I have been in DC since Feb 7, reintegrating by dropping by my old office, attending Hill briefings, seeing friends, getting involved with community organizing, and facilitating board retreats. I've also fixed a leaky toilet, gone to the dentist, and continued my travel adventures by going to San Francisco for 6 days with my partner. My days have been full, and my doubts about whether or not I still belong here even when I'm not officially employed have faded. As I'm fond of telling people these days, even though I'm "organizationally unaffiliated" (read: unemployed) I am certainly still involved with a LOT of organizations. I'm working and not getting paid. I have a purpose for being here, and I feel much more relaxed here now than I did before I left.
I am trying to bring the sense of presence and joy I felt in Taiwan to my life here in DC. Part of how I stay grounded and fully embodied here is by attending People of Color Sangha at the Insight Meditation Community of Washington. "Sangha" is a Buddhist term that in the West commonly refers to a Buddhist community. I think of it as a meditation group. Every month the POC sangha meets for 2.5 hours and incorporates sitting meditation, a brief lecture called a "dharma", and group discussion. Today was my third time participating in sangha, and I am immensely grateful that I went. The meditations that I do at sangha are deep, and I feel fully present for those precious 30 minutes. I emerge from them feeling connected and grounded and cleansed, or as the Buddhists would say, "awake". The discussions are also interesting and thought-provoking, and the one today was particularly powerful.
It was based on Larry Yang's Precepts for Directing the Mind Towards Diversity. In short, these precepts call on us to refrain from forcing others to adopt our belief systems, to refrain from denying or invalidating other people's experiences, to not diminish the worth or happiness of any other human being, to not exclude or isolate others, to be aware of privilege, and to not participate in systems of oppression. Among others. A tall order, but it's meant to aspirational. Guidelines, if you will.
In all seriousness, as I heard these precepts being read out loud, I felt a very strong resistance. Here I was sitting in a room with all people of color, most of whom are black, most of whom are women, and many of whom self-identify as LGBTQ. Among us we represent some of the most marginalized and oppressed identity groups in the U.S. One after another people responded to these precepts with stories of painful, hurtful encounters they've had with racism. Others talked about how important it is to be open-minded, to accept ourselves so we can fully accept others, which I also found myself resisting. I felt my anger and impatience to speak boiling over, and instead of mindfully pausing after another woman's particularly painful story about a racist incident, I hurried to speak:
"Why should we strive so hard to love and understand and be open to those who hurt us? There are so many people who will not refrain from forcing us to adopt their belief systems, or regularly exclude, isolate, and treat people as inferior. Opening ourselves up to them means we're going to get hurt. Maybe it's okay to isolate ourselves with people from similar backgrounds, if that means we're going to be safe. Why should we, who have to carry so much weight, and deal with so much B.S., have to listen and try to understand worldviews that invalidate our humanity and existence? Why do we have to be mindful and open when they will not do the same for us? We, as individuals, can be compassionate and loving all we want, but that doesn't change the systems out there that have and will continue to hurt us."
I was relieved when my angry, defensive, decidedly NON-compassionate outburst was met with affirmation and validation from the rest of the group. It made me feel safe to know that other people felt and understood my frustration, that though many of us work in social justice and believe fundamentally in the inherent worth of all human beings, we have also been hurt by a lot of people. And that makes us angry.
I appreciated in particular the words of a black woman elder who was not afraid to talk about her movement work against white supremacy, and her own anger and exhaustion. But she also talked about what it means to see white folks as not just the "enemy" but as human beings. As the conversation went on, several themes came up. The vulnerability and mindfulness it takes to not immediately react from a place of hurt and defensiveness. How communities of faith like IMCW that are meant to be welcoming and inclusive often exclude and isolate people of color. How hard it can be honest about race with white people who believe so fervently in diversity and that they are being good people. The fiercely compassionate and radical act of claiming and loving ourselves, asserting that we belong. Not asking permission to belong or to be recognized as full human beings.
