I'm Lee. Thanks for visiting!
If this is our first time meeting, the pleasure is likely mine, unless your disposition is particularly displeasing, in which case you can scurry on with your miserable life.

My last name Ajang, is my father's first name making me Lerong son of Ajang. Pretty simple, but, in small-town America, where I've spent much of life while in the States, that's a hell of a story.
But for those of you, who may be easily bored, keep reading, because it gets much better:

My parents had always told me that I was birthed with a pencil in my hand. Whether I was drawing or writing, it had always been apparent that my inherent proficiency slanted toward the arts, particularly in story writing. In my early childhood, I would write sequels and series expounding and continuing the narratives from my favorite movies. I can't remember when I decided that I wanted to be a writer; it seems like I was born one.

In Malaysia, my father had a management position with the national oil company of Malaysia, PETRONAS and ASEAN Bintulu Fertilizer (ABF). We lived in a two story house on the beachfront overlooking the South China Sea, compliments of the firm. When we came to the states looking for that American dream, my father worked seemingly endless hours at McDonalds, eventually becoming a manager there too, while my mother and I stayed in a small garage that had been converted into a miniature apartment. There were no doors and the ceiling was collapsing in the kitchen. There were times, while job-hunting, that my father had to hear that phrase, "We don't accept your kind here," and, unfortunately, between the rest stops, restaurants, schools, and businesses of southern Ohio and West Virginia, that particular phrase became pretty well known to me, and, in the many encounters I had there, that particular phrase did not always have to be stated for the sentiment to ring crystal clear. I was well acquainted with words like "chink," "jap," "kike," "nigger," "gook," "chinese boy," and many others despite not qualifying for most of them. I knew what a good beating felt like, but, unfortunately, it didn't come from my parents.

The irony is that, when I was a child and young teenager, it seemed that many Americans did not want to believe that sort of thing happened, or happens, in this country, because, apparently, the civil rights movement should have been the end to all discrimination. By the time racism became something that was okay to talk about, Americans were already tired of hearing about it. "Can't those people just get over it?" or, perhaps, "Why are they upset, I didn't do it?" But, hey, maybe you did. And, nevertheless, they, or should I say we, didn't do anything to deserve that sort of treatment.

Americans sympathize more often with the predator and not the victim, unless we're griping on affirmative action: then, it’s okay to feel sorry for the poor, white middle class. But, to many, it's more often the woman's fault for being raped, and, because of her "stupidity," we absolve the pathetic male who obstructed her of all blame: victimizing the victim. There has to be a scapegoat, but only one side is to blame. When Bill got a blow, Monica got the wrap, right?

When the Jena 6 trials were news, I was appalled that the country had not erupted in outrage - almost as appalled as watching our nation invade Iraq while the country watched American Idol. White kids can hang nooses and start fights, but, god forbid black kids fight back... here come the coppers! And someone actually had the nerve to tell me, "But, you know, it's never an excuse to be violent. The black kids were wrong also." There was no sympathy for the abused; there was no outrage over the injustice. It was, quite simply, the victim's fault for fighting back, for not kowtowing to that slave mind to bow down and take the beating. Remember what we were taught in school? Uncle Tom was the good slave.

Culture shock is a powerful force, especially when you're a young child torn from the harmony of what you believe to be home and thrust into a community filled with racial hatred. It isn't easy to know you're hated simply because of your skin, but it's harder to see your own father, who's maintained his positive outlook and unrelenting work ethic, suffer at the hands of ignorance.

I was able to cope via my writing and drawing.
Drawing pictures to illustrate my stories often assisted my visual understanding of my work. Could I capture the image with my hand but not with words? Could I capture the image with words but without images?

By the time I had become a teenager, I had written countless short narratives, many of them adaptations, many of them my own, and although during various relocations many of them have been lost, ruined, or forgotten, the compulsion to write and create has remained indelible. They remain pieces of my soul, expressing a time when my two best friends were my dog and my notebook.

It was a relief when my father finally got an administrative job at Marshall University, but, unfortunately, because the area hadn't changed, the rough times were still rolling. We eventually relocated to Western Maryland where he secured a job at Frostburg State University. I know he has memories of college life in Athens, Ohio with the Shotokan Karate club and his many friends. Higher education in the 70s must have been a real treat, but, then again, I wasn't there, and I don't know.

Despite our move I was still in a small town, but at least I didn't have to worry about skinheads trying to drive me down in streets or old men shooting bee bee guns at my from their porches.

Looking back over the tumultuous ride is no easy task, and, even still, I’ve only unveiled a small shadow compared to the long, dark sky of my childhood. It's nearly as difficult as experiencing it first hand, except add bitter contemplation. I could probably write ten novels to further expound this relatively short telling of a long history of events. I had to suffer the poisoning hatred of others just to poison myself with my own hatred. Luckily, I was able to channel much of it into my writing, my music, my exercise, and my enjoyment of art.

I'm in a much more positive state of mind despite my social and traditional defiance. I became vegetarian; I hope to become vegan. I became avidly into fitness. I became a new person, but I still find that I rarely pass a day when I am not scribbling ideas down with a pencil or typing them into paragraphs on the computer screen.

This website is a place to find my work, above all. My music, my art, my pictures, my podcasts, and, most importantly, my writing. If you're interested, along the way, you might find a little history and a little culture. I've made banners in case you'd like to support me or my projects by posting them on your sites – click here - your good energy and encouragement is always welcome. I thank you for stopping in to visit. I hope you've enjoyed our time together.

Hope to see you again.