A Letter to My Beloved

Where to begin?

How does my mind articulate my heart and soul? How does my conscious clarify my subconscious?

Life. Death. Pain. Love. Four words with infinite intersectionality. There's no right or wrong way to love. There's no right or wrong way to deal with pain. There's no right or wrong way to grieve. There's no right or wrong way to show support.

When a loved one dies, everything becomes unstable. At the same time, everything becomes clear. I've never seen such poise and integrity in handling the most difficult decisions imaginable when it comes to the process of burying a Son/Husband/Father/Friend. People are listening intentionally to each other when they usually speak over each other. People I have never hugged have soaked my shoulder with tears. People afraid to show love have it radiating from their eyes.

Everything is the same. But everything is different. All the roads we drive on are the same, but the destinations carry new significance. The people we see on a daily basis are the same, but all of our perspectives have dramatically shifted. We go to sleep everyday, but it seems like wasted time. We wake up, then we cry.

I have yet to drop a tear. I am incapable. Even when I put my dog down, holding his chest, feeling the last rattle... Even when I see your 4-year-old draw his masterpiece for his daddy... Even when I held your 11-year-old trying to fill the hole in his heart and soul... Even through your cold, shuddering, helpless tears. Tears are validating for some people. I worry everyday that people don't think I care.

The death of your husband brings about feelings of impossibility. I wasn't close to his family. But I am close to your children. Although it would be difficult to sum up the magnitude of the relationship between you and your late husband, we have talked about it often. I was always a little jealous of your relationship. Watching you two be together, it's clear to me that you understood each other, the good and the bad, better than anyone else on the planet. The way you interacted, spoke to each other, listened to each other, and supported each other, it was clear that their souls are deeply intertwined. That kind of understanding of another human being is rare and beautiful. It's something I have never experienced. Something for you and I to build together. Something I am willing to commit to for the rest of my life.

It's impossible to imagine the pain you feel. Pain is directly proportional Love. And you loved him beyond words. I imagine that the ripping of the soul is hell. Watching your soul tear to pieces is my hell. At the same time, it's important to recognize that it's a necessary process. Don't feel bad. Don't hide it. I would rather be there for you through hell than away and comfortable in my own world. I'd walk through the fires to help you.

During times of stress, I always feel the internal battle of wrestling with my sanity. I feel like my emotions, my livelihood, my sanity, and my very being is encased in a glass ball that gets thinner and thinner when times get harder and overwhelming. I fight to keep the the ball intact because I despise the feeling of losing it all. I loath the feeling of losing my self. So when I cry, you should know that the glass has broke.

When people tell me that "just being there helps," I think to myself that it's not good enough. Even if it is enough for some people, for me it's not. Just being there is succumbing to feelings of hopeless helplessness. It kills me to have to rely on time to make things "better" when time isn't reliable.

The hardest part is helping by getting out of the way or leaving you alone. You needed time alone with his body. You need to sleep next to your kids.

Life brings people together.

Death brings people together.

Pain brings people together.

Love brings people together.

If When you and I get through this, we will be strong, as individuals and as a couple. I have faith in our life. I believe in our love. You are the One. I love you. You and your children's tears are forever embedded within my chest. I want us to grow roots together. I want our branches to intertwine. I want our trunks to meld.

Where to begin?

Truly Yours,
Me

P.S.
As I was driving to work the other day, I passed a farm. It was a field of young corn (I think) that looked like tall grass. The wind was blowing and the sun was low and it hit the grass just right so it looked like the waves of the ocean. It was peaceful. It was serene. It was precious to me to see two beautiful landscapes being combined into one and making a memorable moment. The whole scene reminded me of you. It was on the rolling hills, with the Rocky's in the background, your favorite landscape. It was reminiscent of the oceans, which I associate with your stay in Maine. But mostly, it reminded me of the deep conflict within you, to miss your husband and love him while being with me and loving me. The landscape reminded me that it is possible to bring together two completely different loves into one entity and create something beautiful, peaceful, comforting, and perfect.

I love you.

Using Me Against Me

One of my favorite quotes is from an article from Racialicious.com:

"potentially we like to refer to people in halves, becuase even as the entire world is an inextricable, bloody mash-up of hundreds of different ethnic groups, we still like to imagine racial groups as separate, impenetrable, sanitised entities."

