sistas most of my life so this is no jungle fever booty call. My talk is as cool as my walk. And I also like to dance. I am truly a man of passion, a hopeful romantic in passion as well as practice! How about we have coffee some time after a few virtual exchanges and phone calls then – if the sparks are right – spend our evenings dining and dancing, singing and laughing. And at some point: A nice quixotic evening together by candle light, soft sexy music, a nice bottle of wine and our passion to fill the night right.

I'm seeking a lady that can share herself and grow with me, a woman that doesn't play games, a woman that wants to find the pleasures in life with a man that is ready to sweep her away! If you can feel my flow and want to see me walk 'n talk, then send me a communiqué tellin' me about yourself at your earliest convenience. Lookin' forward to our rendezvous.

E-mail me back and tell me about yourself. Tell me your passions in life, your career goals, your favorite novelist and most important: tell me what makes you unique. Please send me a picture and I will get back to you soon. Hopefully we'll be able to show each other that love is always alive!

A lot to be writing in the wee hours of a Thursday morn in July. But some writing comes easy. Especially when I listen to the little voice inside me. A voice that once again opened up as I woke up. A voice that kept repeating to me:

Write about stuff close to the heart. Just do the WRITE thing. Don't stand for ceremony. Write what you know . . .

Yes the word becomes flesh. After that thought, I hit the submit button on the web site I'd gotten to know well: BlAsianRomance.luv

Both ads posted almost immediately. But the voice inside me commanded: 'remove the second one. That's not you.' And I did. Thank goodness 'cause it's time to go to work. I turned my computer off as I heard the cable car from two blocks back goin' up Washington from Hyde. It is another windy, chilly San Francisco morning in late spring. But what is firing my heart is that I've written about what is really close to my heart: BlAsian romance. Romance among Asian men and Black women.

* * *

I guess you could say I'm a trained journalist who is still searching for his real voice as a writer. Kinda like a lover trying to find their true heart but not quite there yet. You see, there's a voice inside me that incessantly keeps whispering – sometimes screaming in a high-pitch tone: "That's not you!" whenever I attempt to write the stories I get paid to write at this magazine I write for called Asian American Contemporary.

I've started to listen and act on this voice. Started to write a novel about BlAsian romance – romance between Black women and Asian men. But the journalist voice inside me keeps telling me:

"You've gotta keep making a living. Writing nonfiction pays your bills. And who cares about novelists anyway?"

The novelist's voice retorts:

"Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures and journalism ignores. You will pay the bills if you pursue storytelling. Reporters are wimps and losers who only try to sell newspapers anyway. And besides you were not destined to be a hack."

I do keep dreaming the journalist voice's influence eventually whithers away until it's completely gone swallowed by the novelist's voice. For now, both voices debate each other from time to time. Only time will tell, I guess.

Flashback to high school sophomore year: I'm in the middle of Greek Mythology class and have just written down the quote of the ancient Greek poet Hesiod uttered by that tall Jesuit priest who keeps referring to me as a "pinhead". I ignore his labeling and instead I'm focused on the concept of the Muses that are now being discussed. "The writings of earlier writers have told us that the Muses were the inspiring goddesses of songs, and they eventually were portrayed as divinities presiding over different kinds of poetry and over the arts and sciences," said Father Desiderata. "As patrons of the fine arts, the Muses promoted the more civilized aspects of human existence. The fortunate person inspired by them was held in the highest esteem and considered sacred far beyond any priest." Since that class, I've not too infrequently seen the moon in the morning sunlight of my Sensa pen.

Chapter Two

"The burgeoning question facing us, whether we know it or not, is: are we Black or are we White? And if we are Black, does our walk and our words carry on what our ancestors started? Or do we merely subsume and resume what has been ingrained in our brains?" – lines from a recent spoken word session by Earvin Ilokano

As I stop my stroll for the red light at 14th & Broadway, I sense the stares. My face: nonchalant, stoic. The wind is blowing in my face and I wish it would stop. Folks always seem to feel they have me figured out even when I'm standing still. Phenotypically, they see: Asian guy. Debonair. Well-dressed. Computer bag strapped over shoulder. Psychologically all of the above translates to: physically weak person. Non-athlete. Hi-techy. Bling bling. Probably from San Francisco with that shopping bag that says "People in the know shop at Lebeau, Nob Hill's finest market." And could care less for Black folks.

