Race

40 Days of Writing, Day 20: Memoir as an Act of Self-Destruction

Published on by Lisa

…memoir is the ultimate act of self-destruction… writes Dave Eggers.  That’s how he sees memoir writing — it should be something like the “shedding a skin.”

This Pulitzer nominee describes memoir as an act of self-destruction.  “Shedding of skin.”

This sounds familiar.

ECDYSIS:  the shedding of an outer lay or integument.  Molting.

It’s a sign, I think.  I’m on the right path.

I’m going to see Eggers speak tomorrow.  I don’t know why.  I have a quarter of a million things I need to be working on, but instead, I’m going to go see the author who sees memoir exactly as I do.

Memoir.

I’ve always written memoir.  Since I was, I don’t know, seven years old.  I thought there was rich potential in writing my life out at the end of the day and thinking about what I could share with others.  It never came a from self aggrandizing, quite the opposite.  My life was superbly ordinary in many ways.  I just happened to have a keen eye for detail, a heart created for writing.  But I was embarrassed by it, embarrassed by my desire to write about life, my observations, events that shaped my perspective.  To do so, in my opinion, was self aggrandizing.  And, I figured, someone probably said it before and said it much better than I ever could.

But I never met anyone who thought like me, or could say it like me, or write it in the exact same why I did.  It wasn’t that I thought my way was the best, but I never agreed with what I was reading.  Eventually, I grew listless for waiting for someone to write my thoughts.

Maybe someone has written it before, but no one has or ever will express something to the depths and character that you will express it.  Because no one is you, an old therapist told me when I confessed my desire to write but my fear surrounding the egotistical assumption that what I would write would be useful to the world.  No one is you.  No one can be.

The best way I describe things is through the filter of my life.  I explain through the ecdysis of my life, through the impact upon my mind, the shattering of my expectation, the displacement of my comfort, the movement of my borders.  I write to explain it to myself.  What comes out is what I offer the reader.

Which is the only way I can describe the experience I had at the A/PIA Movement Building conference in Ann Arbor this past weekend.  It breathed new ideas and vocabulary into my system.  It surprised me how easily my head shifted from Mommyhood to activist thinker and writing philosopher.  I took it as a good sign that the side of me that so loves to engage with the activist, academic, fighting, high fists in the air world is just quietly waiting inside me, ready whenever I am to immerse myself back into the trenches.

A/PIA.  Asian Pacific Island Americans.  Us, building a movement.  I had no idea what I was in for during this conference, but walked away with a pride and certainty that my skin is not a curse, not a gift, but an unfolding story in the history of country still unfamiliar with how to reconcile difference.  I learned how community activism is about a life of love, and joy! and that fighting for equality is not always about policy and infrastructure, but fighting for others to have the right to enjoy simple pleasures that are we all seek in our daily survival.  Bike rides, warm blankets, a clean water cup, decent education, an anti-colonial, anti-imperialistic existence.

At 32, I learned when I met Grace Lee Boggs at 96, I may have a long ride ahead of me.  And, I was excited.  I was excited to live long and envision myself talking to a 32 year old young Pinay mother when I am old and gray and still scribbling in my sketchpads because I still hate lined paper.

I envisioned myself at 96 years old, too young to give up, and surrounded by the energy of young hopeful activists determined to see a better world still in front of them.

I saw myself telling them that I lived through the election of the first black and black-identified president and how it was such a big deal back then.

I smiled at my dream – Isaiah wheeling me in to attend an movement building A/PIA conference, and Nick eating a sandwich in the front row with me.

My whole life, at that point, will be memoir-ed.  Ecdysis-ed.  It will all have been lived out, and written about, and processed.  Even at 96 years old, I’ll still be jotting down my ideas to radically love my community, how to improve as a person, and hopefully encourage the young people before me that 64 years ago I sat in their place, with hopeful eyes and restless hearts and the best thing I ever did was write about it.

40 Days of Writing, Day 5: The Education of White Folks

Published on by Lisa

As a person of color in the United States, the issue of white supremacy – and its infiltration in every kind of  institution and system – remains quite clear to me.  The issues can be complex, certainly, but sometimes, incidents of racism occur and reveal simple and forgotten points about the danger people of color face when in predominantly white environments.

