Read book so people across the country are able to have conversations about that experience, Kao Kalia Yang is one of the best to take us there. Her new book the song poet, a nice companion piece to a memoir about her father and his role in keeping history alive through the oral tradition. I thought both books were moving, giving me such insight into the role of culture and family life, made me think about how it works. Without further a do, help me welcome Kao Kalia Yang. [applause] can you all see me . Okay. Can you all hear me . Even if you cant see me. Thank you for being here. Im delighted to be back. Two years ago i was here with the late home, her and i am glad to bring you the song poet. I am incredibly proud of this. Im working on speaking slower. People told me i speak too fast. You give me some feedback afterwards, okay . The song poet came out of a conversation i had with my father a few years ago. I asked my dad how does a song poet become . He looked at me a little bit and said when i was young there were few people that they beautiful things to me. My father died when i was two years old. My mother had 89 children, i was 2 years old. Growing up i always wished for a father. And things people say to each other. I was speaking for myself. That was beautiful. I said to my dad maybe that will be the beginning of my next to book. He looked at me and said maybe at the end, nobody wants to read a book about men like me. They invite themselves. A few years after that a producer came to our house, asked my father how it feels looked at her, i can barely by my own name, my daughter i only wish i could read. I started thinking seriously about men like my father on the streets of new york city when i was studying there. Walking to Columbia University in restaurants. Other colleges like stanford university, most of this world is built on the shoulders of men like my father. They have lessons to offer the world. This is one way of me telling my father, the song poet, he was my first literary experience of the world. The the song poet begins with this is the dedication. For the songs that arise from the horizon, my brothers and sisters, my sons and daughters, my fathers only songs and the still fluttering heart. In the words of Ralph Ellison on american blues, keeping the details and episodes of approval experience alive in one consciousness. Not by the consolation of the philosophy but squeezing from it a different thing. Has a form that loses a biographical catastrophe expressed, it can have the voices of fathers and daughters coming together, different versus of the same song. I am taking on my fathers form the best way i know how. I dont have the voice to sing. My father has a beautiful voice. Your voice is your only vehicle to the world. There are no musical accompaniments. I was born underneath the umbrella to focus my best effort. I will give you a feel for the book. It is a fatherless voice. I ran away from home, each time i loved i did not think of the coming of night. My only plan was to find the tallest tree i could from the village and climb it. I thought i would stay forever somewhere between the earth and the sky. I would sit on the tree of my village and look at the gentle curve of the valleys and search for the place my father was buried. Father is on a mountain in the shape of an uneven triangle rising out of the stream house. On the tree i repeated the words i gathered from friends and relatives, words i heard my mother say to their children, words of appeal of love, courage, words the travel everywhere to come to the same place, do not the afraid, everything will be okay. The jungle foliage was thicker and closer, what was in the sky, shielded the top on the highest mountain peaks floated down and covered the ground. I curled my legs on the tree limbs and saw the cool dampness of the mountain air, saw it travel through my pants and my shirt was armor and against the evening wins and recalled stories village elders told of wandering the night, seeking operations from the living. From the safety of the storytellers it was fine pretending the firefight, the tortured souls would linger. In the dark of my tree limb, the brink of light i saw belonged to that. My courage wavered and i started thinking perhaps running away was not the answer. It was no ones fault i wanted a father. I could not locate in the world. Each time i ran away i walked home on the same path i had taken. I went over things my mother did for each of us, started thinking of my older brothers and sisters, the harvest with his mother and little brother, june became a teacher so he could share his government salary with everyone in the family. I got out before dawn each day and crawled into bed each night. To be the first to work with the village. Working hard at raising healthy chickens, so the family could be at each new years feast. Notebooks in his hand all the time and notes of politics and humor to be an example of education for who i need to follow. God did the laundry and helped with the house and while there were complaints it never stopped her from working. And argued so much and what did i do . It was too sensitive with concern over having enough right, holding himself as a brother, would simply be a good father. It was not his intention to make anyone sad. All his brothers were acting as if they knew home but that was because he didnt have a father. Nothing less and nothing more. I need to extend his heart and become more of what the family needed him to be. And whether it was big round eyes i ran away so many times because i could not carry the weight of words. The ones inside me and around me because i could not use my mind, conscious and unconscious. Words i yearned to hear, there was no one to save them. I found myself stumbling back, embarrassed by lack of confidence. My mother never asked why i ran away or where i had been. Upon my return i said and she agreed i had gone to play by myself because i was a loner and straight too far and had taken much longer to get home what was good for me. My little feet could not be the defense of a great sign. I was young and i forgot. Even after the other things, what they told me to remember. My mother accepted this, only too happy i found my way home again. She surrounded me with well and dry earth, a woman with public words, my mother did not offer many merrymans but when i returned home, i made the beating of her frantic heart. The only person who knew about that innocent mistake, i saw in