I left feeling seen and heard and loved, and am grateful for the sense of belonging I felt in the space. But the discussion we had has stayed with me, leaving my heart full and my head spinning and pushing me to do this midnight blogging. Reading the precepts again, one of them sticks out to me:
"Aware of the suffering caused to myself and others by fear and anger during conflict or disagreement, I undertake the training to refrain from reacting defensively, using harmful speech because I feel injured, or using language or cognitive argument to justify my sense of rightness. I commit to communicate and express myself mindfully, speaking truthfully from my heart with patience and compassion. I commit to practice genuine and deep listening to all sides of a dispute, and to remain in contact with my highest intentions of recognizing Buddha nature within all beings."
This quote really strikes me now because of how much fear and anger I felt when I was giving my outburst, and how much I see of it now when I read over my words. Was I reacting defensively? Check. Using harmful speech because I felt injured? Check. Using language or cognitive argument to justify my sense of rightness? Check. In fact, that's kind of my default response to any sort of experience of oppression, whether on the personal level (i.e. racist or sexist comment) or systematic level (i.e. the Tea Party taking over the House). It's not wrong or bad - it's a way of coping and surviving. But where is all that fear and anger coming from?
There's the fear of not being heard. The anger of people invalidating my experiences. The fear of isolation, of not being accepted. Of not being loved. I want to justify my rightness because I want to justify my truth, and my existence. I don't want to be erased or dismissed. I interpret agreeing with and validating my political beliefs and values as validating me. But I am starting to understand that maybe my sense of self doesn't need to be so threatened by conflict or disagreement. No, it's not okay when people or systems try to deny my lived reality, but their denial does not have to result in my own denial and self-minimization. I know my self, and I know my truth. I have dignity and worth as a human being. I have a spirit that cannot be erased. I do not have to convince anyone that I belong, because I am here, and that is enough.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
On homecomings
Well everyone, I'm back in the U.S. I apologize for falling off the blogging bandwagon during the last two weeks of my trip. Irregular Internet access and being too tired/busy from traveling are my main excuses, but I did manage to send regular updates about my day to my partner. I plan on editing some of these emails and posting them on my blog so y'all can get a sense of some of the adventures I had, but first a reflection post is in order.
I flew back to the U.S. on Monday, January 31 to Newark, NJ where my maternal grandmother and relatives live. Before I flew back to the U.S. I spent one night in Taipei after my 10 day trip to Thailand. Jason and I arrived in Taipei on Sunday evening and my (paternal) uncle and aunt picked us up from the airport. I was very, very glad to see them, and inordinately relieved to be back in Taipei in general. Although I had an amazing time in Thailand, my identity as a tourist there was inescapable, as were all of the European tourists everywhere and the daily sightings of older European men with very young, beautiful Thai women. (more on being a tourist in Thailand in another post)
I was so glad to be back in a country where I spoke the language, where there were actual Taiwanese residents surrounding me at all time, where there is no significant expat or Western tourist presence in the city, where there are mountains. I found comfort in narrow streets and buildings pressed on top of each other, instead of the sprawling, flat, expanse of concrete and super-highways of Bangkok. As I walked the streets of Taipei during my last night there, I felt this deep sense of belonging that I feel in very few places in the world. I used to feel like I belonged to Chapel Hill when I went to school there - I would be sitting in the quad, watching the dappled shadows under the oak trees and the controlled chaos of the class change, or on the front lawn of Weaver Street sitting at one of those weathered green picnic tables with my friends, sharing a bottle of wine, and feel like yes, this is my place. Compared to Chapel Hill or even DC, I have spent very little time in Taipei, and yet I felt that same rush of well-being and bone-deep certainty that I was home.
