I don't understand my face. / When did I become an adult?

I don't understand my face.

My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.

A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.

Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.

"Aren't you self-conscious?"
   "Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"

To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?

It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.

I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.

"So, why don't you just use ----?"

Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.

Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.





When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.

When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.

I remember wanting this.

Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.

The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.

white light.

white light,
you are not very forgiving.
you signify near death
("Don't go toward the light!")
or an unearthly amount of imperfection.
white light,
i know neither are avoidable.
and one generally entails the other
("Drop dead gorgeous!" "If looks could kill, she'd be a zombie.").
no, i'm not very pretty;
added to that, i don't try very hard.
good God, i look diseased,
my skin pockmarked and scarred.
red like the signature lips of pin-up girls
and hollywood dames.
but this is the wrong red.

you should see me in the cool shade of trees.
under strobe light, sun light, moon light;
at dusk!
the early shades of morning!
under blinking Christmas lights, and star light;
in front of head lights,
and through candle light.
because under white light you see imperfection,
but you certainly don't see me.

white light,
you are a prism away from a rainbow.

Dear Old Crushes,

Hey. How are you? I know. It has been a while since we've spoken...although, we never spoke initially so-. Oh? You've been meaning to get in touch? Just like I've been meaning to keep a hyena as a pet. No, totally, I've been researching it: hyenas are housebreakable. I googled it.

Thank you, I have been well. Do I look different? Yeah, that generally happens over time. You look different, too. Are we complimenting each other? Right, right, right. Of course.

You're all probably wondering why I've gathered you all here today. And why I refused to do this individually. I figured it would be less date-like, you know, if we met together as a group like this. Because orgies aren't an option.You can keep that to yourselves.

Basically, I want to say, I'm sorry if I ever creeped you out. My bad. I was learning. I'm not that person anymore. Oh, and I also wanted to say, I'm glad we didn't work out- no, I know, of course: you were never interested like that. No need to be defensive. I am just saying, for who I was at the time, and for whoever the hell you were at the time we were a match made in heaven. At the time, we were just what we needed. How's that? How do I know? Because we changed each other. You don't feel that much different? Trust me: you've changed but I can't speak for the profundity of the change; that's on you, broski--you are your own person. And I don't really know you, at all. I haven't seen you since I last liked you. I'm not the best person to ask about your personal development.

And, you're a human being, aren't you? Of course you've changed. That's what humans do.

Okay, so. You are dismissed. Oh, you want to stay behind for a little?

I think you may've misunderstood me: there is no future for us. No, no. See, I didn't change for you. I changed because of you. And remember, you were just a crush. And if you did have a crush on me, apparently you were too nervous or ashamed to say anything. No, I don't know that you missed a chance.

We missed nothing.

How do I know we can't be something now?

I don't, but I'm also not willing to see if we could be. And my lack of interest mixed with your mysterious intent does not a good cocktail make. I am flattered, as I should be, I know.

Seriously, you are dismissed.

Is someone else in the picture?

So, here's another thing I've learned since crushing on you: no one else needs to be in the picture for me to deny you. I have learned that I don't need a romantic interest. I am enough reason to say 'no'.

You don't care.

No, you don't need to explain yourself to me. You don't need me.

Yes, you have a nice life, too.

I do wish you the best.

Under Consideration

I don't know what it is about New York City but I always learn something new about myself and the world at large while I'm there.

When I found out Banksy was taking up a month's residence in the five boroughs I thought it would be a great opportunity to see his work in person since I have no hope of visiting his usual hits in London any time soon. I asked a friend to come with me to find his works, but we didn't do a very good job--we were distracted by other things, like food and used books. (For the rest of this blog post you'll have to know these two things: my friend and I are both girls; she's black, I'm Asian- a Filipino, to be exact.)

At one point during the day we caught ourselves in the MET. At the top of the grand staircase she introduced me to Stuff White People Like (SWPL). I knew it was a book, I didn't know it began as a blog. Apparently, white people like some of the following:

1. Banksy
2. TED Conferences
3. the Idea of Soccer
4. Manhattan
5. snowboarding
6. Non-Profit Organizations
7. Scarves

As we skimmed some of the listed blog posts we laughed very, very hard, never mind that we preferred the small screen of her smart phone to some of the MET's most treasured works. Anyway, we came across one that intrigued me: Asian Girls, but the page refused to load, so we resigned to view an external page: something of a reaction to SWPL's blog post about 'Asian Girls'.