his eyes a brand of hopelessness and love. Who would lie very still in a message shared with me. He folded his arms over his head, stared up to the ceiling. His eyes did not close. As it comes to me, one hand unfolded from the other and holding my small medium hand at this point. He gave a squeeze. In the course of those fingers i felt i was not alone. If i had not returned, who would truly be alone. That is when i cried. For my own thoughtlessness and endless learning. I didnt dare make a noise, my body jerked in small motions and the hot liquid of my tears slipped out of my eyes and down either side of my face. The tears i held back by the fire lights and away from the village up high in the trees, a small string of hurt unfurling. Through the tears i could see my mothers back turned to the wall and in the dark her body jerked in little motions similar to my own. I was 12 years old when i began singing poetry with my body was changing. More girls were noticing me in the village. My mind was changing too. I understood school is not my arena that i could find other pathways into manhood. The world was changing. Each day i drew more curtains on my future at the deck of a gun, not a pen. A dead battle with cries of widows and orphans in our village, the only way i could meet their pain was to take it inside of me, melt into my flesh and feel what was called through my veins, my heart overflowed. When i began seeing song poetry i discovered i could share stories of courage and sorrow of missing and despair, anger and betrayal, conscious and unconscious, intentional and not. The sensitivity of those around me. My brothers and sisters, family and friends follow their hot tears down there cheeks. My son about me and those around me, those words that were impossible to live up to, unforgettable to hear, the eternal care, and not be afraid, everything will be all right. In 1982 my father came up with an album of poetry that was considered a bestseller in the community. My father made 5000, the goal is to use the money to come up with a second album. I remember very clearly i knew about 5000. I went to my dad and said i need something new. If you dont buy me new colored pencils i wont go to school because i am embarrassed. I dont want to do the same thing year in and year out. My father went there. My older sister wanted things too. The younger ones come along and they follow in our footsteps and my father talked on going to 5000 and the album never came out. It translated closing on our back, drumsticks in our hands. And never asked about the second one. It wasnt until i became a writer, that one question the one producer asked, when you are your self. My dad answered her i can barely write my own name. My daughter writes in english stories i speak. The next thing i will read is from my most the small track in the book, how to love, in my fathers voice. I love you win you said we could get up at 3 00 in the morning and get away from our younger children, wanted me to change jobs and tear up the children during the day. I wanted we did not speak much english. I wanted to ask who would drive you to work in the morning and when the shift was through. We only had one car. I wanted to tell you i was scared to look for a job and come home without one. I wanted to tell you i was scared to go to work without you, who was going to help when you filled them up. What if something was wrong . Who would hold your hand with you outside . How would i ever work in this country, raise the children without knowing you were beside me, you were the only reason i felt we had a chance, and putting our days before our children. I love him too much to speak to you, and even at lesser pay, take care of the children, and part with them each morning. I love you through the years we were together because the work was in different places, and continue the old routine. And the rest. And by 5 you have industries and take care of children until you got home at 2 00 in the afternoon. My shift started at 3 00. And we say hello and goodbye, didnt get home until midnight. The small is quiet because you and the younger children are actually. The other girls, an effort to get up and talk about safety first. I told them not to come close, working in the factory and chemicals and the particles i worked with. I knew it could cause cancer. After i shower i get you close each way and then kiss my older girls at night and falling to the edge of the mattress, three younger ones reading my song in the night. Breath never came until you woke up and could see the children closer and sleep on my back. In those years it was only in my dreams we were together. And held my hand and the hands of our children. There you were softly, you held me close and told me i was doing a good job alongside you but our life wasnt like that. I never asked what your dreams where. I was scared of them. On the weekends, tired and exhausted, happy to be with the children, unsure how to be with each other. Crashing, silencing, on the weekends we share the same house, same children, the same life. Not until i got married, not until my husband and i woke up the same alarm every morning that we were at the same dining table and sometimes we ate lunch together but i understood the loneliness from my mother and father. I understood those weekends when they crowded around us and apart from each other. This next track. My father says he is nothing more and nothing less then the father he imagined for himself. He is only the person that is there. This is from a track titled the sun must rise. With my younger brother . On a dark rainy night our father calls for one more family meeting, and huge voices, return to school get a job and leave home. Our mother sat on the sofa so that she didnt touch him. Pieces of tissue in her hand and put some up to her face to cover her eyes as our father spoke and did not contain her mouth. The words she wanted to say to our father were inside and all we could do was watch who he was fighting for. Our mother said she would rather be safe at home in a world that would not welcome him a. She said our father sustained her if he wanted to but she was not going to take the responsibility for what has happened and our father could blame himself because a father has as much to carry as his son. She said to our father, works with no different at school. He was holding true and the only reason he didnt quit was because he had children to feed. He was no more of a success in america than sue. If