Playing conformist and docile activist

I like to think I’m a martyr. That I chose the 9-5 to learn all about it from the inside.

You have to learn about systems in order to break them, I said.

Again and again.

Rules and regulations.

Again and again.

This is good.

Then one by one my friends left their jobs, homes, and even their beds.

I became angry with them – it’s a privilege I said.

You don’t see single moms or dads droppin the cubby for the treehouse in Panama

Wait til your teeth fall out, sure, try out that dentist in Thailand

You tore your ACL, trust that therapist in Mali?

It’s a privilege I said.

A privilege to take risks,

A privilege to dump all your shit there

To leave it here.

To say you don’t need it.

Because it’s cheaper there?

I am happy.

One by one they left.

For adventure, for love, for creativity, for challenge.

For something more, for less…for insights

and less burdens.

For likes, for dislikes.

For arms outstretched, wide.

It’s a privilege I said.

Would you leave if your mum had cancer?

If your dad left your mum?

If you had a whole family of 5? Trust the schools in Mozambique?

This is good for me.

I work 9-5 so my mom can tell her mother in 5-9 words what the hell I do and for who and where.

No more, peace corpse where?

I am a martyr you see?

Isn’t it clear, that I’m giving up the dream?

The dream to be me?

I wish I could share with you…

the icons I click

the buildings I climb

the paper I print

the lights that turn on

and the air con that runs.

Because my parents will one day be old.

Because I need to explain. In words.

Because the paint will dry out

My hands will tire out

Their eyes and ears will no longer grasp,

the fight and the flight

of tripscollaborationscompostingmultimediacommunityasedprojectsjewelrycollectionsculpturegardenbicycleridehomebrewvacationssushisushisnowboardsoymilkcoffee

Soar.

I am learning.

How many others’ beds will we sleep on

Before we buy our own

How many beds will we give away

Before we keep our own

I am aware.

Can an activist be in repose?

At least for a while

A short while…

Long enough to enjoy her gym membership?

Yes, I know.

This life of mine, it is a privilege.

ode to the twenty-somethings

we who are young and incredibly bold,

we want to "do"something.

we want to have and make meaning

in our lives

and in the lives of others

we who are young,

are incredibly afraid the best

will never take shape

we who are young

understand life at a complexity beyond our

illiterate grandmothers,

are so so burdened by our grandfathers

we who are young,

are given extraordinary tools at birth

we always desire

and want

we who are young, inspire inquiry

we want to live with "purpose"

we who are over-prepared to change the world,

are inadequate

at changing habits

we disguise

we who want everything

we who are entitled to anything

want stability, freedom, and adventure

we who are young,

driven by innovation and ambition

are always so afraid

we who are young,

are fearless when battling injustices in their country,

neglect our inequities

we who are twenty-something

are entirely afraid, that there is never enough time

that too soon, is too late

we rush and we wait

we are so afraid we will know it

and not have

when we are thirty-something...

honesty methodology...

I am struggling to write my thesis. Here is how I started Chapter 3, at 9:32pm in my work cubicle on a friday night. fuck.


I don’t want to write this because it is intuitive, when I program, I go by my gut feeling. I look at what resources I have, who is interested, and I forcast the experience in my head, I imagine it, I picture what they would be doing, the questions they would ask, and I try, I try not to be jaded and assume they won’t care, or will be completely uninterested. And if that happens, I go with it, and I ask them what it is they want to do. I am nothing, nothing but someone who makes charts and templates and arranges a time for them to eat and pee. That is it, that is a curriculum plan, the content takes shape on its own, with the kids of course, and their thoughts, that is my method, I let them lead. So I guess that is participatory action research and here I am back to square one. I want to go home.

more than steak and potatoes

Last night my friend told me he wanted to buy a house in Uruguay for retirement.

Interestingly, my first response was how I would miss my food. By that I meant access to it – granted it’s not easy now, but I still have some kind of access…living in DC, my mom mails me thousand year old eggs and various Taiwanese seasonings, I buy tofu from Harris Teeters, soy sauce from Trader Joes, and veggies from the Korean market down the street.

He scoffed at my response and said, “That’s so lame, I would never say, ‘oh I’m not ever going to live here because I can’t have my steak and potatoes’!”

It’s different, I said. You can get steak and potatoes practically anywhere. Food is everything for me – it is my culture, grounded by the environment, symbolic in traditions and a solid reminder of who I am. Birthdays we eat noodles, to symbolize long life. New Years we eat whole fish and sticky rice flour because 'sticky' in Mandarin also means year. Food is...language, gifts, celebrations, fears, medicine, longevity, pride, humility, hospitality, burden, abundance!!