This resonated deep in my core. I can't tell you how many times my racial identity has been separated, pitted against each other, and always, always used against me. For example, I get an A on an exam and my classmates say "Pshaw, it's cuz you're Asian and you're good at math," as if I am genetically predispositioned to ace a test. It's not that I studied long hours, its cuz of my race. "You didn't get an A on that test? What's wrong with you? Your whiteness is showing." Cuz you know... White people like yourself pass on the idiot gene through the family.

So today at work, my boss, who identifies as a white female, who's from Atlanta, told me she went to an "Asian Fusion" restaurant. I had eaten there a few times before, andI'm pretty sure it's owned by a Korean, but the man makes great sushi. She asked me during the course of our conversation whether or not I've had a sake bomb (notice that the person in the picture appears to be white).

I immediately responded, "No, and I never will"

Her: "Why"

Me: "Because it's an insult to my culture."

Her: "Why? You're half white"

TRIGGER

I'm not sure how it happens, but ignorance still manages to surprise me by kicking me in the balls from time to time.

Honestly, if she would have let me explain, I don't think it would have been an issue. But she immediately coupled the "why" with my racial identity. She had already made up her mind that in no way was a sake bomb insulting to me by denying my Japanese-ness and not even caring to listen to an explanation. I felt like she was saying I can be either a white american or Japanese, not both. And maybe this one incident by itself is fairly insignificant, and I should shrug it off. But the cumulative effect of my entire life experience makes this one incident very significant. And honestly, if I, the more Japanese one out of the two of us, says that sake bombs are an insult to my culture, I shouldn't have to explain myself. Just fucking take it as it is. A quick Wikipedia look up and you'll understand.

The fact is, being Japanese is an enormous part of who I am and it's a culture I identify with. What I struggle with most is identifying as an American, because for me that implies that an American is white. In addition, I struggle with the fact that I am an American first. Since the sake bomb is strictly an American invention, shouldn't I be cool with it? What is it about my Japanese culture that "trumps" this aspect of my United Statesian culture? Am I actually separating my races on my own?

If sake bombs are actually in reference to the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, then people should stop cuz that's just sick and wrong.

Personally, I have great reverence for rice. My ancestors basically lived off it. It's used in many different ways and it has many deep cultural meanings. Sake is a part of that culture (since sake is wine made from rice). And yes, there are many similarities in Japan's alcohol culture to the US (although just from my experience, I'm not sure people binge there as much. But I'm not an expert). It's not like sake is worshipped (by most people). And I don't care if you like sake bombs. Do your thing. It's just that I would never do it and I think maybe my boss interpreted my response as if I was asking her to never do it.

Anyway, beyond the initial ignorance, I couldn't bring up the nerve to talk to her about it later. I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't even notice that something deeply emotional was stirring inside me. I just couldn't find the energy and patience it would take to have that conversation. Plus, I didn't want to show vulnerability to someone who just hurt me without really knowing. If she could inadvertently (I think it was inadvertent... Maybe she knew she was using my race against me but didn't/couldn't know the impact) use my race against me, imagine what she could do on purpose if I opened up to her and explained that I was hurt by what she said. For me, it was a risk to bring it up.

And guess what's most messed up about this whole thing? I feel guilty. I have guilt for letting an opportunity to educate pass me by. I have guilt that I didn't handle the situation better. I feel guilt for still feeling triggered by ignorance.

Fuck guilt...

Positive Privilege?

So recently, I've been working on a wonderful, almost perfect relationship with a wonderful, pretty much perfect individual. That's why I haven't written in quite some time. But I was on facebook this morning and came across this article by Tim Wise, author of White Like Me:

http://ephphatha-poetry.blogspot.com/2010/04/imagine-if-tea-party-was-black-tim-wise.html#comment-form

I'm not sure how to repost stuff and make it legit so hopefully this qualifies.

When I read the article, I was thinking to myself, "Cool, this is typical Tim Wise. Great stuff." But then I got to the comments section and I began to feel a myriad of emotions, which is pretty typical of what comment sections do for me.

I expected idiots like Neil, plxrobert, tuffguy183, skinnies_eats, Atlanta, and Gabe to post something that completely misses the point. If I want more of that, I would just go to macon d's blog, stuff white people do.

What really got me thinking was the huge majority of responses that praised the crap out of Mr. Wise or simply said something along the lines of "Thank you, you're the shit!" And most of those commenters appeared to be white.