anyone gives an ultimatum. Our father tried to say the meeting wasnt about him or their relationship. It was about sue. Our mother would not be quiet. She had her hands over her heart, tissues in her hand and described, yet her voice did not crack, had last she said i am tired of love you both so much and seeing you fall into your selves, the men you are. The more our mother smoke the smaller our father became, it could be big for us. Sue came to his rescue. Sue raised a hand, tried to speak but no words came out of his lips. He didnt want to leave max. Max was 4 years old. Sue looked at max sitting by the wall and looked back at him. Our father said i dont want you to be an example for your little brother max on how to survive in a country as a young man. Our father thought his words were motivating, we watched them slice her brother apart. Max heard our fathers words, he had been sitting by the stairwell, made the decision. When max heard our fathers words he got up and said sue is my brother, cannot leave me. Life without sue is no life at all. I would rather die than live in america without my brother. Locking case with our father, and held onto his arm. Our father moved away, stood up, paste, keeping it even. The balls of his feet burned with the long night beside the machine at work. Standing and walking. He walked a small stretch to the light of the dining area. This is what happens when you stand and walk without rest the night through. He held up his red pants, tight white lines and his hartline colliding across his calloused palms. He said this is what happens to human flesh when it cuts into steel. He said i want you to have a life that is better than mine. I dont want you to be a machinist like me or live your life as men and boys stupider than you telling you you are along here in this country, telling you to be part of the country you do not have. I want you to have a better life than me. I want you to be better than me. Sue looked at our father and said what if you are the best man i know how to be . He didnt want to accept it. For the first time in his life he heard the words of a son to his father, knew what it was like to yearn for a father, burn to make him better and sue had tried to keep him safe. Sue could no longer save our father from himself lose our father said you cannot be moved in this country. Then i cannot provide in this country. Sue got up, walked to put his hand on maxs head, offered no words, no goodbyes. Sue passed by the father into the dining room, into the kitchen and opened the cabinet beside the white refrigerator, pulled out a black garbage bag, closed the cabinet so lightly it made no sound, didnt turn off the lights in the hallway, walked into his room. It was a horrible nightmare, the nightmare we had been dreading, the moment we believed our life together as a family would end, not because of war or soldiers encroaching but because the remnants of war inside each of us, the battle we fought to survive in america. We ran after sue, he held to the end of his shirt and tried to hold them still, washing in Different Directions and back again and stood with hand over there mouths which are mother and father watched from the doorway of sues room, a framed photograph of grandma and the garbage bag. And photograph there is not enough in his eyes despite the side with hairspray. He has a blade of grass. On his bookshelf with the photograph of 2yearold max from a shirt that was too small. Maxs hands behind his back and to the side, put a picture in the garbage, grabbed a few white tshirts, a pair of jeans and a sweater, there was no waking up from this nightmare. Sue left that night, we sat outside calling for him as he drove away and disappeared into the dark. In the distance we heard the sound of the cars. I will read one more excerpt and open up for q a. I will read a short one. I had been thinking, my heart was on the other side, spicy and sweet, brought to mind the simplicity i had known as a child in the thick coconut risk giving way, of chicken soup, but more important, yearning to see your brothers but meeting them without the presence of her mother. There are pieces of us and after all these years we had to return Going Forward. And go to laos for a week. And in a tiny way. I could not sleep, listened to the humming of a small airconditioner in the room, in the mattress. I drifted in and out of sleep. Restless as a grey cloud. I got up and opened the door of the patio the room, drove it across and felt the heat and humidity, closed the door behind me, stood on the small balcony, hand on the railing and saw fireflies flittering across the dark corners of the courtyard, small floating sparks in the trees, hot winds blue, motorcycles and somewhere the lonely sound reminiscent of what drifted toward me. I missed my people in a way i had never missed. I missed laos, missed my father. It wasnt only my father or my mother, it was laos that awoke me in my journey separated by time, the leaves of my heart returning. Laos ravaged by war and its aftermath as had been my life. I knew the old places would be gone. I believed the majestic mountains would stand. Through the years there were moments i believed i would return to laos in death and meet again the land that had given me life. I stood on the dark balcony feeling the flow down my cheek and the rush of my hands. Thank you for being with me. [applause] i am here for you. I have no remarks that i dont like to talk at people. I want to be in conversation with them. There is a microphone set up right there where connor is standing. Questions from the microphone. You can ask me anything you want. I will try my best to think it over. My question, you have written a book for your mother, and your father. How have they received them . Are they in conversation about them . My first book was very much about my grandmother. Im like the dog after he sent of a thong. I dont know when to give up and i dont. So, this book is alive and its in the world. Thats the test of the world. Anyone else . People tell me im best at the q a, not the reading part, but the q a and it would not be okay with me if you left to this room without saying a thing and went in the world and said i had nothing to offer thats not fair to me, so please ask me whats in your heart, whats on your mind. You can ask me about writing if you like. Yes. How can i listen to your fathers album . Its on my website and you can order from it and listen to it. He has a beautiful voice. That is