Showing posts with label Anecdotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anecdotes. Show all posts

Thursday, June 11, 2015

My FB response to the conversation about McKinney, Texas on my wall. LONG POST ALERT!!!

So I've thought carefully about what to respond to or with because there is so much subjective evidence and different perspectives regarding this incident. But I've decided that I no longer will become part of the public jury in the analysis of the video and case. What I will explain is my original reactionary post and what I do understand about the larger reality around the incidents being publicly released and the conversations flowing from them (i.e. Ferguson, Eric Garner, McKinney, etc.). James and Donny, I absolutely agree - that not every single thing where race is highlighted as part of the issue is helpful or even realistic to consider. But when it comes to incidents with law enforcement and brown people - particularly Black people, the matter of race will likely not ever leave the conversation, or at least be difficult to erase as a possible factor in their mind's eye. This really comes from the historical trauma that black communities have carried coming first from centuries of racism and it's relationship with government and law. For example, emancipation was instituted during the Civil War. Slaves who attempted freedom prior to and even afterwards by escaping into the union states were hunted down by law enforcement, often awarded for their bounty. If you hit the Jim Crow era through the Civil Rghts movement, Law enforcement often worked closely with the KKK to resist and terrorize the movements against racial discrimination and segregation. This was taking place a little over 50 years ago.

Something that has also inflamed this reality is that since emancipation, while freedom was made possible, there was no economic structure and plan to provide education, financial stability and occupational security to millions of people whose only prior option was slavery. And while ingenuity and sheer perseverance led to a heyday during the Harlem Renaissance where for the first time the black community was enjoying economic flourishing, this reality was still built within a society that continued to relegate them as lesser than equal and enforced law to keep it so.  This resulted in policies that disenfranchised the black vote in the south. It resulted in exclusion from quality education systems all over the nation, and created a general lack of access to financial stability - leading to poverty, vagrancy and for many, feeling like criminal activity might be the only option to thrive socially and economically. It has entrenched millions of families in a cycle of almost inescapable generational poverty. 

So finally, it comes together with law enforcement having to enter into neighborhoods rampant with illegal activity, full of people with a history of trauma, violence and discrimination triggered by those in uniform or those who hold a title of law-enforcer.  It doesn’t help when racially-biased incidents still occur between predominantly white law enforcement and black people like the Rodney King incident back in 1992. It also doesn't help when the criminal activity is equally violent and dangerous - putting police and innocent bystanders at risk.

In the past, I might have said things like, “All that was so long ago. What does that history have to do with the realities now?” But what I’ve grown to accept is that trauma for a single person can have long lasting effects. A soldier returning from Afghanistan likely deals with PTSD and people that look like their enemy overseas could be a trigger for anger, paranoia and distrust, just like the sound of an airplane overhead can resurrect instances of trauma in the battlefield. It’s the same for a female rape victim towards men, or an abused puppy towards humans. Some of this trauma is irrevocable for a single person after decades of coping. It is difficult for me to believe that whole communities who have faced such a history of violent trauma can just table the so-called “race card.” 

Transversely, I think people whose experience has largely been positive with law enforcement and understand that people in uniform signify trust, safety and control it is natural to defend the police who protect and serve because the history of trauma triggered by law enforcement in the United States has not been shared. It is why I had some mental work to do when I first wrestled with these conversations because I largely trust white people and the police. As a Filipino with a particular economic status, my family and I have the luxury of setting aside discrimination to some degree. That is not true for much of black America (or Latino, Arab & Indigenous America). So yep, I think that the race card gets pulled A LOT. Some of it might not be legitimate/but much of it still is (that's another conversation). Regardless, It is an example of a reactionary response of any trauma victim that is trying to prevent the same thing from happening to them again. 

In all this, I also recognize that there has been trust broken on the side of white folks and police. There is a long history of being villainized. There is exasperation because it seems like every time a situation with a brown person comes up, a white person/cop is going to get accused of racism. There is trauma in this too because it involves the same hope that the black community has of wanting to make sure the ugly history doesn't repeat itself. There is trauma in this too because while institutionalized discrimination leading to economic disenfranchisement might not be shared, the emotional barrage of being hated, mistrusted, accused and villainized just for having fair skin or wearing a uniform is frustrating and demoralizing. 