Maybe it was because I had been sick for a couple of days in a foreign country and was just grateful to be somewhere familiar with people around to take care of me. Maybe it was because it was my last night there and I was trying to hold on to every moment. I think mostly it is because Taipei is where my family is. I was so glad to have one last night to sit in my uncle and aunt's living room watching the season finale of Taiwanese Idol with them, just joining in on their quiet family ritual. The things I will remember about Taiwan will be the small, ordinary moments: watching TV with my aunt, climbing on the back of my uncle's scooter as he takes me home every night, sitting in the car as he names each street for me and tells me how they're connected to each other, going to the Carrefour with my aunt. These are the experiences that mark me as part of their family, part of their daily lived realities.
On Monday we dropped Jason off at the airport because he had an earlier flight than me (my flight didn't leave until 7:30 PM) and then went to get lunch with one of my relatives in Taipei. We then went back to their house where they have their own karaoke machine, and my aunt and uncle started to sing along with their relatives. Since I was sick and coughing violently, I refrained from participating. But as I sat eating cherries and drinking tea and watching my aunt and uncle sing old, classic Chinese songs together, my uncle singing in his tone-deaf, gravelly, good-natured voice that sounds so much like my father's (who I have never heard sing karaoke), I felt like I could stay there forever. I tried to preserve the moment in my memory, how unselfconscious everyone was, how much fun they were having, the feeling of love and good will.
My uncle and aunt drove me back to the airport and parked the car and sat with me outside of security. I had gotten there much earlier than I needed to and we had about 30 minutes to wait together. We talked about what I was going to do when I got back to DC, and how I could visit again when I eventually went to grad school. My uncle took pictures of me and my aunt, and of me in front of a model of an EVA Airlines airplane. The inevitable departure loomed over us, making us all antsy and subdued. Finally, I got up and said that it was time for me to go. They walked me to the security gate, and I started thanking them and saying my goodbyes, telling them how much their boundless generosity and hospitality meant to me and how they took such exceptional care of me. My uncle looked at me with moist eyes and said, "Of course. You're my father's youngest granddaughter."
My aunt, who I remembered tearing up when I left Taipei the first time, started crying in earnest. I rarely see my relatives of her age or generation cry. My uncle tried to smooth it over and joke through it (as usual) but I hugged her and told her I would see her again, that she needed to come visit me in the U.S., that it would be okay. She wiped her eyes and tried to regain her composure as I turned to hand the guard my passport and plane ticket. As I passed by the guard, I turned one last time to look at my uncle and aunt, and they both smiled and waved at me. I felt an urge to run back to them, or to stay in my spot waving to them, but I turned away and kept walking, and they disappeared out of view.
I have never felt so heartbroken on an airplane, or so reluctant to go back the U.S. I thought of my mom's story about how she cried the entire way to the U.S. the first time she came here, to go to a school where she knew no one, unsure of when she would see her family again. I kept thinking of my aunt's tears, of my uncle's cavalier declarations that he "might not be here" the next time I go to Taiwan, of being ripped from a way of being in the world. I often think of my scattered family and of the consequences of immigration as a blessing - it means I have connections and relationships all over the world, that my family can help each other navigate being in vastly different places, that we have access to diverse experiences and resources. But on the airplane, I could only think of immigration as a tragedy, something caused by the legacies of war and instability, something that created a rift in our family forever. My uncle and aunt and cousins are never going to permanently move to the U.S., and I am never going to build my life in Taipei. We see each other once every 5 years if we are lucky. I grew up without them. Most of the time we don't get a chance to share Lunar New Year together, or family celebrations, or dinners, or just sitting around watching TV. And yet when I see them I feel so welcomed and unconditionally loved and taken care of. They treat me like their long lost youngest child. They don't really know me very well as an adult, or about my work or interests or friends or partner, but they love me.