The wind stops blowing. The light turns green and a car stereo nearby pumps in the sound of Morris Day and The Times' '80s hit The Walk. I smile at the stares and start to walk to the beat of familiar lyrics: "You don't need no partner. You can walk all alone..." I walk my smile and smile my walk into the faces looking at me and my walk. Tryin' to look behind my Takumi clip-on shades. Tryin' to verify the stereotypes of guys my race. So I'm thinkin' for a second. It's still all good a voice inside me says. So I keep smiling though the men aren't smiling back 'cause they think my smile's a smirk. But I keep smiling 'cause I believe hate knows love's a cure. Right about now my smiling eyes are aimed at the sistahs who are wondering why am I looking at them 'cause they've heard Asian guys only like white women. But that's not me. I'm an Asian guy attracted to sistahs since I was a prepubescent teen growin' up in D.C. who had fantasies of goin' out dancin' or just havin' coffee with sisters like Freda Paine and Valerie Simpson. More than three decades later, nothin's changed except I have similar fantasies about Ashanti and Alicia Keys. And that's why I'm blinking at sisters this morning. To My right: a smooth-walking lady in braids, her skin two shades darker than chocolate. To Her left: a mocha-hued sister with dramatic blunt bangs and textured ends kinda like Mary J. Blige's. The lady in braids notices my smile and we start talking.

"You gotta baaad walk."

"Thank you, Miss Lady. Nice braids."

I add two slowass winks and we maintain eye contact with each other for several more seconds before movin' on. The corners of some of the guys' eyes widen and they nod in agreement with her while I continue to walk as they and more folks are watchin' my steps.

Yes. It is another summer day in Oakland. 14th and Broadway to be specific. Breezy but warm. The type of day that could make nipples rise and bodies shiver with sensuality and dread. And maybe anticipation. The breeze is at my back now and I'm still smiling.

But I'm harboring some dismay on the inside as I reach my office at 13th & Franklin on the diagonally opposite corner from the Oakland Tribune building. As a writer, I've self-criticized myself for not taking enough chances. Not being true to myself by writing for my editors and my readers too much as well as their advertisers, marketers and the publisher of this magazine I write for. Yes, the Man. An Asian man if you will who wants me to write only about so-called Asian American issues, news events and people. And this doesn't include anything that dovetails with Black issues, news events and people. The latter can't be more antithetical to my personal history as an Asian man. No, I've got my race right. 'Cause you see, I'm an Asian man who grew up in a Black city where I became politicized and socialized by Black men, Black women, Black organizations and news events that concerned the Black community. Yes, I'm a race man if that's how you wanna put it. A writer who has explored discrimination issues including interracial relations between the races I know most about: Asians and Blacks.

Before turning on my computer I hear the only voicemail from the publisher:

"Don't know if you received my e-mail from last week but we need to talk. I don't think you are meeting my standards for journalistic objectivity and furthermore you are not showing up for the editing sessions before press time. We need to talk about this. We've talked about it before. We need to talk about it more.

Hearing the voicemail blocked the creative juices that had been flowing in my head.

But despite such misgivings, my fingers supersede my dark, deep thoughts about the Neanderthal nothingness in my writer past and they bang away the first paragraph of a profile I've been in the seminal stages of writing:

Shonnet Chui: Funder of the Future

"As venture capitalists go, Shonnet Chui appears no different than most. Except in a few aspects: she is the first fund manager to start a venture firm devoted solely to hardware and no less than the first Asian woman in this country to establish a venture firm. And despite the evolution of the Internet, the San Francisco-born native has lingered in the hardware sector."

So how do I stay true to my real writing heart? The way I did before I got to AAC. I still freelance for dozens of publications that are open to my writings about social justice issues. I also write stories in my journal about women who have been in my life. Pretty much Black women.