But there is a distinct difference in how each group is coping. It is not about reliving the history of trauma over and over again for cops and white folks, it is about denying the gravity and impact of the messy history of a nation that is desperately attempting to move on and be proud of itself. So each 'race card' - each accusation becomes a frustrating reminder that the conversation isn't over yet. It's like every time I'm convinced I've conquered a personal flaw and find myself making the same mistake it crushes my world! It's like the middle child whose trying to earn the favor of their parent by acing their tests, but is told that they are still not good enough. So like the soldier who has PTSD, trauma manifests in anger, depression, delusion and so much more. It creates broken trust with people they love. It might instill fear because of outbreaks of suppressed rage or involuntary responses to their triggers. Inevitably, it creates more distance and brokenness because of great misunderstanding with the community around them. It's what happens every time another police-related incident blows up on the news.

With a trauma victim, the restoration takes owning that there is something wrong. It involves experts committed to finding the root of the trauma and unpacking the experience. It also involves a loving community committed to the long journey of healing, humble enough to learn and be transformed by new understanding. Another key aspect  of restoration in trauma is that their reality and experience is not invalidated. It is why we thoroughly investigate any possible sign of sexual abuse towards a child, taking them at their word. Finally, whether we are comfortable with it or not, trauma not dealt with can have decades/centuries/generations of impact. Just think of family feuds and grudges caused by a single incident.

We are a nation that's trying to cope with trauma on a massive scale - scrambling to move on without doing the hard work. Instead we are invalidating one another's narratives - breaking more trust, and refusing to own the impact that centuries of such violence from our past has on our society today. We have no interest in choosing the restoration process because for both sides, myself included, it's easier to be mad, sad or indifferent rather than do the work of healing.

My post was an attempt to raise a red flag that we are still yet to deal with our trauma and spur on conversation. It is why I am saddened and grieved as I watch people tear one another apart on Buzzfeed, FB, wherever. We relegate "those people" to scum rather than approaching one another in love. It is why I prefer to have these conversations privately because I know my own tendency to be quick to speak and be about winning an argument, projecting bitterness and spewing hate because it feels good to put someone down, or post angrily because it doesn't require relationship. I commit myself to stepping back and think thoughtfully about how to approach people who share vastly different opinions than mine with love, respect and understanding. I force myself to see the humanity of each person especially when I disagree. That won't always mean that I won't be direct and call things out, but I refuse to allow social media to become another forum to break trust and create greater divides. 

This all just barely scratches the surface and doesn't even address what it will take to restore trust and bring healing - that's honestly for another day and another thorough conversation. But I Look forward to your responses. I continue to welcome your feedback and perspectives. 

P.S. Full disclaimer here - I am no expert on trauma. I am drawing fully from my personal experiences and little learning. I am also just a student of sociology and a voracious reader of social psychology and matters regarding racism and human rights.There are far more learned people who have given all of my "ideas" a publication date fleshed out and backed up by pages of scholarship and study. Let me know if you want any of those resources. I am also fully open to be corrected if I present something incorrectly or I'm just not making any sense. It'll be a tough pill to swallow, but I'll receive it!

P.S.S. To my fellow Asians and Asian American brothers and sisters who might read this post - you might have noticed that I didn't list you (us). because there is a distinctness in this conversation of our experience in the U.S. and that alone is so vastly different depending on which people group you are talking about. I just couldn't figure out away to nuance that reality in a speedy manner. Please forgive me if you were miffed! 

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Back in the Blogosphere! My Ode to Indiana's Winter Shenanigans

So, I'm posting for the heck of posting just to force myself to blog again. It's like that moment when you've decided you are going to workout again and the first step is to get up and put on your workout clothes. But truly. I must blog. It calls to me. It gives me so much joy to blah blah blah on the internet. I don't know who reads my stuff, or even gives a rip about what I have to say, but my brain reels with thoughts all of the day long, and it's pretty cathartic to have the illusion that someone is hearing what I'm thinking about. Call it my parking lot of verbal vomit, my storage unit of dusty mind boxes, my shoe rack of proverbial flip flops, my backpack of virtual notebooks. 

I'm not even going to pretend that I'll be consistent about how much I'll post. We all know how that panned out. I might be tempted though to schedule in some "spontaneous" creative times in my calendar as forethought. Regardless, here it is 2015. I've begun to write again. 

Enjoy my first attempt this afternoon!



