In the aftermath of a messy divorce, Frances Kai-Hwa Wang writes in the hope of beginning to build a new life with four children, bossy aunties, unreliable suitors, and an uncertain political landscape. The lyric essays in You Cannot Resist Me When My Hair Is in Braids deftly navigate the space between cultures and reflect on lessons learned from both Asian American elders and young multiracial children, punctuated by moments rich with cultural and linguistic nuance. In her prologue, Wang explains, "Buddhists say that suffering comes from unsatisfied desire, so for years I tried to close the door to desire. I was so successful, I not only closed the door, I locked it, barred it, nailed it shut, then stacked a bunch of furniture in front of it. And now that door is open, wide open, and all my insides are spilling out."
Full of current events of the day and #HashtagsOfTheMoment, the topics in the collection are wide ranging, including cooking food to show love, surviving Chinese School, being an underpaid lecturer, defending against yellow dildos, navigating immigration issues, finding love in a time of elections, crying with children separated from their parents at the border, charting the landscape of frugal/hoarder elders during the pandemic, witnessing COVID-inspired anti–Asian American violence while reflecting on the death of Vincent Chin, teaching her sixteen-year-old son to drive after the deaths of Trayvon Martin and George Floyd, and trusting the power of writing herself into existence. Within these lyric essays, some of which are accompanied by artwork and art installations, Wang finds the courage and hope to speak out for herself and for an entire generation of Asian American women. A notable work in the landscape of Asian American literature as well as Midwest and Michigan-based literature, You Cannot Resist Me When My Hair Is in Braids features a clear and powerful voice that brings all people together in these political and pandemic times.
The nice thing about reading a book of essays is that if one is a clunker, you can move on to the next in the hope it’ll be better. Fortunately, this book only contains a few clunkers which are outnumbered by engaging, thoughtful pieces of varying lengths. The book is billed as creative non-fiction. Some of its short sections are personal ruminations and interior monologues. Others are slice-of-life accounts of everyday incidents in the life of a single mother recovering from an emotionally abusive ex-husband. Yet others celebrate the extended family which both exasperates and grounds her. Permeating it all is the author’s consciousness of being Asian-American, an identity that opens her to racism and stereotype. The author is an academic, a poet, a writer, a mother, and a lover, whose self-awareness in each of those arenas provides the material for these reflective and insightful essays.
The Prologue sets an intense tone that doesn’t let up across 100 potent pages of creative non-fiction:
“Buddhists say that suffering comes from unsatisfied desire, so for years I tried to close the door to desire. Any desire. I was so successful, I not only closed the door, I locked it, barred it, nailed it shut, then stacked a bunch of furniture in front of it. It was the only way I could survive the long loneliness that was my marriage. I was dead to desire, going through only the motions of life. I did not even dare read novels, write poetry, or watch bad romantic comedies for fear of what small hope they might inspire. And now that door is open, wide open, and all my insides are spilling out. And you, not knowing this dangerous detail, tease me, dare me to live again. The more I warn you away, the closer you draw toward me. I fear you will catch fire, that I will consume you, that I won't be able to stop. A friend remarks about my former car and former life, ‘I saw a Land Rover broken down on the side of Highway 23 and thought of you.’ So glad that ain't me anymore! ‘Strut and unfurl,’ you tell me. And courage comes.”
The book is full of life, a celebration of things that make it worth living — including, but not limited to, food, make-outs, and friendship. While dense with layers of human experience, it’s a quick read because the rhythms of Wang’s direct language draw readers swiftly along. The prose-poetry format allows Wang to skip without preamble straight from one poignant moment to another, with her eyes open to the simple pleasures, profound mysteries, and lurking terrors of the human experience.
I just finished reading You Cannot Resist Me When My Hair Is in Braids. I know I will return to read it again and again.
Frances Kai-Hwa Wang's weaving of stories and lyric is beautifully sweet and romantic at one turn, revelatory and impactful in the next. Her relatable cadence and humor underscores the wonderful complexity found within.
A deep dive into one person's struggles, hopes, and dreams, lived in the intersection of culture, family, and gender expectations amidst the tumultuous backdrop of our current world.
I highly recommend You Cannot Resist Me When My Hair Is in Braids.
NOTE: This review was originally published via social media in July 29th, 2022.
I had the privilege of briefly collaborating with Frances for a cultural event a few years ago while I was still in undergrad. Bright and engaging as she was when I first met her, this collection of essays offers a unique sense of vulnerability that only a mother, lover, friend, and colleague could hold across decades. As a fellow Asian American who was raised in metro Detroit, the local references to Sweetwaters and even the second floor (former) Cobo ballroom literally hit close to home. Overall, a new cornerstone to my bookshelf.
Beautiful lyric essays and poems about Frances Kai-Hwa Wang’s life and experiences as an Asian American! Really enjoyed and the lovely writing had me reflecting a lot along the way about Asian American communities and experiences.
A delicate dance between prose and poetry, this essay set is both singular and deeply relatable. It gives the reader a peek into one woman’s life but also a whole culture through her lens.