As a writer for Asian American Contemporary, I've written every kind of article about Asian American topics: news reports about Asian American civil rights organizations' court victories; profiles of newsmakers who are entertainers, politicos, or pundits; feature articles; groundbreaking editorials on limelight social issues; and the like. But not about interracial issues like BlAsian romance. My editor and I have had the same arguments about this particular issue.

Our readers want this story, I've argued.

Waste of time, he retorts.

This is an important trend in race relations we should cover, I counter-argue.

It's a fad that will be short-lived.

Give it a chance, I continue.

It's not gonna happen, he mutters in a conclusory tone.

So, I use my spare time dreaming and daydreaming (mostly in my journal) about how I might write about BlAsian love as I live it with Lora Dove, my dear wife; and as I've lived it with other sisters in my surreal future as well as my past. If this story can't be for Asian American Contemporary, at the very least it will dwell and incubate in my journal as it has in my psyche. Some stories are meant to be told no matter what other folks think or say.

Here is the concept of my tome: "BlAsian Exchanges" is the story of an Asian man who deals with the temptation to flirt on the Internet as he deals with a recurrent question: how he has evolved as an Asian man attracted almost exclusively to Black women. His virtual adventures have altruistic motives: to recollect in writing sisters he's been intimate with in the past as a way to rediscover and revisit his past and thus better understand who he presently is as a person. Penning a novel based on his reminiscences of past loves and Internet exchanges with sisters whom he recruits as muses to help him recall sisters in his past, he transcends his career frustrations as a journalist and consequently finds his true path as a writer. In case you don't know, A muse is an encouraging spirit for an artist including a writer.

Entry from my journal five years ago: How do I keep my integrity as a writer? As a person? I not only write about what I want to write. I write about what and who needs a voice out there. My momma taught me well in that respect. She always said do something that makes the world better 'cause you are the change you want to see in this world. So I've applied this to my writing. So that's why I don't just write about my own people's latest issues and news developments. I write about everyone else's. About issues and news of Blacks, Latinos, Gays & Lesbians. About immigration, hip hop, Black relationships, and on and on and on. My fellow writers see it as a cool business-sense survival strategy for any writer. I see it as more an altruistically political survival strategy. After all, all social justice movements are interrelated so we should all watch each other's backs. And I definitely watch more than my writer's back. That's why I'm also a spoken word artist, a dancer, and a runner. I am all that!

I thought about my little story throughout the whole day as I interviewed enough quote sources and culled enough research to make deadline for the Chui profile. I also thought about my whole history as a writer and how my so-called friends have denigrated me for a less-than-perfect-looking work history. 'You have a checkered history.' 'Don't quit your next job.' 'You need to compromise more.' My day ended as I typed a teaser for the article into my computer before logging off for the night. It read:

Startup Queen: Shonnet Chui is the venture capitalist acclaimed for starting the first venture capital firm devoted solely to hardware. Now Earvin Ilokano discovers how she's shifted the knowledge to the Internet startup world.

It seemed like mindless prose to my real writing existence. So my fingers ended a typical prosaic writing day with these non-prosaic lines:

The Crazy Filipino

And so they called him

The Crazy Filipino

His Mom said that boy can

Get hot sometimes

Cruel kids said look at that

Chip on his shoulder

From his perspective he was

As balanced as his sign

A Libra

His father told him too much

To hold it in

His ghetto friends told him

Fight you're a MAN

He often told himself

I'm a writer not a fighter

And his real voice called for more.

I also typed several existential questions that came to mind about my story: What is so special about the story you want to tell? What message does it send to the world? When it comes to attraction for the opposite sex, why have you been drawn toward Black women so much and why do you have to write a story about it? Why did you become a writer? Why do you use the term Asian or Asian American? And what does all this mean? Why do you talk so much in rhymes and why do you seem to always walk to the rhythm of your rhymes?

It seemed like those last lines were typed almost as fast as the BART subway ride home that night. Dinner and dessert came and went. But thoughts of a different dessert lingered.