So what do you do with the 5-6 inches of fresh snow that has fallen in your front yard? Make a coffee slushy. You should have seen the ridiculous parental (not a real word - I know) look my husband gave me when I asked him to fill a coffee cup with snow before he proceeded to do grown up things like shovel our sidewalk. His side eye essentially said, "You. Are. Being. Juvenile." Mind you, only moments ago I slid down the steps in my pajamas just to irritate him. Lol. What more did he expect from me at this point? 

While he sweat and toiled I giggled to myself like 5 year olds do when they are inspired within their little minds to make a delicious snowy, coffee, creamy slushy concoction.

So down to business. Follow this process very carefully if you want the best treat you've ever spontaneously created from the natural elements afforded to you by mother nature. Come to think of it, it was probably so satisfying because I felt so self-sufficient! You know, like catching a fish yourself, skinning it, gutting it and frying it up for dinner over a campfire. Discovery Channel should really make a show about this.  

Step 1: Find coffee mug of choice and ask household adult to fill mug with snow instead of doing it yourself in order to avoid the snowmaggedon that decided to show up on your doorstep weeks before Spring is set to arrive. You missed your turn Winter. Don't be so selfish. (Bitter much? Yes.) 

Step 2: Brew coffee of choice and chill. In my case, use leftover coffee of choice** and pour over mug-shaped snowball. It is important to focus on taking pictures of the perfect pour instead of realizing that you might be spilling on the kitchen counter. 

Step 3: Take flavored creamer of desired choice and pour over mug-shaped snowball. Again, insert moment of narcissistic photography, paying no mind to the other responsibilities that might be calling to your attention like laundry, or making breakfast. 

Step 4: Use spoon to stir and enjoy! The best bites are at the bottom where all the cream and sugar has settled. Mmmmm. Mine tasted like a vanilla latte. 

Optional Step 5: Spend such an exorbitant amount of time touching up photos and making a collage of your coffee slushy adventures just in time to have it all melt into a standard, very boring cup of iced coffee that made this whole process a complete waste of time.*

This was a treat y'all! Another post coming soon. Hopefully. Maybe. 

<3 Rodelyn


**Shout out to Hopscotch coffee for you Bloomingtonians. I'm always down for a new cup o' Joe. Hopscotch just opened this year and locally roasts their beans. You can find them on the Beeline off of Walnut. No convenient parking unfortunately.They also are fair trade, which I'm super stoked about. Although, they should really get Fair Trade certified. People trust the branding - And please get World FT cert. plzzzz? NOT the joke that the standard FT logo has become! A sticker saying Fair Trade doesn't mean much. But anyway, I'm partial to my medium roasts from the Latin Americas, and their medium blend from Oaxaca is delicious. I approve! Not that my say means much of anything. But seriously though. Go check 'em out. Support your local businesses!

*Be forewarned about Step 5. It's not worth the effort. For a whole hot minute my dreams were crushed. If you bother with this step though, comment below and let me know about what delicious coffee concoction you created!





Sunday, March 30, 2014

Turning Point




Age 9, I applied to be student government secretary. 
Feeling tiny, small and out of place I approached my teacher with my application. 
"Are you ready to give a speech?" Ms. Witcher, my 4th grade teacher said. 
I squeaked to myself slightly and felt my heart begin to race.
A speech? In front of people?!?!?!?!

                      But who would listen to me anyway?
               I 
                        was 
                                     that 
                                                 nice
                                                         quiet
                                                                    (asian?)
                                                                                  girl.
                                                                      I 
                                                        shrank
                                         within
                         myself.

"Nevermind!" I said. And ran away. 
I remember the slightly disappointed look on Ms. Witcher's face. The soft wrinkles of 
her mid-60 year old face slightly frowning, wondering why I didn't even dare to try. 

Why didn't she give me a pep talk? Tell me that I was capable -- That I had a voice worth listening to. 

I remember talking myself out of the opportunity to run for student gov't secretary. 
"You're not actually that popular." 
"Who would vote for you?"
"What would I have to say that's worth them picking me?" 
I remember telling my parents about it. 
What I don't remember is their response. Did they encourage me? 

There's a blank space there...
..
..
..
..
..
..

7th grade year. Concert master of my orchestra. 
8th grade year. Ditto. 

Ditto till I graduated from high school. 
I coached, I taught, I led sectionals.
Nowhere else did I feel so confident behind my violin. 

Did I actually have clout? 

I'm 
         still
                 that 
                          quiet 
                                    (Asian?) 
                                                  girl/teenager.
                                        We'll
                         see
             I 
guess. 

