Sunday, January 9, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
Where Were You
The following are the lyrics to a song by Sweet Talk Radio called "Where Were You":
I am throwing punches in the air
I can sweat and curse but nobody's there
You said you'd find me no matter how I got lost
Where were you when I needed you most
I am standing at the corner again
Watching two roads cross, twist and bend
You stood behind me no matter which way I chose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most
It is easy to lie together at night
In the darkness, trouble is easy to hide
You said you'd stay here until the daylight rose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most
I first heard this song in an episode of Joan of Arcadia, which was incidentally featured in my previous post "Connection". In case you missed it, you can see it here. When I first looked at the lyrics, and put it within the context of the Joan clip, I thought that the song was about feeling God's abandonment. I think you'd be hard put to find a believer who hasn't felt God's absence at one point or another, and so the song seemed apt for that kind of experience.
Looking at it from another perspective, it could also very well be read as being written to a lover who has abandoned the writer in her time of need. It's easy to see it that way, especially given the last stanza. However, when looking at the description for the YouTube video, it says "This is a song Kathrin [Shorr, one of the members of Sweet Talk Radio] wrote to her 'better self' when she didn't show up." While it seems like my initial reading of the lyrics is completely off, in my mind, it isn't.
This "better self" is our most authentic self. One which one of my yoga teachers constantly refers to. (Actually he refers to it as the "highest self" but it's pretty much the same thing.) This "self" is the one that wants what is best for us. It wants us to act in ways that are beneficial for us and for those around us. And this self is not at all unlike God.
When we screw up, or feel like we have screwed up, it's easy to get mad at ourselves. It's easy to start thinking the worst: "How could I be like this?", "What's wrong with me?", "No one could ever be as fucked up as I am", "Who would want me like this?", etc. I've said these very things to myself, over and over and over, until I developed a well worn path of self loathing. This, of course, makes it that much harder for that authentic self to show up, and then we get mad when it doesn't. Complete contradictory nonsense. And yet, it makes perfect sense. Go figure.
When things go wrong, when we screw up (or, again, feel as if we have), it's easy to get mad at God. "Why didn't you stop me when I had the time?", "Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen?", "Why did you bring that person into my life for no good reason?", "Why can't you stop this pain I'm feeling now?", etc. ad nauseum. I've asked these questions, too. And, not unlike the authentic self, the presence that I find in the midst of these questions is supremely and utterly patient. It understands the pain, suffering, self loathing, self hatred, and knows that it's only temporary, even while simultaneously knowing that it doesn't feel that way to us. It's there to hear our questions, our anger, our fear, and somehow pulls us through to the next stage, if we let it.
I honestly don't remember where I was going with this whole entry. I start out with a brilliant idea in my head, and then try to get it all down on paper, and find that in the midst of writing, I've lost certain pieces. Sometimes I'll stop, telling myself I'm just going to take a break and recoup, hoping that I'll get back what I started to lose. It usually never works out that way. So, then I have a decision to make: take a new approach or abandon the piece altogether. Either way, it never turns out how I wanted it to be. The eternal struggle of the artist.
So where was I? Oh yeah...better self, God, struggle, blah blah blah. This song touched me. I identified with it, mostly because I thought it was about God, but it fits in with what I'm going through now, too. I'm searching for that authentic self, and trying not to be afraid to let her show up when I feel her close by. Sometimes I push her away because her ways aren't what I'm used to. And then I end up back in that place, "Where were you when I needed you most?" So I guess this is my theme song for when I screw up, not as a way to wallow---but as a way to realize that this is my constant struggle, and not to shy away from it. And I hope, in the end, it'll make me a stronger person.