Before we fell asleep, Lora and I had exchanged massages that night. We're both into the Shiatsu and Esalen styles of deep touch art. And it's our nightly ritual to practice it on each other. After we'd rubbed each other to sleep, my third eye stirred and I heard the voice in my head that articulated what I had begun thinking earlier:

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. The beat writers are the real poets. Got Lyrics? When you want to do your own thing, and people want you to fit within their world...it's a revelation."

In my sleep, with Heavy D's "We Got Our Own Thang" blaring in da club, I see myself acting on that voice; it is a voice engendered by my many folks who've influenced me in my life including my Mom's incessant reminder 'Don't bite your tongue to no one', my father's recurrent warning to 'choose your battles while thinking fast and moving slow', Black folks I was close to early on, and authors that I've read and re-read. I see myself taking heed of that voice's constant encouragement to 'write what you know' and consequently I write and write and write about BlAsian luv. And I wind up saying thank you to folks who got in the way of my real writing passion. Thank you for the nightmare that spurned my dream that sowed my real writing life. Thank you for forcing me to be true to myself and bringing urgency to what is really in my writing heart. I also see myself moving out of San Francisco's hustle and bustle of which I've grown to hate along with the drivers who go through red lights when you're trying to cross. I see myself running around Lake Merritt in Oakland again and being able to enjoy life more fully without thinking of how I'm going to scream/push my way off crowded MUNI buses or cable cars in the evening and crowded BART trains in the morn in order to get praised by my editor but scorned by his boss, the Associate Editor. How I'm going to show everyone at work tomorrow as every day that I'm the hardest worker in the place. The ultimate numero uno dude at la oficina even though that's not what I really want to be. More on this later, of course.

About Me: I'm not just from the Ghetto. I'm from the Get-Over. That's my attitude. My reality. As sure as I'm down with hip hop. People have kept me down 'cause I'm Brown. But hey, I'm still around. An old school dude with a new attitude. I've staked out my territory as a resident of the true school of a life filled with hard knocks sprinkled with enough luck to pen what really matters to me no matter what society wants to say about my material underachieving self. Or as my Dad used to remind me when I'd tell him about how happy I was at my latest low-paying job at some sorry-ass nonprofit agency in Northern California: when are you going to wake up and get a real job to pay those law school loans that are way overdue with beaucoup interest piling up? Eventually, I learned to wake up to my real dream of singing my own song: being a self-effacing, altruistic cat who represented the underdog via his words published in the alternative press. Asian American Contemporary. The Black Bay Express Newspaper of the Bay. Gay Times. Immigrant Rights Journal. Union Rights. To name a few publications my byline has been in. When I'd tell my father about the latest article in one of them, he'd remind me that I needed to think more about how to pay those student loans from law school. But I'd just say okay while polemicizing in my head: every soul has their own journey. And if mine's belies a house in the 'burbs and a stable government job and a late-model Toyota, just let me be.

On his deathbed, my father congratulated me as we forgave each other for our respective transgressions committed against each other throughout his life. Sing your own song, he said. Birds are meant to fly. You are an eagle meant to fly high in the sky! So I spread my wings and at his funeral sang the song he okayed before his last breath. I sang it before delivering a eulogy he would've smiled at. If there's anything I would've added to the most emotionally-delivered speech of my life, it would be this line: Dad, thanks for reminding me to appreciate the journey rather than the destination. Yes, eventually it is all good.