Age 24. InterVarsity Campus staff minister (member, just to be safe.)
It was the next step that made sense. Grateful for a lineage of mentors.
Janet. Michelle. Genese. 
Grateful for allies. 
Mark. 
Not all places feel safe. 
I remember walking into a ministry outreach meeting. 

    ed  
Su          nd
                             rr ou              BY MEN.

I'm 
         still 
                 that 
                           quiet 
                                     Filipina (Asian on the harder days)
                                                                                         WOMAN.
                                                                        Where's 
                                                              my 
                                                place
                                     in
                          this
  conversation?

Boy the testosterone was thick. 
Am I really the only person that's going to raise their hand? 
Am I really the only person who's going to wait for the other person to finish talking? 
Must I assert myself always? 
Thank goodness one gentleman noticed my hand up, or heard the little gasp of air I made that one makes when they are wanting to say something. I really can't remember. 
The meeting ended. TIME TO GO!

Age 26. Fairview United Methodist Church. March 30, 2014. 11:20am.
The last butterfly left my stomach as I stepped onto the pulpit. 


He made my mouth like a sharpened sword,

                                                                                                                                      in the shadow of his hand he hid me;

                               he made me into a polished arrow
    and concealed me in his quiver.

All I remember is my voice sounding slightly distant, echoing through the speakers. 

(Is my mic on?)

Notes before me. Ephesians 5:1-8. 

(Just open your mouth.)

Remember this moment. This turning point. 

YOU CANNOT FAIL.

(Is my voice really that high-pitched?)
(How weird. I'm not that nervous.)
(Am I really talking?)

                                                                                                                                        now. :)
                                                                                                                              back
                                                                                                                    turning
                                                                                                             no 
                                                                                             There's
                                                                          WOMAN.
                                                           Filipino American 
                           quiet (only when I'm shy)
                  that        
         still
I'm 
                                           




Thursday, May 23, 2013

Life in Haiku

Hello friends, 

A lighter post is due. This will be my attempt to not be so intense for once! Maybe. You tell me what you think. I'm taking a break from my love of spoken word and revisiting my AP English days and trying out Haiku. I'm the type of person that loves being presented with minimal resources and given a task to create something incredible out of very little. For example: I'll sometimes fly home to California with the bare necessities, a pair of jeans, a skirt and 3 shirts. I'll find a way to turn 2 outfits into 7 and still look faaaaabulous! :) 


www.laimyours.com

The haiku traditionally consists of 17 syllables, 3 lines of 5 syllables, 7 syllables & finally, 5 syllables. These rules don't have to be strictly followed as you'll probably notice in my own work. I'm a pretty gregarious person so to be challenged to convey life, thought and profundity (yep, I totes used that word) in almost just one breathe or moment is an awesome challenge. But it's been a super-gratifying hour of reflection, creativity, and processing. 

I've been in California on business and pleasure for the last few days. It's been a slew of visits, mileage, airplanes, cars and people. But it's good to be back on old stomping grounds. That's right. I may be turning into a Bloomington townie, but I'll always be a valley girl. 93257 for life!!!

A few notes on the Haiku experience and my pieces:
1. They are purely objective. 
2. My job is to show. Not tell.
3. These aren't in any chronological order. 
4. Interact! Let me know which ones you enjoyed, respond with your own Haiku, ask me your questions.
5. Refer to this great Haiku writing guide if you don't know where to start: How to Haiku!

Even if you don't want to respond with your own haiku, you should try an hour of expressing your life and experiences in this way. I hope you find it as gratifying as I did. You could totally zen out the whole experience by finding a spot to disappear and be undisturbed. Yoda style. 

www.charmedyoga.com

(I've changed the settings on posting comments so you should be able to post now.) 

========================================================================

Energy and peace!
Mint, cream and coffee entwined.
My sip of comfort. 

Unbridled freedom.
A scripture coated in ink. 
Love is revealed. 

Day 6 is here. 
My cell phone buzzes.
"See you tomorrow."

Longing confirmed. 
Grit and sun are holding hands.
Porterville. 

Reconnecting, 
A game of scandal on cards.
Best job ever. 

Siblings unhinged. 
Windy car rides; young at heart.
Frozen adulthood. 

Pile of treats at home.
Favorite foods on the stove. 
Mom is nowhere found. 

Laptop whirring
Ambiguous calendar. 
Shorter days to come. 

Hands clammy with sweat.
Voices feeding through headphones.
Ownership transferred.