Because over 30 years ago my father and his brothers and parents decided to make a calculated risk, decided that at least one son needed to be in America in case Taiwan went to war with China, our families are separated for good. I know that it is partly because of this reality that I am treated so well when I go to Taiwan, and that I am seen as so precious. I grew up with my mom's large extended family in NJ, and when I came back they folded me back into the family life with little fanfare or commentary. There was no one assigned to wait for me at the airport like in Taiwan, just the usual cell phone call and waiting for a ride. The routineness of my return, this kind of "oh, you're back" is precious in its own way - it means that I will keep coming back, that I belong here in the U.S., that I am expected. But it made my departure from Taiwan feel even more sharp and painful.
Now that I have been in NJ for almost a week, and am mostly over both my jet lag and my bronchitis, I feel more settled. I've spoken twice with my uncle and aunt over Skype to wish them a happy Lunar New Year, and have sent them emails and photos. They are busy with their own family obligations, and my aunt sounded okay when I last spoke to her. My mom, some of her brothers and sisters, and my grandma are planning a trip back to Taiwan in October, and my dad may join them (he has not gone to Taiwan in over 20 years), and this news cheered my aunt considerably. I still miss my family and their way of life in Taipei dreadfully, but as I am getting emails from my friends and colleagues in DC and reconnecting with my partner and my best friends, I feel like I am coming back to myself. My life is here, and I'm ready to start living it again
I flew back to the U.S. on Monday, January 31 to Newark, NJ where my maternal grandmother and relatives live. Before I flew back to the U.S. I spent one night in Taipei after my 10 day trip to Thailand. Jason and I arrived in Taipei on Sunday evening and my (paternal) uncle and aunt picked us up from the airport. I was very, very glad to see them, and inordinately relieved to be back in Taipei in general. Although I had an amazing time in Thailand, my identity as a tourist there was inescapable, as were all of the European tourists everywhere and the daily sightings of older European men with very young, beautiful Thai women. (more on being a tourist in Thailand in another post)
I was so glad to be back in a country where I spoke the language, where there were actual Taiwanese residents surrounding me at all time, where there is no significant expat or Western tourist presence in the city, where there are mountains. I found comfort in narrow streets and buildings pressed on top of each other, instead of the sprawling, flat, expanse of concrete and super-highways of Bangkok. As I walked the streets of Taipei during my last night there, I felt this deep sense of belonging that I feel in very few places in the world. I used to feel like I belonged to Chapel Hill when I went to school there - I would be sitting in the quad, watching the dappled shadows under the oak trees and the controlled chaos of the class change, or on the front lawn of Weaver Street sitting at one of those weathered green picnic tables with my friends, sharing a bottle of wine, and feel like yes, this is my place. Compared to Chapel Hill or even DC, I have spent very little time in Taipei, and yet I felt that same rush of well-being and bone-deep certainty that I was home.
Maybe it was because I had been sick for a couple of days in a foreign country and was just grateful to be somewhere familiar with people around to take care of me. Maybe it was because it was my last night there and I was trying to hold on to every moment. I think mostly it is because Taipei is where my family is. I was so glad to have one last night to sit in my uncle and aunt's living room watching the season finale of Taiwanese Idol with them, just joining in on their quiet family ritual. The things I will remember about Taiwan will be the small, ordinary moments: watching TV with my aunt, climbing on the back of my uncle's scooter as he takes me home every night, sitting in the car as he names each street for me and tells me how they're connected to each other, going to the Carrefour with my aunt. These are the experiences that mark me as part of their family, part of their daily lived realities.
On Monday we dropped Jason off at the airport because he had an earlier flight than me (my flight didn't leave until 7:30 PM) and then went to get lunch with one of my relatives in Taipei. We then went back to their house where they have their own karaoke machine, and my aunt and uncle started to sing along with their relatives. Since I was sick and coughing violently, I refrained from participating. But as I sat eating cherries and drinking tea and watching my aunt and uncle sing old, classic Chinese songs together, my uncle singing in his tone-deaf, gravelly, good-natured voice that sounds so much like my father's (who I have never heard sing karaoke), I felt like I could stay there forever. I tried to preserve the moment in my memory, how unselfconscious everyone was, how much fun they were having, the feeling of love and good will.