I'll never forget how my father told me when I was three about the signs he'd see when he arrived in San Francisco in the 1920s: "No dogs, No Blacks, No Filipinos". That is the first of many lessons that led to my mindset that if Asian Americans are the forgotten minority and Filipinos are the Forgotten Asian Americans, then Ilokanos are the never remembered Invisible Filipinos in an America full of Tagalog folks. To you Tagalog folks don't think I hate ya, I'm just representing for us Flips who're from the poorer parts of the Philippines, the Ilokos region. But like any Filipino who is Ilokano, I make somethin' outta nothin'. Turn negativity to positivity. Make smiles around frowns. I have a cool step. And I also I walk my talk in my words. You see, I use verbs you've never heard with adjectives and adverbs and nouns you've never read like that. I write to enlighten as well as fight the power. To fight the greed that results in people being laid off. To fight against discrimination because of someone's background or lifestyle. Writing is fightin'. Fighting for what's right. Writing is my core capacity as sure as my core is fighting for justice. Writing for justice has been my legacy. You can call me a word righter. I write the words that make things come out right. Even if the words read like the following article that has not been published for what I feel are purely political reasons:

The Social Importance of Asian American Heritage Month & Asian American racial identity

By Earvin Ilokano

Throughout my political organizing experience, I've heard Asian Americans of many different ethnicities say they don't use the term "Asian American" for various reasons. One of the reasons I've heard the most is that the particular Asian ethnicity to which they were born into just doesn't seem to be included in discussions about so-called Asian-American issues. As one person who prefers the term "Oriental" put it: the term Asian American ghettoizes their existence, which he feels is inferior to Orients, given what he perceives as their wealth and educational attainment; also, he added: Orientals are often reminded of their foreign-born status so they don't feel they identify with any label that includes being American.

Discussing such concerns with others of Asian heritage who also dislike being called "Asian Americans" ultimately raises related questions particular relevant to this country celebrating Asian American Heritage Month: "What is the social importance of the term Asian American and why is it important to affirm one's Asian American racial identity?

I've asked myself this question since my undergrad days in the mid 1970s while taking a class titled "Asians in America" – my first introduction to the fact that people of Asian ancestry in this country have a history and culture to be proud of. Just a few examples from my orientation:

A distinct Asian American culture or at least a political sensibility reflected through art was very much evident from the musical works of young Asian Americans in the 1970s such as Chris Ijima and Nobuko Miyamoto.

Chinese Americans in San Francisco successfully sued in court to overturn a racially-based laundry ordinance overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court in the 1886 case known as Yick Wo v. Hopkins. In recent times, civil rights organizations such as the NAACP have used the precedent of this case to uphold racial desegregation court orders.

Asian American workers in Hawaii and other parts of the U.S. played a major role in many worker strikes and other labor union activities.

These and other aspects of Asian American history made me proud of my racial heritage for the first time in my life. Before this class, especially in grade school and high school, I would often feel embarrassed when my father would tell me that my uncle had graduated from UC-Berkeley with an Accounting degree but could not get a job in that field because no firms would hire Filipinos at the time. I was also embarrassed in high school when I learned about the Chinese Exclusion Act -- passed by Congress in 1882 -- which prohibited Chinese from legally immigrating to the U.S. All this shame, I guess, was rooted in my comparing the humbling history of Filipinos and other Asian Americans with the history that involved white people: Columbus discovering America, American cowboys settling the West "saving" the Native Americans, and President Lincoln "freeing" Black slave, etc.

I did always harbor a suspicion about why literally all of the heroes were white and the villains were people of color. The course "Asians in America" reinforced this suspicion by pointing out that a key omission in such revelations was discussion of racism's role in these historical inequities, and the lack of protest against them. These injustices also reinforced other predominant aspects of my pre-college mindset about Asian Americans: Hollywood characters like Hop Sing on the T.V. show Bonanza, as well as the absence of Asian faces in both corporate and governmental offices. Most importantly, the course taught me that one of the first times that the term Asian American was publicly used was during a demonstration at UC-Berkeley during the 1970s in which Asian American were marching in support of the "Free Huey Newton" movement.

Prior to my first Asian American Studies course, I was regularly attracted to the Black Power movement and its cultural manifestations, such as soul music and African-American Studies. Recollecting this period in my life, I sometimes think I was just trying to be a Black person inside of an Asian American's body. In reality, however, I was attracted to a culture that admired righteous resistance to injustices. I was also curious about learning how to empower myself politically in a way that I'd not experienced with my Asian counterparts.