I do not think I need to tell you what we discovered. The actual SWPL blog post wasn't horrible. In fact, when I read it later I found it moderately amusing. The reactions to it were, well, to say the least, surprising. Many of the reactions made me cry, which I suppose doesn't say much because it's not that difficult to make me cry, but, do you know, I can't remember the last time I felt diminished because of my ethnicity. I admit, I am plagued with self-inflicted derogatory statements, but I can easily deflect my own jabs. I am unpracticed when it comes to a stranger's jabs.

At the time of my initial reaction, I did not know if I was grateful or ungrateful that I was so ignorant of such ignorant, racist, prejudiced thoughts and beliefs. I was torn--make this #753 existential crisis of the year 2013.

Do I really look like an expensive hussy when I walk side by side one of my male white friends? What do you mean when you say that Sandra Oh is 'the Elephant Man of Asian women'? Have you ever seen an elephant man because right now I'm sure he's more attractive than you are.

Am I not supposed to age physically though many birthdays pass? Am I always to look like I'm a twenty-something with perfect skin and weight because I'm naturally genetically engineered that way- never mind I have ancestors who were also Spanish therefore making some people think I'm actually Puerto Rican, or Hawaiian, or, once, I got Somalian (I was really tan one summer).

But then I stopped crying. We were then distracted by other things, and who wants to talk about racism when you can talk about religious ignorance? (Feel free to interpret 'religious ignorance' as you wish.) Our day in the city was not to be ruined!

So, eventually we ended up in a used book store where I found a few books written by Thomas More; etc. I considered buying it, but then I put it down because (1) I already bought a new journal and (2) as much as I admire Thomas More, he's a European White male which usually would not deter me, but where are the Asian theologians? Did More have any Asian contemporaries? But ethnicity doesn't matter right?





When I was a college student (two years removed now) I was one of, like, I think, six Asians on campus- I attended a predominantly white school- and the other five Asians were international students from Myanmar, so they were much more Asian than I was. Anyway, I was reading a book in the hall way when one of my favorite professors, Godblesshim, approached me:

Professor: Justine! There you are. I'm glad I spotted you. I have a question: you're Filipino, right?

Me: Yes? Haha, why?

Professor: Well, you know that class I'm teaching [something about diversity in classroom, I don't remember what it's called], well, in our textbook we have a chapter on Filipino students so I was wondering if you'd like to come in and- I mean, I know you're not speaking for the entire Philippine nation, but just for us to hear your perspective.

Me: Sure, that sounds fun! Actually, it's funny you ask because I've been talking with another professor about ethnicity and identity- I would love to come into your classroom.

So, I bought my own copy of the text book. I get to the chapter, which is entitled "Families with Pilipino Roots". I'm excited: I'm about to have a text book definition of my culture that will act as a foundation I can build upon when I read this (both quotations are from Developing Cross-Cultural Competence):

Understanding the Pilipino American character is complex. The differences among Pilipinos in terms of history, language, familial and other forms of affiliation, religion, education, and individual experiences can be great. Although this chapter provides some general insights into families with Pilipino roots, great caution and consideration must be taken to prevent perpetuating stereotypes. Although many Pilipino Americans have a shared history and common cultural experiences, other factors not related to being Pilipino may have a more decided influence on their self-identities. 

Damnit! My culture doesn't even have a text book definition! Generally, all the other ethnicities listed in the text book have definitions, why doesn't mine? Because

' "Neither history nor geography permitted the Filipinos time to consolidate their parochial and isolated strands into a culture integrated enough to repel outside pressures and influence." Throughout centuries of colonialism, Pilipinos have nevertheless avoided becoming 'carbon copies' of their colonizers. They have pursued a dual historical path of understanding, accommodating to, placating, or opposing the overwhelming power foreigners have exercised in their lives while simultaneously preserving what is essentially Pilipino in themselves. '

Oh, dear God, who am I?

When I attended the class as a guest-speaker I spoke solely on my behalf, and can recall saying (this isn't word for word): "Students are students, no matter the ethnicity. Don't just assume that this text book will offer you everything you need to know about how to deal with students who are Native American, or European, or Latino, or Hispanic. Your future, potential students are still individuals."




So, if students are students; if students are still individuals, why do I care so much for Thomas More's Asian contemporaries?

Why does it bother me that I don't know any of Lewis' Asian contemporaries?