My uncle and aunt drove me back to the airport and parked the car and sat with me outside of security. I had gotten there much earlier than I needed to and we had about 30 minutes to wait together. We talked about what I was going to do when I got back to DC, and how I could visit again when I eventually went to grad school. My uncle took pictures of me and my aunt, and of me in front of a model of an EVA Airlines airplane. The inevitable departure loomed over us, making us all antsy and subdued. Finally, I got up and said that it was time for me to go. They walked me to the security gate, and I started thanking them and saying my goodbyes, telling them how much their boundless generosity and hospitality meant to me and how they took such exceptional care of me. My uncle looked at me with moist eyes and said, "Of course. You're my father's youngest granddaughter."
My aunt, who I remembered tearing up when I left Taipei the first time, started crying in earnest. I rarely see my relatives of her age or generation cry. My uncle tried to smooth it over and joke through it (as usual) but I hugged her and told her I would see her again, that she needed to come visit me in the U.S., that it would be okay. She wiped her eyes and tried to regain her composure as I turned to hand the guard my passport and plane ticket. As I passed by the guard, I turned one last time to look at my uncle and aunt, and they both smiled and waved at me. I felt an urge to run back to them, or to stay in my spot waving to them, but I turned away and kept walking, and they disappeared out of view.
I have never felt so heartbroken on an airplane, or so reluctant to go back the U.S. I thought of my mom's story about how she cried the entire way to the U.S. the first time she came here, to go to a school where she knew no one, unsure of when she would see her family again. I kept thinking of my aunt's tears, of my uncle's cavalier declarations that he "might not be here" the next time I go to Taiwan, of being ripped from a way of being in the world. I often think of my scattered family and of the consequences of immigration as a blessing - it means I have connections and relationships all over the world, that my family can help each other navigate being in vastly different places, that we have access to diverse experiences and resources. But on the airplane, I could only think of immigration as a tragedy, something caused by the legacies of war and instability, something that created a rift in our family forever. My uncle and aunt and cousins are never going to permanently move to the U.S., and I am never going to build my life in Taipei. We see each other once every 5 years if we are lucky. I grew up without them. Most of the time we don't get a chance to share Lunar New Year together, or family celebrations, or dinners, or just sitting around watching TV. And yet when I see them I feel so welcomed and unconditionally loved and taken care of. They treat me like their long lost youngest child. They don't really know me very well as an adult, or about my work or interests or friends or partner, but they love me.
Because over 30 years ago my father and his brothers and parents decided to make a calculated risk, decided that at least one son needed to be in America in case Taiwan went to war with China, our families are separated for good. I know that it is partly because of this reality that I am treated so well when I go to Taiwan, and that I am seen as so precious. I grew up with my mom's large extended family in NJ, and when I came back they folded me back into the family life with little fanfare or commentary. There was no one assigned to wait for me at the airport like in Taiwan, just the usual cell phone call and waiting for a ride. The routineness of my return, this kind of "oh, you're back" is precious in its own way - it means that I will keep coming back, that I belong here in the U.S., that I am expected. But it made my departure from Taiwan feel even more sharp and painful.
Now that I have been in NJ for almost a week, and am mostly over both my jet lag and my bronchitis, I feel more settled. I've spoken twice with my uncle and aunt over Skype to wish them a happy Lunar New Year, and have sent them emails and photos. They are busy with their own family obligations, and my aunt sounded okay when I last spoke to her. My mom, some of her brothers and sisters, and my grandma are planning a trip back to Taiwan in October, and my dad may join them (he has not gone to Taiwan in over 20 years), and this news cheered my aunt considerably. I still miss my family and their way of life in Taipei dreadfully, but as I am getting emails from my friends and colleagues in DC and reconnecting with my partner and my best friends, I feel like I am coming back to myself. My life is here, and I'm ready to start living it again
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