While this racial rubric known as Asian American was initially innovated in the context of organizing around pan-Asian justice issues, the recent emergence of Asian Americans as pop culture icons in business, media, sports, and politics have lent further legitimacy to an Asian American identity. For instance, pro golfer supreme Tiger Woods, Yahoo! co-founder Jerry Yang and pop singer Coco Lee are just a few examples of figures who affirmed their Asian American identity in more than a few mainstream media accounts. And the allocation of advertising dollars to a market segment known as the Asian-American market certainly speaks volumes about the increasing recognition of a collective Asian-American identity by corporate America.

Despite such developments, Asian Americans will always be playing catch-up in terms of addressing important questions like whether we should just identify with our own ethnic group and defy racial identification, or whether there is a more appropriate term other than "Asian American" by which to describe what is common-ground and mutually beneficial despite our diversity. The ongoing need to ask these questions is what makes it important for all Asian Americans to continue learning about our histories – whether of our own ethnic group or other Asian ethnic groups – during times like National Asian American Heritage Month. By continuing such exploration, we can begin to embrace a part of our human identity that we have too often been taught to deny.

Now that you've read one of my articles that was rejected by the publisher of Asian American Contemporary for political reasons I will never understand, You might be wondering how it is I became interested in Greek Mythology and Black women enough to one day even consider writing about both in one book. The reason has to do more with the personal than the socio-political: in sophomore year, the only two folks – other than my family – who took an interest in my daily well-being were the Jesuit dude who tried to imbue me and my fellow prepubescent college preppees on the importance of the Greek Classics and the dark-skinned [her words, not mine] girl in typing class who always stared at me longingly. The dude thought I was Greek and thus pretty much looked after my learning process about a subject all of my peers looked past since it came right before gym class. And the girl thought I was part Black 'cause she always kept reminding me that I walked like her cousin whom she looked up to because he was a good dancer who once performed for James Brown. Of course, the latter wound up superseding the former later on. But some way some how, both interests have wound up subsuming each other to the extent of an interdependency that only I can now write about here. And I kept my soul not to mention the raison d'etere for wielding my poison pen.

About Lora: One day I answered a personal ad in an alternative paper here in San Francisco that said,

"Tall, attractive, entrepreneurial, intelligent BF looking for a working, 5'10" or taller handsome M, 25-38. Love all kinds of music, dancing, relaxing. How about you? Race unimportant."

Lora Dove. The quintessence of a fine woman, I wrote after we had our first date at a café in North Beach. Sage scent. Words as effervescent as well as the stylistic rip in the part of her jeans that were supposed to cover her posterior lobe. So erudite. So literate. How could I resist asking. Are you a writer? [Of course, I resisted asking the questions lingering from my pre-pubescent period: why you so fine? Can you shake what ya momma gave you?] I knew the answer without seeing her reporter's notebook. She knew it without seeing mine and asking me the Earvin question. Two writing minds meeting each other for the first time. We kept seeing each seeing each other's beauty in a blink.

Where I live: The cognoscenti of my current 'hood say Nob Hill is more an attitude than just an address. It's a state of mind, they reason. Nob Hill's Finest is LeBeau deli and grocery store. As sure as Nob Hill is Sushi Rapture restaurant, eclectic in its own Asian way with owners who hail from Macau and China and can concoct up the best sashimi west of the Financial District while their cute dogs look at dog-loving customers like moi as if they wanted me to put my hand out one more time for that proverbial one more lick. Nob Hill is The geographical top of the 94109 zip code addresses. The tony neighborhood that borders Russian Hill, the Tenderloin, Chinatown, and the Financial District. But on a more personal level, Nob Hill is the one bedroom apartment we rent for $2,300 a month. Yes, Nob Hill is where we dwell. And pay someone else's mortgage in our top-floor apartment.

