20090206
.written.in.blood.
They called him an idiot. And when the impending pounding of political correctedness piled on, they apologized profusely, and pushed the letters of Philip's pejorative over: idiot. For good measure, to garner some form of restitution and immunity, some of them tacked on a savant.
It was such an easy accusation when one can't dress himself, can hardly tie one's own shoes. But what do you expect from those exotic parents anyway? leaving their country to squander in ours, playing with nails in a salon, coercing nails into walls. Let their hunger and poverty be the nails in their cross, as they die for the family of Phan-kind.
So, really, what more could anyone expect of their progeny?
Nevertheless, Philip Phan managed to persist through primary school, assisted greatly by his older sister, one grade ahead and several grades better.
It was quite the tragedy, then, when on August 21, 2006, she was brutally raped by a gang of, wouldn't you know it, no good niggers. It is simply appalling the sorts that are allowed to run around in this country.
Penny Phan stopped being Penny that day, resorting and responding only to her native name and tongue, which, let's face it, is rather unpronounceable anyhow.
Philip, then, was by all accounts failing on his own accord.
What an idiot, to draw a triangle with four sides.
But the day came, when Philip Phan realized how redundant the alphabet was. Not just his native Vietnamese, which he was never taught anyway, lest it confuse him, but even the English one, which for all intents and purposes looks nearly identical to Vietnamese stripped of those annoying exotic flourishes and embellishments, letters wearing tailcoats and hats beyond all rhyme and possibly reason.
No, no, those diacritics had reached a critical mass. And for that matter, the English was no better.
No, the day came when Philip was able to reduce his alphabet into four letters:
A - the letter Adenine
T - the letter Thymine
G - the letter Guanine
C - the letter Cytosine
The more Philip read in his newfound language, the more plots and characters unwound themselves for him, unzipping their prom dresses like no sensible girl ever would.
Eventually, his language was discovered, and his name quickly shifted its weight towards his surname, savant, catching him and his family off balance completely. In the gravity of this miracle of molecular-biological, genetic revelation, gravity dissolved from under Philip's toes, as he was elevated into the Asgardian halls of bearded scientists, drunk with divination.
They started slowly, checking and double-checking Philip's reading mistakes.
He made none.
They accelerated, checking and double-checking the limits Philip's reading capacity.
He had none.
They wondered, was there a terminal velocity of his voracious literacy?
He showed none.
So finally, we cut to the chase. Forget the mice. Forget the sheep.
Can Philip read us our stories before we are tucked in to our eternal sleep?
He could.
The lines queued up on cue, as the bearded scientists nodded sagely that world leaders should have their biographies read to them, to test their merit, to weigh their hearts and fists. As blonde Valkyries were dispatched to round up the leaders of the world, twitching like giddy children, the movie stars and celebrities pounded on the oaken hall doors and demanded that their pecuniary sacrifices be heeded.
And why not?
Soon, Philip's shelves were filled with more and more novels, in little vials, petri dishes, and even corked up eye-droppers from enthusiastic suburban parents-to-be. He was loved. He was adored. He was the world's most revered storyteller, cantering through the cantos of the biographic bras under those genetic zippers, his tongue enunciating every bodily curve and notch like a lover's kiss.
But the day came, when low lit monitors and bright-skinned books took their toll on Philip's eyesight. Atrocious that he should have been devoid of proper healthcare as a child! The Phan family should learn to take care of their young like proper respectful folk. For a child to lose his eyesight at the shallow age of 24, daylight fading away with each passing hour.
If only such a prolific reader had been born in this country, to the right, white people. Then we wouldn't have to suffer from such trifling setbacks.
They tried braille. They tried reading to him.
It was pointless.
Literature is meant to be read, and Philip could not understand the jumbled sounds and dots that clamored over him like ticks.
Oh, but if he had the fortitude of Beethoven, to continue giving the world his gifts. But we must remind ourselves, it is in his own selfish natures and cultures that we must respect his incompetency and shortcomings.
He, after all, has the right.
The howling crowds tore down the doors of the Asgardian halls, as the bearded scientists threw up their hands in despair. Let the wolves come in, if the pigs can't keep them out! After all, Rome was founded by a son of a bitch; we will see what becomes of this Ragnarok.
When Philip died shortly thereafter, his body was whisked away from the Phans, his sister clinging to the body defiantly with perfect nails. They were to incinerate a genetic Rosetta Stone! The audacity of such scientific rejection.
No, the bearded scientists had found their Rome in Philip's brain, and all roads led from it.
And besides, the Phans were given an even bigger house with a commemorative plaque, having borne such a hero. What did they have to complain about?
And why were they still working that damned nail salon? shopping at that same atrocious market?
You can lead a horse to water.
And after another decade, after Philip's parents were long dead and gone, after Philip himself had faded from public memory, it seemed that there was no scientific answer at hand. Horses had become scientists. Rome had burned. Years of planning had led to a collapse of the empirical research, as the barbarians at the gates had criticized the project into bankruptcy.
Finally, in disgust, they returned Philip's body to his sister, to accompany her lonely spiraling towards death. Their final report was drolly written, a somber voice of defeat, and the conclusions were read by few and forgotten by everyone, save Philip's sister, who was the only person delusional enough to claim to have understood the bottom line.
