Spicy Lives

Generally, when I hear people talk 'variety' they're not very far from adding, "is the spice of life!" Indeed, it is, but just how many spices are there?

To my discredit, I just began dabbling in the arts of the kitchen, not always very well, but I have made a few tasty things, I think, although, note to self: never make family pumpkin-flavored things because they do not like pumpkin.

It's just that lately life keeps surprising me with its variety.

The other day I asked one of my students if she remembered my name, and she answered, "Of course not!" as if I needed a more definite way of saying 'no'. Then this weather- could the clouds dump any more on my icebox-where-my-heart-used-to-be-oh-OH! And this is the variety in my life, not even the variety of the lives I am privileged to interact with and I have been trying to be a part of a few more lives than I'm used to.

This isn't going to be about a post about how to get more empathy, or how to stop being boring, or five easy steps to do something in a more awesome way. No, right now, all I'm talking about is the very beginning: notice, watch, observe because that's all it takes to see variety. Even in 'cookie cutter' homes, like townhouses, maybe right down your street, have you ever really looked in those homes? Now, don't, like, you know, creep on the families, but think of it this way: it's hard to tell apart one bear from another, but it's pretty easy to tell apart one person from another, even with twins, Doppelgangers, and wannabes, everyone is different. And all those differences live in, generally, the same communities, or at least on the same planet.

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really merely commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the planning, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chain of events, working through generations and leading to the most outer results, it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity

How many spices are there? I don't know, but let me tell you, apparently salt is not one of them and if salt is not one of them, goodGod, I haven't even grazed the surface of the variety of Life- these lives I am privileged to interact with.

I can't wait to dig deeper.

See, snow days can be good for something.

vicariously

re-posted from my Facebook notes (15 October 2012). i have a lot of poems that are sitting unread and un-criticized- would you like to have a turn at them?

----

simple math.

simple truth.

there is no reason why 1+1 can't equal 2.

but as i stand here,

driven mad up the wall,

i think of all the possibilities waiting for me outside the front door.

i only need to step out and it could be raining or sunny--

all that in the midst of my shallow humdrum!

in the midst of my shallow humdrum

i remember that all

around

the 

world

people are living,

earning their deaths.

they are making, creating

paintings,

books,

music,

sculptures,

chocolate,

homes,

and jewelry--

and in all the humdrum of my life

i cannot forget that this hour is not an eternity

and one day i will be living...

well, i am living!

there is a beat in my chest!

but am i earning my death?

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be full of stories?

especially full of privileged stories that none but my closest friends ought to hear?

(else they were already there with me!)

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be more like

a square-ten inch block?

part ii-

will i live for those who cannot?

who, not forgetting to earn death,

were given death too early,

and missed the chance to lengthen the dash between their most important days?

will i live for those who cannot?

who, stuck behind the bolted door,

ignored the key in their pockets,

and missed the chance to remember that one hour is not an eternity?

that by their lives others could have lived,

because others wish desperately for their lives,

wishing after your mediocrity,

thinking it the life of a celebrity!-

but were too busy scratching at their clothes, patched and dirty,

to notice others' nakedness, depressed and unhealthy.

will i live for those who cannot?

and will i meet them in streets?

and when they ask me what 1+1 equals

will i say '2',

or give them 2?

OR!- will i take that 1 and add it to 2,

making three,

and give them three meals they daren't foresee?!

will i- 

rich in heart,

rich in mind,

rich in body-

give all i have to others?-

poor in heart,

poor in mind, 

poor in body.

will i show them that math, while true,

can do them no good,

until i can first remind them

that they can live?

for if life is what you make it,

i suppose you could make it rock,

but

if life is what you make it

then i will make it,

and give it to others

who do not know they possess their own tools in their own hands.

i will live for those who cannot.

even behind this dusty cash register.

"i can help whoever is next!"

Good On Paper

Dear Officer,

A few weeks ago you pulled me over because I ignored a red light, although I swear it was yellow. Said so, too, when you asked if I knew why you pulled me over. You asked for my license and registration- gave them to you, no big deal- I was ready to accept a ticket.You only gave me a few minutes to consider how I would pay for this ticket when you returned and, after returning to me my things, said, "Ma'am, thank you. Next time just be more cautious. Good night." 

