Dearest Children (I named this blog before I knew or understood about non-binary gender identities),
I’ve heard it said that if you’re too much for some people, those are not your people.
I’ve also been told that everyone is different. It’s okay to be different. But, sometimes I feel a different kind of different. Like the world itself is too much for me. And it’s hard to know where my place in that world is.
Also I was recently told that I was too negative, hateful, judgmental and (when I give you the next word you’ll know where this is heading) accused of being part of the “trend” of reverse racism.
[As a side note: this person was not white, but Asian-American/Canadian. And while in theory it doesn’t surprise me, it makes me ever more aware that I cannot assume that every person of color will accept the realities of white supremacy in our society. I also learned never to underestimate the strength of white supremacy in a tiny, anxious, conflict-avoiding Asian woman.]
[And in full disclosure I believe that the initial challenges I put to her about the cultural appropriation (of her culture) confused her and my approach hurt her. It was definitely my white privilege at play, presuming how she should feel about it--when my act in and of itself ran counter to my whole point of her choosing when, where and how to share her culture--on her terms, to its increased appreciation (not appropriation) and to the monetary profit of her community. So I apologized, I think sincerely and in the manner true apologies ought to follow. And she accepted my apology. And I was prepared to leave it at that. But then… in spite of resolving that issue and saying she understood better, she took the opportunity to let me know how uncomfortable I have always made her. Also I am now starting to think she may have been confused and thought I was accusing her of cultural appropriation! LOL.]
Related, I had a conversation a couple of weeks ago with another parent at school who said I/the School Librarian/anyone but racist Dr. Seuss himself--”ruined” Read Across America Day when they took Dr. Seuss out of its celebration. Among other things--like insinuating I was likening him to Trump supporters (you said it, not me) and saying “that’s how books used to be. Are we supposed to get rid of all the books with white people in them? What about this book, it’s all Black people?”--he straight out said: “I know all of that!” He acknowledged that Seuss was a racist and wrote racist cartoons. The Librarian said she was so shocked because he’s "the furthest thing" from a Trump supporter and “is nothing like that.” You know… a good, liberal white person who is just as steeped in white supremacy as the rest of us but refuses to see it. And, yet… welp, folks, that’s how white fragility and defensiveness works.
Um, okay. You cling to Dr. Seuss, buddy. Like that pair of jeans you don’t fit anymore and all the yarn you’re saving for “someday” while the goddess Marie Kondo herself is sitting before you, asking if it sparks joy. Not that I have experience conjuring Marie Kondo while holding dozens of skeins of yarn in my hands one at a time or anything. The more attached you are to your possessions and white supremacy, the more you realize how materialistic and white supremacist you may be.
And now, the chorus: “But not me!”
Sit with it.
I’ll admit I was a little shaken after my conversation. But I have never had more conviction about something in my life. I love a lot of things, but anti-racism isn’t about what is fun or what I enjoy doing. It is about a love for my country, my community, my family, justice and the God and Jesus that I know.
I know my talking points. I know it matters. I know I have a voice and I am entitled to use it. Obligated to use it--as an Asian-American, as a white-passing Asian-American.
So I wasn’t too overwrought with picking apart that conversation as I would have in the past, wasting my day (or week or midnight flashbacks for years to come). I’ve spent time angsting over lesser conversations about very unimportant topics. Did I offend her by saying that I don’t like bell peppers? What will she think of me now that she knows I ate the bell peppers anyway? Or, wait, forget it, maybe the meds are working after all and I don’t need to worry about bell peppers.
Anyhow, I did try to think about when and where I could have used some different language to not put him on the defensive immediately, i.e. something I saw recently on @teachandtransform’s IG account: “I used to think that, but now I know/learned…” I’m going to read more about “call out culture” so I can be more prepared for a “call in” that would lead to actual self-examination and dialogue. I thought about where I could have realized I needed to stop debating (because there was no point) and what more poignant, pointed thing, call to action I could have made. (Though I said several times, I invite you to google that. I shit you not, once he said: “I’m not going to do that.”)
So all this felt like quite the accomplishment as a highly sensitive person. I’m not looking for cookies. But, it was a tough week of seeing my psychiatrist who told me that I didn’t have ADD but was having a mid-life crisis about my efficacy and direction in life. Valid. Though the part of that sentence after “mid-life crisis” was my addition after some reflection.
Then, I also went to my therapist and it was one of the cry your eyes out but feel like you got to the nitty gritty situations. Also I went in to watch Babybel do a presentation for her “California Passport”--narrating how her ancestors ended up in California. AND I DIDN’T CRY. And I bragged about not crying to several people.