"Philip Phan's brain is made of flesh and blood like everybody else's."
It was such an easy accusation when one can't dress himself, can hardly tie one's own shoes. But what do you expect from those exotic parents anyway? leaving their country to squander in ours, playing with nails in a salon, coercing nails into walls. Let their hunger and poverty be the nails in their cross, as they die for the family of Phan-kind.
So, really, what more could anyone expect of their progeny?
Nevertheless, Philip Phan managed to persist through primary school, assisted greatly by his older sister, one grade ahead and several grades better.
It was quite the tragedy, then, when on August 21, 2006, she was brutally raped by a gang of, wouldn't you know it, no good niggers. It is simply appalling the sorts that are allowed to run around in this country.
Penny Phan stopped being Penny that day, resorting and responding only to her native name and tongue, which, let's face it, is rather unpronounceable anyhow.
Philip, then, was by all accounts failing on his own accord.
What an idiot, to draw a triangle with four sides.
But the day came, when Philip Phan realized how redundant the alphabet was. Not just his native Vietnamese, which he was never taught anyway, lest it confuse him, but even the English one, which for all intents and purposes looks nearly identical to Vietnamese stripped of those annoying exotic flourishes and embellishments, letters wearing tailcoats and hats beyond all rhyme and possibly reason.
No, no, those diacritics had reached a critical mass. And for that matter, the English was no better.
No, the day came when Philip was able to reduce his alphabet into four letters:
A - the letter Adenine
T - the letter Thymine
G - the letter Guanine
C - the letter Cytosine
The more Philip read in his newfound language, the more plots and characters unwound themselves for him, unzipping their prom dresses like no sensible girl ever would.
Eventually, his language was discovered, and his name quickly shifted its weight towards his surname, savant, catching him and his family off balance completely. In the gravity of this miracle of molecular-biological, genetic revelation, gravity dissolved from under Philip's toes, as he was elevated into the Asgardian halls of bearded scientists, drunk with divination.
They started slowly, checking and double-checking Philip's reading mistakes.
He made none.
They accelerated, checking and double-checking the limits Philip's reading capacity.
He had none.
They wondered, was there a terminal velocity of his voracious literacy?
He showed none.
So finally, we cut to the chase. Forget the mice. Forget the sheep.
Can Philip read us our stories before we are tucked in to our eternal sleep?
He could.
The lines queued up on cue, as the bearded scientists nodded sagely that world leaders should have their biographies read to them, to test their merit, to weigh their hearts and fists. As blonde Valkyries were dispatched to round up the leaders of the world, twitching like giddy children, the movie stars and celebrities pounded on the oaken hall doors and demanded that their pecuniary sacrifices be heeded.
And why not?
Soon, Philip's shelves were filled with more and more novels, in little vials, petri dishes, and even corked up eye-droppers from enthusiastic suburban parents-to-be. He was loved. He was adored. He was the world's most revered storyteller, cantering through the cantos of the biographic bras under those genetic zippers, his tongue enunciating every bodily curve and notch like a lover's kiss.
But the day came, when low lit monitors and bright-skinned books took their toll on Philip's eyesight. Atrocious that he should have been devoid of proper healthcare as a child! The Phan family should learn to take care of their young like proper respectful folk. For a child to lose his eyesight at the shallow age of 24, daylight fading away with each passing hour.
If only such a prolific reader had been born in this country, to the right, white people. Then we wouldn't have to suffer from such trifling setbacks.
They tried braille. They tried reading to him.
It was pointless.
Literature is meant to be read, and Philip could not understand the jumbled sounds and dots that clamored over him like ticks.
Oh, but if he had the fortitude of Beethoven, to continue giving the world his gifts. But we must remind ourselves, it is in his own selfish natures and cultures that we must respect his incompetency and shortcomings.
He, after all, has the right.
The howling crowds tore down the doors of the Asgardian halls, as the bearded scientists threw up their hands in despair. Let the wolves come in, if the pigs can't keep them out! After all, Rome was founded by a son of a bitch; we will see what becomes of this Ragnarok.
When Philip died shortly thereafter, his body was whisked away from the Phans, his sister clinging to the body defiantly with perfect nails. They were to incinerate a genetic Rosetta Stone! The audacity of such scientific rejection.
No, the bearded scientists had found their Rome in Philip's brain, and all roads led from it.
And besides, the Phans were given an even bigger house with a commemorative plaque, having borne such a hero. What did they have to complain about?
And why were they still working that damned nail salon? shopping at that same atrocious market?
You can lead a horse to water.
And after another decade, after Philip's parents were long dead and gone, after Philip himself had faded from public memory, it seemed that there was no scientific answer at hand. Horses had become scientists. Rome had burned. Years of planning had led to a collapse of the empirical research, as the barbarians at the gates had criticized the project into bankruptcy.
Finally, in disgust, they returned Philip's body to his sister, to accompany her lonely spiraling towards death. Their final report was drolly written, a somber voice of defeat, and the conclusions were read by few and forgotten by everyone, save Philip's sister, who was the only person delusional enough to claim to have understood the bottom line.
"Philip Phan's brain is made of flesh and blood like everybody else's."
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