Officer, as I drove off I wondered why you didn't give me a ticket I obviously deserved. I am hardly ungrateful for your timely mercy, but I admit surprise. Then I smirked: you didn't give me a ticket because I look good on paper.

Ha, damn right, I look good on paper. Never been caught.

sincerely, Justine

P.S.- But seriously, though, thanks for not giving me a ticket. 

But whether I should be proud to look good on paper is an entirely different question because, as I said, I only look good on paper because I've never before been caught zooming through an-almost-red-light, or speeding on the highway, or texting, none of which should be positively rewarded, yet I drove home, late that night, free of tickets or points.

I wondered who else looks good on paper; you'll forgive me for suddenly turning dramatic, but I answered my own question like this: leaders of organized crime. Ha, I know, how dare I compare zooming through an-almost-red-light to organized crime- I'm hardly, however, comparing the way the laws are broken, but how they both go unchecked.

Not only did I drive away that night without a ticket, I also drove away with my car and body fully intact, harming no one. My actions that night had no serious repercussions. I didn't need to channel my ninja skills to sneak my way out of a ticket (I also don't have ninja skills to channel), which would probably mean I wouldn't be a very good leader of organized crime.

Everyone knows not to drive through a red light... how does everyone not know not to sell or keep slaves?

Don't assume that I'm suggesting the former leads to the latter- hardly, but I want to know who else looks good on paper, and how they got to looking good on paper, and we continue to let them look good on paper. (I also apologize for using the universal 'we', but just bare with me on this one, just once.) I am aware that once a person, like the leader of organized crime, is caught it is difficult to keep that person caught because the things for which he is caught are hardly enough to keep him behind bars- maybe just a little slap on the wrists, and then give him a ticket that he'll probably ignore anyway because what's the worse that you could do to him?

Yeah, seriously, good luck with that because even Bryan Mills had to take the law into his own hand in order to see justice served and served well because, apparently, that is the only way to get justice: big government isn't going to help you because some of the people in that system are helping that corruption. Honestly, watch more television- you'll learn something.

This, of course, begs the question, what then really is justice if it can only be used as vengeance?, but I'd rather not.

Damn right, crime organizers look good on paper. They never get caught- they hire other people to get caught.

"'Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people's bones and all uncleanness. So you also outwardly appear righteous to others, but within you are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness." Matthew 23.27 (ESV)

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. 

From Ideas to Stories

Lately, I've been thinking a lot of ideas. A lot.

A few weeks ago, July 4th actually, I was with friends out in Chelsea, and jotted this down on my iPhone: "I like thinking many ideas, but I don't know that I'd put many of them into practice, or sincerely believe in those thoughts/ideas. I think of too many [ideas] to indiscriminately accept all of them [as Truth]."

So, I've had all these ideas, but I've yet to bring them to light. Mostly because I don't know how to bring them to light. My ideas are incomplete, and the only way to make them complete, or somewhere near completion, I would have to write them down, or speak them aloud. I hate doing that. I hate speaking before I'm really sure of what I mean; what I really believe.

Of what have I been thinking?

For starters, beginning sentences with prepositions is a great grammar-release!

Okay, okay, okay.

My thoughts have generally leaned towards the state of humanity.

"Oh, how perfectly vague."

"I know."

But if I become any more specific I promise you, I will go back to the state of humanity, which I am sure, as we all observe, is in a constant state of flux and discontent. Those who are content are so because they know what it is to be discontent.

Hello, Humanity. I'm glad to greet you like an old friend.

But since I don't want to overthink, or rethink, or drag on for too long, I've decided it best to illustrate any ideas or thoughts I have with stories. I don't know why it took me so long to acknowledge this. Every other author and writer has!

Whatever made me think I was better at writing essays than writing vignettes or extended metaphors?

Of all that I've thought this past month I am confident in that idea: that the best way to portray the 'state of humanity' is to illustrate it. To gather up its many images, smells, tastes, words, and feelings, not into some neat little box and leave it there, but for the neat little box to be opened!

Like Pandora's box! But without all the sickness and sin, and horrible things--they're already in the world. Ooh, we don't need more of that.