Friends in other cities – whether its Oakland, Atlanta, or Washington, D.C. – think we San Franciscans are crazy for living in a city of rip-off rents, smug businessmen, stop-sign passing/redlight running motorists, perennially crummy weather, earthquake threats, and high unemployment. And when I try to tell them of this city's aesthetic qualities – the postcard views of the Golden Gate and Oakland-S.F. Bridges, endless cable car scenes, et al. – they remind me, as I feel them rolling their eyes at me over the phone, even more how over-deluded I am about what they will always believe to be an over-hyped city: how can you live with all those homosexuals with AIDS and all those unmarried folks with no kids and all those wacky California court decisions. And in an appropriate comeback, I remind them that San Francisco is the ultimate destination of artists and writers like myself and besides there are higher frequencies of hurricanes and tornadoes in the South and thunderstorms in the East and it is nice to live in a neighborhood where I don't have to watch my back like I did when I lived in West Oakland and Berkeley. And not that I hate Oakland since I continue to go clubbin' there but there is a THERE as well as a DARE in San Francisco that I never saw in Oakland or anywhere else. Whatever they want to say, I still live like any person living in a city. Yes, a city that many in the East Bay refer to as The City because, 'cause let's face it, San Francisco is THE City in relation to other environs of Northern Cali. And I don't hesitate to inform you, dear reader, that that is a label oft cast by East Bay folks. Not us San Franciscans. At least not me. Yes. Like any city folk who live in a real neighborhood, we just dwell.

I read the note from Bill Sang, the publisher, that had been hibernating in my in-box all week:

I don't think you are meeting my standards for journalistic objectivity and furthermore you are not showing up for the editing sessions before press time. We need to talk about this. We've talked about it before. We need to talk about it more.

Over a double espresso at Caffe Trieste the following morning, I imagined myself telling him off:

I care as much about your standards as a junebug in July.

All he could say was: 'If you really feel that way, do you know where your next paycheck is coming from. And did you know that I still sign all the checks here?'

The rejoinder that sounded like my momma's words and my spoken word self was written in my journal two weeks later:

I don't bite my tongue to no one. Man makes the money, money don't make the man. Don't stand for ceremony. Don't dwell in the controller's acrimony. If you don't stand up for something you'll fall for anything.

Chapter Three

Notes from Greek Mythology class during sophomore year: Muses teach intuition, the most intangible thing you can learn. In a word, intuition essentially means "inner teaching". A sense one has of something based on their knowledge/perception of something else that is related. The intuition that arises from Muses is invaluable, the ancient Greek writers often wrote. So always listen to your seven Muses. They are, in no order of importance of course: BAP, the Muse of love poetry; Thalia, the Muse of comedy; Polyhymnia, the Muse of sacred poetry;, Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy; Euterpe, the Muse of lyric poetry; Clio, the Muse of history; and Calliope, the Muse of Epic poetry.

More About Me from a recent journal entry: I'm in my early thirties – yes, a baby boomer - but like a character out of a Marcel Proust novel, I feel I am getting younger as I'm getting older. I guess that's why the younger girls still blow their bubblegum at me like the light-skinned girl did the other day when I got on the 1 California bus going toward the Fillmore. I guess that could also be why the knee and back pains from my 20s is gone – the result of practicing yoga and optimum nutrition daily since my teens. Weekends, I groove through hip hop dance classes – the intermediate level ones, mind you - enjoying the creativity of the routine more than getting every move and sequence technically correct. Daily, I run three miles and lift weights but I don't push the physical stuff if my body is telling me otherwise. Finding the time to write is more a priority these days. I feel like my skill of putting fingers to the keyboards has saved me since I turned 30 so until I feel otherwise that's where my head and heart will be. Writing saved me because it has been an act of catharsis for me. Writing about the tragedies, joys, and challenges of others. Writing mostly about righting wrongs. In the last nine years, my poison pen has given voice to an immigrant family that had the words "beaneaters" spraypainted on the outside walls of their home, to the families of Jewish decedents whose loved one had swastikas painted on their tombstones, counties pushing for an Inter-national Criminal Court and Asians repeatedly terrorized by anti-Asian slurs before/after muggings and shootings. My writings have also given me an opportunity to look at the positive side of my less fortunate experiences including the death of my father, missed promotions and other bullshit I experienced and continue to experience as an Asian man.