Like this story that happened in my home state of Ohio where an elementary school teacher thought there was nothing wrong with asking one of her two black students to pose as a slave during a mock slave auction and had the white students poke and prod as if buying him, even going as so far as inspecting the inside of his mouth and testing his muscle strength.

This, in my mental filing system, is categorized under Nightmare, The Ultimate.

This treacherous and psychologically twisted act of a youth educator brings back some not so pleasant memories of my own.

While much less damaging or stunning, I can remember handfuls of incidents growing up in predominantly white classrooms and being asked my opinion because I was not white. “So, Lisa, tell us what is it like to be in interracial dating relationships,” my sociology teacher asked, assuming all kinds of notions that if I were in a relationship that it automatically would be someone who was White or someone of a race other than Filipino. And also assuming that my life is open for discussion for the intellectual advancement of others.

It irked me when well-intentioned white friends would complain that the person of color in their class was socially reserved and wouldn’t share his or her experiences from Nicaragua, China, Mexico, or Africa, “I just really want to learn from them.  Why are they so quiet?” Mhm, I don’t know.  Maybe that person is just like any other person in class — bored to tears perhaps, or an introverted soul, or maybe s/he doesn”t like to talk in class, or maybe s/he doesn’t like you.

Even in professional conferences about dismantling racism in institutions of higher education, even during plenary break out sessions after the speaker just finished a talk about how women of color are often tokenized in mainstream feminist circles and asked to speak simply because of their non-white skin color, someone at my table still asked me, “What’s wrong?  Don’t you have anything to say on this matter? You’re not white and haven’t spoken yet.  I’d love to hear what you’re thinking.”

To which I replied, “I mean, other than the fact that you’re forcing me to speak when the whole presentation was about NOT doing that, I feel fine.” That and I remember thinking, I just don’t feel like talking. It’s early.  I need coffee. Nothing fancy.

Consider the possibility that people of color, especially in predominantly white spheres are neither inspired or scared to talk.  I can’t speak to the minds of what other people are doing or thinking.  I can only speak to my experiences in dealing with people wrapped in the binds of white privilege in education centered environments and how often I was targeted to speak on behalf of my race.  Cultural awareness is not putting someone’s culture and race in the spotlight, nor is is about ignoring it in efforts of sameness and equality.  It’s somewhere in between.

If you are uncomfortable with white supremacy, or history of slavery, or want to learn or teach about it further, consider this point:

People of color/I do not exist to be subject material for enlightenment.  They/I exist because they/we are humans with unique feelings, stories, and ideas.  So, if you’re interested to know about the practices, rituals, and beliefs of a specific culture or race, read a book.  If you’re interested in a person, form a relationship.

And remember that people of color and our lives are not responsible for white people’s education.

Class, Race, and Privilege in the ‘Central Park Jogger’ Story

Published on by Lisa

This essay is written with nothing but the deepest respect of Trisha Meili’s story and her compassion to share herself with the world and aid those in despair. In the tangled web of examining privilege that comes with race and class, and scrutinizing the judicial system, difficult questions arise about the background of the survivor and the wrongly convicted. Looking at how privilege impacts the crime and conviction is not a strike against Meili. It’s an attempt to take a cold, hard look at the judicial system.

In 2004, I read I Am the Central Park Jogger, a best-selling memoir about the healing road to recovery of Trisha Meili, a Wall Street Investment Banker who in 1989, was brutally raped and beaten in Central Park. The story lit up the nation in outrage.

Her book, released fourteen years after her attack, focuses on the neurological and spiritual healing of the violent crime that nearly took her life. Now a motivational speaker, Trisha Meili has been recognized as a leader and advocate for brain trauma, sexual assault, and survivor rights.

I remember reading it in graduate school. Counseling sexual assault survivors, doing group work, and individual therapy peaked my interest in her memoir. I remember telling a friend, “There’s no criticism after reading a memoir of survival. What am I going to focus on — how the writing wasn’t that sophisticated or the strength of coming out to share her story or rape and recovery after she nearly died? Some stories are not about the writing, it’s about the lives underneath it.”

As is with sexual assault, there’s always more to the story.

One thing I know about sexual assault is that the judicial system often deepens the wrongs and violence of the crime. Usually, it’s implicating the survivor. The system is often a jungle, an impassable jungle of victim-blaming, terrorizing, disbelief, and sexism from the moment a womyn admits she has been sexually violated.

The story of Trisha Meili is different.