I know that we learn from our mistakes both in and out of our control, but that does not make me wish bad times upon even the worst of my enemies, and even then, I have no enemies. I live life as though all were friends: yes, it is denial, and yet confirmation that these friends, like my thoughts, though I entertain them, are no less real, or lost, or hungry, or wishful, than I am.

I may not re-open Pandora's Box, but I'll label it for you.

well-intentioned

thank you for your attempt!
that was very...well-intentioned of you.
i can't say i saw it coming,
no more than you really will keep it coming as you promise to do, but thank you.
your consideration for my...inherent?
my...obvious?- devastation is still kind.
thank you.
you are kind.
as kind as i will ever be.
although i don't remember drowning, choking, or bleeding
i still thank you.
perhaps i was drowning, choking, or bleeding at one point.
i don't know.
i'm sure there are cases of people drowning, choking, or bleeding without knowing.
surely, yes.
i've lied without knowing.
i don't know.
but, thank you.
your intentions will not go unnoticed.

When it rains,

I have a feeling that I'm today is not going to be productive. It can't be, what with the heavens crying!- they need my sympathy. I need to hear their every little moan. I need to make sure the thunder giants don't step so heavily on them (although, I am all about thunder and lightning, so, thunder giants, stomp as loudly as you want).

There's the lightning.





Do you hear that, earth?
The heavens try to speak to you.
Earth, have you nothing to say? But listen to all these complaints and questions and statements and joys!
Say something in return!
Oh, I can't speak for you.
I don't know how to!
But these heavy downpours water your parched ground.
Perhaps, earth, your thank yous are whispers
like wind which toss clouds to and fro.
Your thank yous might be plants eating from the sun.

My thanks you?
I think my admiration might suffice.
But if I stare for too long, you let me know.
Let me know when I've fallen asleep to the sound of your conversations.
I don't mean to be rude,
but I don't understand you.
Make a clap of thunder!
Splatter me with water!
I will awake, I promise you.
I'll thank you for waking me.

Do you hear that, heavens?
I can understand how it rains.
Maybe even why it rains.
But I'll never know how or why what's beyond your clouds.

Yes, I am small.
Thanks for reminding me,
but thanks for including me.

"You're just saying that!"

A couple days ago I finally got my haircut, and since then I've received many compliments.

"Super cute haircut, really!"

"Oh! It's so different from what you had before! I love it!"

"So, you got a haircut? Oh. Looks nice."

Before the haircut I had my hair up in a ponytail and when my hair dresser took that first big snip my head suddenly felt ten times lighter. I bet I could jump off a building and start flying, if I really wanted to. I'll let you know how that turns out my next blog post.

But I'll be honest, I was kind of nervous about my new haircut. I've had it short before, yes, but not this short (it's a pixie cut). A barrage of self-consciousness thoughts invaded my mind palace (wink wink); I was suddenly worried if my face were too round, if I picked the right color hair dye or what if I was the only one that liked my haircut? For me, long hair is such a security blanket, and now that it's all so short I have nothing  to hide behind.

Right after my haircut I had work and one of my coworkers said to me: "When you walked into the break room I only saw the back of your head and thought, "Who is this person?" but then you turned around!- very nice! Is that a shade of red I see?"

And the only polite way to respond is, "Thank you."

Yet however much I consciously believe the compliments something rather subconscious (therefore deadly, thank you, Freud) tells me that these compliments aren't true. I mean, what else are these people supposed to say?

"So, you got a haircut? You want me to go get a paper bag with eye holes because that cut and color are offensive."

My subconscious screams, "They're just being nice! They don't want to hurt your feelings!"

My conscious will almost always submit to my subconscious...BUT NOT THIS TIME!

Whatever niceties my coworkers, family or friends give me I need to remember their sincerity...sincerities. (I'm a slave to parallelism.) My modesty and humility need not become false. There is a difference between accepting compliments and expecting compliments.

I'm no Helen of Troy (what do I want a thousand ships for?), but I'm also certainly not one of the Twits. Whatever beauty I do possess is kept in check by the occasional pimple or pair of jeans that shrunk folded up in the dresser drawer, a reminder that beauty needs to be preserved.

In the same way I catch the log in my eye before I poke out the speck in your eye, I need to remember my own beauty, my own value, before I can remember your beauty and value. After all, we are human: beautiful in our ordinariness.

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