Don't even get me started that religion is predominantly male-oriented (although some of them still act like immature, spoiled thirteen year old girls). Where are my female role models?

St. Patrick's Day, yes- if Patrick were a Patricia, would we have St. Patricia's Day?

I hope that I am not diminishing the importance of God's work in these men's lives. I am not.

I'm not saying that Native Americans and Europeans and Latinos and Hispanics are easier to define that Filipinos.

Because we are all individuals influenced by internal and external situations.

I get that, I do.




A little later in the evening my friend and I were eating at Whole Foods (ironically, another thing that white people like), when a few seats away were these really loud black guys. Just- they were loud; and I was already tired, and subconsciously cranky from my own dealings with racism, and I made some comment to my friend about how I could never date a black guy- Godblessher, she didn't slap me right then and there.

The day after we talked about my revelation: I am racist.

Friend: Justine, you're not racist. You're prejudiced. If you were racist- racism means you hate people of that race. You don't hate black people.

Me: Ha, if I did, I wouldn't be your friend. Thank you, you're so wonderful to me. If I ever become racist, shoot me.

Friend: Hey, I got your back.

And yet I am still haunted with questions of race/ethnicity and gender.





Upworthy recently sent me an e-mail with this video:


He expresses everything I have ever thought, much more cleverly and precisely than I ever could, or would dream, and it's ironic because he's still a white male, although he himself recognizes that women of every color have expressed these very thoughts. Then I realize: the messenger is not as important as the message. 

"I always get asked, 'Where do you get your confidence?' I think people are well meaning, but it's pretty insulting. Because what it means to me is, 'You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a very marginalized person. You're not skinny, you're not white, you're a woman. Why on earth would you feel like you're worth anything?'" -September 2013 issue of Parade Magazine

What We Seek.

Social justice interests me for one main reason: every social justice cause simply seeks acceptance and care; to add to that, love. 

Active or inactive in social justice, do not all people seek acceptance, care, and love? When you have heart-to-hearts with loved ones, or even strangers, they're always so afraid of rejection, because who wants to be turned away for who they think they are, or for who they might be, or for the way they get to who they are to be? 

While I have often tried to stray away from labels, I find that I am always affected by them, as if the avoidance of labels actually brings on the labels...indeed, I find that is always the case, but does that say something about the labels? No, not the "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality, but that labels, however used or misused, are still just words? We have power over words, once it goes the other way around we're afraid to talk for fear of offending someone we'll probably never talk to, or see, again. 

None of this is to say I altogether throw out discretion or politeness, but, really: do we need to take things so personally? I thought we wanted to be in control of ourselves- in control of the labels, the compliments, the criticisms; etc. 

Then you can imagine my delight when I came upon this short article: How To Tell If You're A Feminist In Two Easy Steps. Is that all? However comedic this article's intentions, how many reasons do you need to be a good person in general whether or not you label yourself 'feminist', or whatever label to which you wholeheartedly subscribe, or adamantly avoid. 

A world without acceptance, care, and love is a world that seeks justice. Truly, I can't hate any person for seeking that. I can only hope to be of some service to them. 

ALSO! Happy Month of Mozart! Listen to WQXR on the radio or online. 

'The Paper Bag Princess' a Modern (?) Take on the Classic Fairy Tale

I am not a hardcore feminist. Frankly, I'm not a hardcore anything! I know, it's my fault that I'm not a hardcore anything, and as for the blatant disregard of feminism's constructs: that's my fault. I haven't delved into its politics or agenda. For that, I know I must apologize because there are so many things of which I should be 'hardcore' and am not. I am really, really sorry.

So then, why, suddenly, am I approaching the topic of feminism?  Because I think that every modern woman (and just being born in the past two centuries is license enough to be considered 'modern') is a feminist whether or not she would label herself as such. I am of the latter group, only to realize that the former has been beckoning to me for some time now.

Last night I was at work, and I sat down to take a little break since there were no customers around, when I spotted this book I'd never before seen: The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch; illustrated by Michael Martchenko.

What makes her a paper bag princess?, I thought. I had to read it with that question on my mind! Allow me to read it to you, or, at the very least, explain it to you. (What you're about to read next is a simplistic retelling of an already beautifully simple story.)

We meet Elizabeth and Ronald.

I don't even have to hear Ronald speak before I know that I already won't like him. He looks like a snooty little thing, and poor Elizabeth just oogling over this snooty little man. But who am I to dash a little girl's dream of marriage? Anyway, Elizabeth is convinced she is going to marry Ronald, and Ronald's all: "Cool." (He probably says so with a snooty accent, I mean, look at that racket he's holding! All snooty people hold rackets.)