The truth is that a convicted rapist and murder, Matias Reyes, would eventually confess that he alone had raped, tortured and beaten Trisha Meili. That truth would not surface, though, for thirteen years after the attack and not until five other Black and Latino young men, known as the Central Park 5, would be wrongfully interrogated and convicted for the crime.

Now, Raymond Santana, Khary Wise, Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson and Yusuf Salaam, are still seeking damages for wrongful convictions and time served, ranging from 6 years to 14 years by different members of the Central Park 5.

While this story bears no surprise to anyone familiar with the judicial system, the lives of all of those involved have a horrendous twist of irony.

Trisha Meili, the strong survivor of this terrible and unthinkable crime, has no memory of that night. The brain trauma suffered rendered her memory blank. She does not even remember going out for the run that night. Her story and pain left me speechless, but I also know that the story of Trisha Meili is not the usual case of rape.

The majority of rapes are perpetrated by known acquaintances, friends, and partners. The majority of rapes are not reported, go to trial or have a named, guilty rapist sentenced. The majority of sexual assault survivors do not have the privilege of attending ivy league schools or working at prestigious Wall Street banks. Yet most speakers who circulate public speeches about rape are White women. After working at *University and being in the field for a while, I’ve observed that most paid speakers who openly share their lives, are White women and are accepted as the face of strength, resilience, and courage. They are some of the faces of strength, but most women, particularly women of color and women of low-income do not have the freedom, ability, or support to seek services, publicly speak, or even share their story of sexual violation.

I am speechless once again, this time for the five young men, teenagers back then, who were guilty of many crimes, but not the rape and beating of Trisha Meili. The unthinkable waste of 20 years, a lifetime, for them and their families…are there any words?

How do race and class factor into this horrible crime? This White, Yale grad has been able to miraculously recover and inspire others after a barbaric shredding of her body and humanity. These men of color, tortured in a completely different way, and forced to admit a crime they never committed, endured an injustice that stole their lives and families for two decades. And now, the city is “dragging its feet” when responding to the request to compensate $50 million each to the wrongly convicted and their families.

In the background, New York City, the city of dreams, and of horror. The place of reality which illustrates that racial division and class differences still don’t mix well in the law.

The Central Park 5. Some stories are not about the writing, but about the lives underneath it. I wonder if these young men will have best-selling memoirs.

W-H-I-T-E

Published on by Lisa

It’s quite an extraordinary thing to be identified wrongly.

In a few short moments, you can become adamantly certain of who you are, what you are, what you are not, and what you stand for when you are mistaken for something/one else.

Today I went to get a criminal background check. I filled out all my application information and placed my fingertips on the latest technology that can scan your lawful or unlawfulness.

As I surreptitiously peeked over the shoulder of the woman taking my prints, my eyes rapidly looked over my information, wondering if all my speeding tickets popped up. I joked with my Adonis how terrible it would be if a crime I never committed showed up on my record.

Luckily there was no false report, but there was a small detail that widened my eyes and paused my world. To the right of the word “race” with the scroll bar to choose from; after my name, birth date, and locating information, I saw three consonants and two vowels in all capital letters: WHITE.

I stopped short, my eyes piercing over her shoulder, as she happily typed away with the rest of my information and chatted away about the relentless summer humidity. There was no humidity in my now White world because hell just froze over. I continued to gaze at the funny little word, half marveling, half horrified at how that simple word changed my entire life. Without checking or confirmation, I knew there would be no Filipino-Spanish option in the scrollbar. And I began to wonder what my life would be like if I were White. Never in my life had I considered being White or wanted to be White. I knew in that precise moment, at 27 years of age, I knew who I was. I didn’t want to be anyone else other than myself. I didn’t want to be White. I didn’t want White features, White culture, or White blood. My complicated family, the rich language, my monstrous appetite that never suffers from indigestion, my thick black hair and wild brown eyes, my coffee colored skin and – I realized that they were no longer characteristics of me, they simply were me. No! No masquerades! WHITE just didn’t fit.

The FBI wouldn’t find me in the White world. And I internally rolled my eyes, imagining the uniformed and gunned Feds knocking on my door, grabbing me and possibly Adonis by the throat, demanding to know why I was trying to duck the radar of a criminal check, furthering the suspiciousness of my complicated identity.

Instead, I opted out for something much less dramatic. I leaned in, softly cleared my throat and slightly fumbled, “Uh, I might be under ‘asian.’”