Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
There is nowhere else I would have rather woken up this morning than the legendary PHCC (Purple House Community Center) in Minneapolis, MN. After four days of intense opening, noticing, and transformation at a Somatics and Social Justice Intensive, I hopped on a red-eye flight punctuated by about six babies and another handful of young kids and all of their myriad wails. I slept for maybe an hour and a half of the three hour flight, doubled over for part of that time because that was the way my body felt most comfortable. Then, my friend Flo picked me up from the airport at about 5:30 am Central Time, and brought me back to her home, where I sleepily climbed some stairs and found my boo, Ryan Li, who's been here for a couple of days now. In the mugginess, we embraced briefly before falling back into slumber.
When I woke up again, at about 10:30 am, it was to the sound of heavy rain and the feel of cooler weather. It was one of the most surreal and beautiful awakenings I've ever had. I felt like I had awoken from a dream to find myself in a comfortable, safe space full of people I love, with multiple sensory delights on top of all that.
I'm so happy to be here. Later today, we're going to celebrate the commitment of two friends of ours, and I'm already so overcome with joy and a festive spirit. The day just keeps getting better and better. What a lovely, lovely life I lead sometimes.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Day 2 of the Somatics & Social Justice Intensive. I have come out feeling like I just experienced episode 5,462 of the Dealing With Your Shit Show. Today's episode brought to you by: Somatics!
Too wiped to say much else about it. I hope I will be able to retain enough of of the thoughts that are running through me to be able to write more about this eventually.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
I asked her to play on some variation of "How do you spell that?" (in regard to my name), "Where is that from?", "Where are you from?", or "What are you?" She asked what tone she should use in asking the question. I said something like, "The tone of a delighted white person who is so excited to exoticize me and add me to their arsenal of 'ethnic' friends."
She obviously has been practicing for a while. I don't even remember how she said it, exactly, but I remember her tight grip, lingering on my arm. I also vividly remember my reaction. My body tensed, my face tensed, my teeth gritted, my nostrils flared, I was hot and felt like the entire front of my body was turning into a shield, particularly my chest. I started to cry. I felt a wave of pure rage followed by a wave of complete exhaustion.
You'd think it would get old at some point, this name thing. But I still hear it multiple times per day (particularly while working) and it hasn't gone away yet. I still haven't moved through the feeling of wanting to scream at people when they subject me to their invasive line of questioning. Maybe one day I will . . . maybe somatics will help.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Sometimes, a juxtaposition jumps up and slaps me in the face and helps me think through some of what I am feeling all the damn time but rarely know how to say. As a writer, I am thankful for these moments that help me construct stories I wouldn't otherwise know how to tell at all. As an activist, I am deferential to the people and communities whose lives and experiences comprise these stories, and I hope that anything I have to say is beneficial -- not claiming to speak for anyone but rather illuminating for a different audience the issues underlying the stories. And as a human being, I have an agenda (obviously), and hope that sharing my perspective with you could garner some kind of agreement or resonance and might facilitate the kind of transformative change I want to see in the world.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Celebrating historical inaccuracies and the alleged independence of a few.
We are now the oppressed, trapped on the same land as our oppressors,
No idea of what it means to be free
No recollection of any moment of liberation
No other lands to run to and colonize in the name of liberty
(Not that we would, we who have been colonized, and realize it. Our memories and our traumas prevent us from repeating such barbarism, from commiting rape or murder or violating earth, just to have our way.)
Should we forget, we'd be reminded sooner or later:
By, for example, the sound of fireworks, so reminiscent of the sound of bombs dropping overhead (auditory memory branded into souls since time in utero.)