But then a dragon comes by, eats the castle, and burns everything up, including all her clothes and kidnaps poor, snooty Ronald! Snooty as he is, no one should ever be kidnapped by a dragon. That is a fate I would not wish upon my worst enemies...had I any.

Elizabeth, however, finds the courage to find that mean old dragon and save her Ronald! Hey, "Hell hath no fury like a woman [denied]', right?! But she can't go streaking, and it wouldn't be very wise to fight a dragon nude, but the only thing she can find that isn't burnt is a paper bag. Ah, well! What are clothes for if only to cover up the body and protect it, ah?

The dragon is easy enough to follow for he leaves a trail of burnt forests, and horses' bones. What luck!

Elizabeth's first attempt to enter the dragon's lair is denied, but on her second try she compliments the dragon. She gets him to show off.

He burns down fifty forests, then one hundred, then, on the third try, is all out of fire! Then Elizabeth asks him to fly around the world as quickly as he can, which is ten seconds on the first try, and twenty on the second try. The dragon comes back so tired that he faints and sleeps.

Elizabeth has saved the day! Yeah! She can get her Ronald back! Whoo!

But Ronald...

' [Ronald] looked at [Princess Elizabeth] and said, "Elizabeth, you are a mess! You smell like ashes your hair is all tangled and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you are dressed like a real princess." '

Now, I almost went kung-fu on his snooty little racket, when ' "Ronald," said Elizabeth, "your clothes are really pretty and your hair is very neat. You look like a real prince, but you are a bum." / They didn't get married after all. '

At this point, I am laughing so hard I can barely contain myself, but I have to as customers began to appear. "You are a bum" echoed through my mind the rest of the night, a smile plastered onto my face.

I'm not suggesting that Munsch or, the illustrator, Martchenko, are feminists, I can't even be sure that this is the main theme for this story, but I do know that they intended to pull away from the stigma of classic fairy tale literature: the prince saves the princess and, as a reward, marries her.

I don't negate marriage. I don't negate relationships in general (but who am I to speak, I've never had a relationship). I don't believe this book does either, but I do believe that this horribly wonderful children's story humorously and pointedly explains that if the dude is a prissy jerk, you better dump that bum! Especially after you just saved him and his snooty little racket from a castle-eating dragon!

This might not be very feminist of me, but the story, I think, could go both ways. If Elizabeth and Ronald switched places; if Ronald were the nice once, and Elizabeth were prissy, Ronald you better leave her bum, or she go'n whip you like cattle.

Perhaps that's why I've never been a 'hardcore' feminist: I already think everyone needs to be treated equally, that anyone regardless of gender, social class, culture, etc., deserves respect, for not only are we proud that Elizabeth has taken away the hand of marriage from Ronald, we hope, or, at the very least, I hope, Ronald will one day turn around and turn out to be a gentleman for another princess.

warning: this next quotation will have swearing.

"The truth is I love fashion, and I'm always asked to reconcile my feminism with that. But I don't think the two are mutually exclusive. In fact, I think that fashion is an incredibly powerful means of expressing your political views. As women, our bodies are objectified. If we use our bodies to flip the power dynamic by placing our political views across our tits, we can be damn sure people will pay attention. / The first T-shirt I made was for me. It boasted 'The Only Bush I Trust Is My Own,' the title of a book I was working on, and people went totally wild for it. People kept asking me to make shirts. It was pretty amazing to see people galvanized by this idea. Of course, it's not enough to just wear them, you have to walk the walk, you know? But wearing them is a great first step." -Periel Aschenbrand, from Kenneth Cole's Awearness

 Now, personally, I don't believe that's how I'd like to showcase my political views--that style is no where near my personality, but Aschenbrand's right: 'you have to walk the walk' with anything you believe.

James 2.14-26: What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without your works, and I will show you my faith by my works. You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe—and tremble! But do you want to know, O foolish man, that faith without works is dead? Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered Isaac his son on the altar? Do you see that faith was working together with his works, and by works faith was made perfect? And the Scripture was fulfilled which says, “Abraham believed God, and it was accounted to him for righteousness.”And he was called the friend of God. You see then that a man is justified by works, and not by faith only.Likewise, was not Rahab the harlot also justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out another way?For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.