I am throwing punches in the air
I can sweat and curse but nobody's there
You said you'd find me no matter how I got lost
Where were you when I needed you most
I am standing at the corner again
Watching two roads cross, twist and bend
You stood behind me no matter which way I chose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most
It is easy to lie together at night
In the darkness, trouble is easy to hide
You said you'd stay here until the daylight rose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most
I first heard this song in an episode of Joan of Arcadia, which was incidentally featured in my previous post "Connection". In case you missed it, you can see it here. When I first looked at the lyrics, and put it within the context of the Joan clip, I thought that the song was about feeling God's abandonment. I think you'd be hard put to find a believer who hasn't felt God's absence at one point or another, and so the song seemed apt for that kind of experience.
Looking at it from another perspective, it could also very well be read as being written to a lover who has abandoned the writer in her time of need. It's easy to see it that way, especially given the last stanza. However, when looking at the description for the YouTube video, it says "This is a song Kathrin [Shorr, one of the members of Sweet Talk Radio] wrote to her 'better self' when she didn't show up." While it seems like my initial reading of the lyrics is completely off, in my mind, it isn't.
This "better self" is our most authentic self. One which one of my yoga teachers constantly refers to. (Actually he refers to it as the "highest self" but it's pretty much the same thing.) This "self" is the one that wants what is best for us. It wants us to act in ways that are beneficial for us and for those around us. And this self is not at all unlike God.
When we screw up, or feel like we have screwed up, it's easy to get mad at ourselves. It's easy to start thinking the worst: "How could I be like this?", "What's wrong with me?", "No one could ever be as fucked up as I am", "Who would want me like this?", etc. I've said these very things to myself, over and over and over, until I developed a well worn path of self loathing. This, of course, makes it that much harder for that authentic self to show up, and then we get mad when it doesn't. Complete contradictory nonsense. And yet, it makes perfect sense. Go figure.
When things go wrong, when we screw up (or, again, feel as if we have), it's easy to get mad at God. "Why didn't you stop me when I had the time?", "Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen?", "Why did you bring that person into my life for no good reason?", "Why can't you stop this pain I'm feeling now?", etc. ad nauseum. I've asked these questions, too. And, not unlike the authentic self, the presence that I find in the midst of these questions is supremely and utterly patient. It understands the pain, suffering, self loathing, self hatred, and knows that it's only temporary, even while simultaneously knowing that it doesn't feel that way to us. It's there to hear our questions, our anger, our fear, and somehow pulls us through to the next stage, if we let it.
I honestly don't remember where I was going with this whole entry. I start out with a brilliant idea in my head, and then try to get it all down on paper, and find that in the midst of writing, I've lost certain pieces. Sometimes I'll stop, telling myself I'm just going to take a break and recoup, hoping that I'll get back what I started to lose. It usually never works out that way. So, then I have a decision to make: take a new approach or abandon the piece altogether. Either way, it never turns out how I wanted it to be. The eternal struggle of the artist.
So where was I? Oh yeah...better self, God, struggle, blah blah blah. This song touched me. I identified with it, mostly because I thought it was about God, but it fits in with what I'm going through now, too. I'm searching for that authentic self, and trying not to be afraid to let her show up when I feel her close by. Sometimes I push her away because her ways aren't what I'm used to. And then I end up back in that place, "Where were you when I needed you most?" So I guess this is my theme song for when I screw up, not as a way to wallow---but as a way to realize that this is my constant struggle, and not to shy away from it. And I hope, in the end, it'll make me a stronger person.
Friday, November 12, 2010
The Sailboat (re-edited version)
Once, on a day like every other, I met a boy in a sailboat. He was far off, and I did not even know he was a boy around my age until I came closer. When I got up close to him, I saw that our boats were amazingly similar: the paint was peeling, there were gashes and scratches on the body, even the sails looked worn in the same ways. His was a good little boat, and I knew he could sail in it just as well as I could in mine.
In no time at all, we began to talk for hours, each sitting in our own boats, the bows touching occasionally. With our legs crossed and chins resting in our hands, we told each other stories of the places we had been to, of the storms we had gone through and how we had survived. With each line, our stories recreated every mark, every scratch, every chip of paint missing from our boats. It made us realize how strong our little boats really were. And it made us realize their beauty, even if no one else saw it.