Here's my deal. People of Color (PoC) have been saying what Mr. Wise has been saying and seeing what Mr. Wise has been seeing for centuries. One commenter, Whitaker, even said "Progressive Black, White, Asian, and Latino Americans have been too silent." Excuse me?!? In the immortal rant of Dr. Cox, Wrong! (Watch it, it's my fav) Actually, oppressed people have been screaming and yelling since the beginning of oppression. Oppressors have the privilege of selective hearing. We (as in people fighting for equality in general) aren't silent, we're never silent. It's just that people like Whitaker don't listen. In many cases, they choose not to.

So my beef is that when a white person posts something anti-racist, the post gets 90 comments about how much God has blessed that white person. Now imagine if I posted something like that. Or if any other PoC posted something like that. If you aren't President Obama, you ain't getting 90 comments of praise. You're getting 100+ comments of ignorant diatribe that would deflate the mood of the most resilient activist. An article by a PoC would either be read five times so it can be picked apart for mistakes, or not even read at all. So what is it that grants white people inherent credibility in matters of race? Men in matters of gender? Heteros in matters of LGBT? (etc...) Why is it so hard for dominant identities (white, male, middle class, straight, Christian, etc...) to realize that the people who live as marginalized identities, who must confront that identity on a daily basis, have more experience in such matters? Doesn't that experience give PoC more credibility in matters of race? Women in the matter of gender? etc...


Privilege is ugly. Its pervasiveness is scary. I think the comment section on that post goes beyond each person displaying some form of white privilege, but the section itself was an entity of whiteness. How do we fight that sort of force?


Actually, maybe the real question is should we fight that? Is this a good thing? Since Mr. Wise has that privilege, should he use it for education and leadership? Is this a positive form of privilege? Is there such a thing?


Maybe I should rename the blog to "Questions of a 20-some year old multiracial kid"?

Yellow Gatorade

Sometimes I wonder if my favorite flavor of gatorade is lemon-lime because the yellow color of the drink matches the yellow skin of some of my ancestors...

"What Nationality Are You?"

I don't care how colorblind you think you are, if you grew up in American society, a society of boxes, you see differences in skin and gender. In addition, I believe we all have assumptions based on someone's outward appearance that automatically register in our subconscious. When you see an Asian man, there are immediate responses and images in your head that you are aware of or not. A woman came to my place of work, a restaurant, and while I served her some soup she straight up asked me "What nationality are you?"

Now, if you are not multiracial or mixed or however you choose to identify, listen closely because the answer to this question is this:

It's none of your fucking business

The question "who are you" and its variations are a form of othering. Why? Because you don't run around asking everyone you meet this question, just the people who don't fit neatly into your race boxes. Most mixed race people experience a life time of this. In addition, there is lots of pressure to choose a racial identity from the outside. Although this may be the case for many mixed raced people, I interpret my experience a little differently. I feel like when I revealed that I was half-Japanese, people automatically registered that as exotic or unusual or foreign. When  I revealed my identity, I was no longer all of me, but "half" of me. People completely forgot about my white identity and automatically grilled me on what made me exotic and different. "COOL can you speak it? Will you speak some right now? What does this mean, "ching chong ching chong ching wing wang?" Have you heard this joke?"

Regardless, there are typically very painful experiences associated with the question "What are you?", and when this woman asked me what my nationality was at my work, all of these experiences flashed through my mind. Typically, I reply like a smart ass by answering the question in "the wrong way". Usually my answer to "What nationality are you?" is "Oh I'm American, specifically United States-ian" or something along those lines. Here's the kicker... In this particular situation, I straight up told the woman that I was Hapa, Half-Japanese and Half-White. Why? Because she appeared to be a woman of color. If she looked white, or if it was a white man, I would fight to keep my identity to myself.

So what is the difference between a white person asking and a person of color (PoC) asking?

The woman immediately identified herself as the same thing. There was an immediate connection between us that I rarely feel. The knowledge and experience, though unique, are the same. But it wasn't a verbal gushing between us. It was just a knowing smile. She appeared to be much older than me. I wanted to know if my experience differed from hers because she seemed to be from a different generation.

I later realized that this is probably a uniquely mixed race person experience.

Anyway, the difference between a white person and a PoC asking is simple to me. Generally, I think the intentions behind the question are very different depending on who is asking the question. White people are "curious" and want to figure out where I fit in their mental race boxes. PoC, particularly mixed folks, are interested on who I am and understand that my racial identity plays a big role in my life. The difference, as you can see, is the fact that I know that PoC are trying to get to know me, where as I feel like white people are just trying to "figure me out". Like it's a game. In addition, I have many negative experiences associated with white people asking "What are you?"

I hope one day I can feel like everyone's intention is to get to know me so I don't have to feel like I'm on my guard about my identity all the time.