Before I say more, I have to give major props to my Mom who planted the seeds of thought for my poison pen and my progressive politics. She is the one who had my back in first grade when the white kid named Brad scrawled the word "Jap" on the back of my white uniform shirt. Like any real Mom would, she marched me and the shirt to the principal's office and demanded that the white kid be admonished – and he was in front of the class. Without this first lesson in racism, my poison pen would not have been wielded so menacingly for so many years. So Mom, thanks so much.

As I wrote those words into my journal, the self-critic in my third eye started up: "You know, you always point out that your altruistic writings deserved better kudos and better opportunities to advance in your writing career. But you ignore the fact that you've not gotten along well with people throughout your life. Especially when there's conflict. "You seem to start off really well in your relationships with people then at the midpoint something happens and you let that something ruin the relationship then it withers from there. The plot twists too much. There's no fluidity to your evolution with people." This is what the voice inside me keeps saying.

The final part of that journal entry had this retort: "Yes, I have screwed up in relationships. I think I've given too much of myself in the beginning then when things got rough, I just felt betrayed too much. And the I'd withdraw. Beyond the polemics related to personal politics and maybe my own personal immaturity, though, I think I was trying to reckon my conflict with American values culled in work and school environments versus the Asian values my parents and relatives tried to instill in my. Yes, the Me-first culture vs. Confucian, group-first ethics are not an easy dilemma to resolve. Then you gotta remember, I am a tall Asian guy with a cool walk and D.C. talk comin' outta my mouth. Don't get it twisted!

After re-reading that entry, I started writing about replies to posts on BlasianRomance.luv:

"Many of you have asked me offline why I've chosen to live in San Francisco and has living in San Francisco enhanced my BlAsian relationships?

"I'll answer the first part of that question by

saying that I chose San Francisco because overall

I am a person who is very aesthetical and political. And San Francisco fulfills both needs. San Franciscans have been and still are at the cutting edge of many social/cultural movements (e.g., gay + lesbian marriage, disabled rights, espresso coffee, Asian American empowerment).

And the daily aesthetics (i.e., stuff that is pleasing to the senses) are many: the Italian-style cafes that encourage socializing while you're drinking coffee; bedroom windows that open to a skyline to the Golden Gate Bridge every morn; cable cars that glide effortlessly up and down impossible-to-climb-looking hills; and the

like).

[Re-reading this later, I thought: "Why did I come to San Francisco? I used to spout off ten different reasons that changed throughout the year every year I've lived here. But the perennial one is the most important: I came to live here because of the feeling that something magical is always happening here – whether it be the skyline to the Golden Gate Bridge I open my window to each morning or the doggies that make their cameo appearances during their morning walks or the Italian cafes in North Beach that provide the perfect venue for me and my fellow nouveau beat writers. And I want to be part of it. I've had a lot of hard times here, no mistaken about that. But I know I will always cling to what a fellow writer said to me at one of those writer's conferences: "It's not good taste in this city to harp about being poor. I guess, I'm just one of those writers who survived the worst in San Francisco and found that life's joys are still to be tasted. And besides, 'tis hard to leave."]

"Why do people who live anywhere choose to live in San Francisco? Anyone can name 10 reasons, but there is one that may not make the list, even though it is the most important. Simply put, it feels like something is happening here. Something is happening, and we want to feel like we are part. The magnetism of San Francisco means that a great many people who live here were not born in this city, or any other. That does not prevent a lot of suburban and small-town transplants from looking down their noses at the burbs. After all, the suburbs were designed to kill that crucial excitement, reason we came here, the thing that makes us different. The burbs strangle even the least inkling of anything "happening." According to the myth, the suburbs are at best socially inert. At worst, they are reactionary anti-cities with populations on the lookout for change and eager to arrest it. It's a myth told by urbanites who have invested heavily in their self-image. It is also a myth that, like most myths, is not true.]

[sample ends here because of word limit]

Copyright 2009 - 2010, Sam Cacas (Expires February 20, 2010)

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