But, actually I did want to cry. I wanted to say EFFFFF. THAT. I am never leaving the house. I am never talking to anyone about anti-racism. I am never talking to anyone ever again. Also: my children are not growing up.
I know that it’s too important to give up. Lives are on the line. My discomfort with confrontational situations (and trust me, that is a huge discomfort to me) is nothing compared to the pain and violence that black and indigenous and (some, because I won’t say all) people of color face daily (for my or my husband’s or children’s plight is nothing compared with that of Stephon Clark’s mother Se’Quette Clark being told that twenty rounds of ammunition were fired at her son, inflicting eight wounds, six of them in the back and then finding that charges would not be made against the officers.)
And so I struggle speaking out (IRL, because obviously in my social media life I post everything, all the time). Because I’m me: I’m sensitive. I’m sensitive, that’s why I care. I care, that’s why I’m passionate. And why I’m compelled and obligated to keep speaking up to the people in my circles.
Okay, let me take you back to being different. Being sensitive.
When I say sensitive, I’m not using the terms as most people do. They add the word “too” in front of it. And that is commentary enough about what our society thinks of and understands sensitivity. There are other connotations and I think you’d be able to tell me what they are.
But, what I speak of is a gift, a skill, an ability to sense (if not verbalize) the emotions in a room, in a story, in a piece of art. It’s a gift that most “creative” types are plagued by. It’s something that when seen as a detriment and not embraced, when a person is not given awareness or tools about this part of them, leads to a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Because being in the world, anywhere but a dark, quiet room--it’s too much. What do you do in a room full of anger or disappointment? What do you do in an arena of thousands of excited, elated and also loudly screaming fans? Especially when you’re a child? What do you do when you can feel every emotion and sometimes all at once? And then you’re told to buck up, to stuff it down, to not be so stressed?
Yesterday, Danjo and I went to our family therapist. We happened to talk a little about this way of being different. The therapist mentioned the countless adults, including myself, that he has worked with who didn’t fully realize the significance of their sensitivity. “That’s a thing?” we are amazed and relieved to learn.
Because as children, we’re assured that everyone is different. We all feel different. But there is a different kind of different. It makes it hard for people to “get” you, for you to connect with people. You want to fit in like everyone else, but it’s harder for you than they know.
I talked later with Danjo about not feeling like I connected with anyone for most of my childhood. I saw it as a failing. I was sad and anxious and ashamed that I wandered around the playground alone; that I didn’t fit in. Rather than seeing that no one fit me quite right.
In retrospect, your chances aren’t great of finding a kindred spirit when there are only seventy-five second graders to work with. The therapist noted that to find someone who “gets” you, they may even be older (which never even occurred to me even though I found that resoundingly true) and finding that person is almost impossible in second grade.
Also, that person doesn’t have to be the same as you. They certainly can be. But it definitely takes a special person to like, fall in love with, appreciate an angsty, lonely, ball of emotion. It wasn’t until I made a sarcastic comment during my First Year orientation at college that someone who happened to be standing next to me “got me.” She read through the sarcasm and (while I’m racked with guilt to this day for saying such a thing about someone who will probably one day be president)--to this day, my bestest friend (who I will never let go of) assures me my observational commentary was nonetheless accurate.
And the awful thing is that I still think of Katherine, my family and other friends as “tolerating” me. So, we’re back to the beginning of this letter and being “too much.”
And the intersection of being myself, being vocal about anti-racism and being told that I am angry, hateful and judgemental. That someone can only “connect with ideas with others who speak on the same topic with a different tone.” Please google: tone policing.
Okay, I concede the topic of this letter is everywhere.
Also, I don’t know where it’s going.
I guess it’s to say that I’m growing into myself. Into being different. Into being too much. Into that difference and “too muchness” being an asset. Into using my “too much,” spending my discomfort and privilege.
Yet, I’m also faced with questions about acting as a bridge, as I suggested before in the context of the Dr. Seuss conversation. Women, in general, but BIPOC, specifically, are expected to be a “bridge” #thisbridgecalledmyback a.k.a. a definitive college read.
While my anger and ferocity are fueled by a righteous love, should I be “toning it down”? Do I have more of an obligation to temper my anger, coat it with sugar because I’m Asian-American, because I’m white-passing? Are there ways that someone (who is more troubled by the mention of racism than by racism itself) could hear me better? Ways that I could change my tone or words? Or are those folks already set on not hearing it?
Proof that your mom sometimes has more questions than answers.
Love you no matter what,
Mommy