So much of it is also place-based, certain veggies only grow in certain climates – I gave him an example of bamboo, I LOVE and miss eating bamboo! He laughed and said, “What are you, a panda?”

How would he ever know?

That my parents sneak back an abundance of shoots in their suitcase from a visit in Tawian.

That in the sweltering summer it’s delightful chilled and dipped in sweet mayonnaise.

That the smell, taste, and first bite brings me back to my grandma’s house in Taipei.

That the leaves are used to wrap rice, the stems are used to treat infections.

That my kick-ass knitting needles (which I used to make him a scarf) are made out of bamboo.

He will never know, because it’s only now that I am just beginning to know...

Damn, I am becoming soooo Taiwanese!

37 and 38 and everythin in between

While waiting for my flight, I always sneak a peak at the other gates and their destinations. Where are all these people going?

Today I passed by gate 37 and 38. Bermuda and Hartford. It struck me how these people, sitting side by side, maybe even with some overlap and spillage onto each other’s gates were heading to two entirely different locations. They will be having two entirely different experiences. They must be thinking two entirely different things at this moment.

Sometimes I sit at another gate just to pretend. A place I’ve never been. To pretend I’m going there, preparing my state of mind for that place, for…Sarasota. I have no idea where that is. What would someone going there look like? What would I be thinking?

Sometimes I go and sit where I stand out. Then I can ask myself what others ask when they see me – what would someone like me be doing there?

Place defines me. And I always try to define it. No doubt. This entire blog is situated on who I am when I am where, there and here. But for the first time in a long time it doesn’t matter so much. I surrender. I give up the fight. I am letting the place, the experiences, choose me. I surrender my angst, my expectations and even a bit of my curiosity. I have no idea what will happen, what this place will truly bring me. How this place will transform me. But for the first time in a long time, yes, I know exactly what I am doing here.

People are asking, why DC? So you like DC? No more or less than one likes Bermuda or Hartford. Who knows? This is a place that welcomes me and challenges me. That inspires me and irks me. That provides just the right amount of fear and comfort. That is enough. I am here to live – this time in consecutive years. But who knows, just like the man sitting in Gate 38, Hartford may be a layover on the way to his Bermuda. Does he hate Hartford? Is he expecting Bermuda? Will he fall in love with it? Who knows?

Or maybe he’s like me, just sitting in Harford’s gate but really waiting for Sarasota…

Dear God.

Thank you for teaching me humility and patience.

Thank you for stripping me down and building me back up.

Thank you for fear, loneliness, and uncertainty so I can trust in you and others.

Thank you for always providing assurance and a place to sleep - even when I worry and doubt.

Thank you for mom and dad and their unconditional love.

Thank you for reminding me what I am good at.

Thank you for reminding me what I am not good at.

Thank you for closing doors, even when I really really want walk through.

Thank you for the generosity of others.

Thank you for allowing me to be uncomfortable and embarrassed so I will keep learning.

Thank you for teaching me empathy.

Thank you for taking care of me.

and thank you for always being down to be my +1

Whose team are you on?

“It is quite easy to be on the winning team and not ask how it is that you’re winning. Most White Americans are comfortable in their dominant roles and are not really concerned about whether or not the scales of justice were tilted.” – Daivid Ruiz

Although I am not a White American, I am fully aware that I too, am on the winning team – and even better, when the other side is winning, I can switch teams. Yes, just like that.

I am a child of an illegal immigrant from the rural rural motherland (was an illegal…, SB 1070 supporters, don’t come and try to deport our ass), I am the first in my immediate family to graduate from a University, I am a woman of color, and I qualify for all kinds of minority funding.

BUT, I am a child of a middle-class family, in May I will join the 7% of Americans and 1% of the world pop. with grad degrees, I am a “model minority,” and although I call cops prejudice for hounding me for all kinds of bicycle violations, I doubt I’ll ever be questioned for “reasonable suspicion," and I get $120 facials.

I live in both worlds, I play for both teams, I empathize, categorize, fight, avoid, ridicule, generalize, reject, embrace, socialize, identify with…the other team.

Confused? Welcome to my team.

I am a hyphenated contradicting concoction who has yellow, brown, orange, white, tan, pale, dark skin – depending on who’s team I am on and who’s team I am playing against.

I am Taiwanese-American.

I am always playing for my team - whether winning or losing, I tan gold.