Finally, he said, "Hey! I have a rope here. Maybe if we used it to tie our boats together, we wouldn't have to be alone when another storm comes."
"Does it mean that our boats won't get as hurt either?" I asked. The boy thought for a moment. "No," he said at last. "But I think it'll make things less scary and less lonely." So I agreed to tie my boat to his using the rope he offered. From that day on, we never parted.
The days passed, sunny and breezy, light and fun. We told more stories, played games, laughed, sang silly songs, and slept beneath the stars. In a way, he was right: I was all right if I was on my own, but the knowing that I was with another boat, one very much like mine, made things better. It made the times before seem dull in comparison. The water looked bluer, the sun shone brighter, and I even felt better about the way my boat looked. It was no longer shiny and new, but I now appreciated all that it had to show.
Then, one day, the boy was standing up near the bow, a telescope pointed to the horizon. His brow furrowed and his eyes clouded over. Something was wrong.
"What is it?" I asked. "Clouds," he answered. "Big ones. Dark ones. I think a storm is coming."
"Oh," I said. I was a little frightened, but I knew it would be all right. I had been through storms before and knew what to do. Besides, I would have my friend right next to me so I wouldn't have to go through it alone.
"I...I think I should go now," he said, looking away from me.
"What?!" I exclaimed. Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, and I could smell the electricity in the air. My words became stuck in my throat like anchors in mud. "But...but you said...I don't understand. If you're leaving, then why...why can't we go together?"
"The storm's coming too quickly. We wouldn't be able to get away fast enough if we were tied together. My boat can't handle too much damage. It's weaker than it looks."
I looked to the horizon. The storm clouds were getting thicker and heavier, and the wind was beginning to kick up. White caps were forming on the waves that rocked us. I didn't want to be alone, but what could I do? His mind was made up. With my eyes filling up and my hands shaking a little, I untied his rope from my boat. Looking down so he wouldn't see my tears, I handed it to him. "Thank you," I whispered around the lump in my throat."
"If you find me after the storm, we can tie our boats together again," he offered. I knew he was sorry to be leaving. But somehow I knew that if we ever met again, it would not be the same as before. Still, I nodded to show that I had heard him. He waved his farewell as he steered his boat away from the fast approaching clouds. I watched him go, all the while hoping he would change his mind and turn back. It wasn't long before he became a speck in the distance.
As soon as he was out of sight, the wind blew more fiercly and the waves began to splash up against the sides. I hurried to get ready for the inevitable storm, knowing that I would be all right on my own. Even so, the rain inside of me poured down my cheeks as I knew that my friend would not be there with me. I missed him terribly, and wondered if he would be able to avoid all of the storms that would come his way.
The storm came and went. I was drenched at the end of it, but waited patiently for the sun to come out so that I could be dry again. My boat suffered little, and the waters were calm again before I knew it. I looked around for the boy and his boat, hoping that since the storm had passed, he would come back. He was nowhere to be found.
The days seemed longer without my friend. There was no one to talk to, no one to pass the time with. I was lonely. Every day I kept hoping to see him, but he never came. Maybe he had not escaped the storm after all. Either way, my friend was lost to me for good. I had no choice but to carry on through each day, one after the other.
One day, when the sun was almost about to begin setting, I spotted something on the horizon. It was so small, it was hard to tell if my eyes were playing tricks. I moved closer and closer. The tiny form became bigger and bigger. I began to see its shape. A large, worn, white triangle sat taut against the blue sky, which was now turning hues of purple and orange and red. The boat below it was much like mine: scratched, gashed, the paint chipped and peeling.
I joyfully called out to my friend. His face brightened like the morning sky. I felt so elated, I didn't know what to say. I tried to come closer, but my hands trembled with such excitement that I could not seem to steer my boat. Finally, I called out, "Throw me the rope!" It took him a minute, but at last, a long white cord came sailing out to me. I caught it and held it in my hands. My fingers rubbed it slowly as I looked down at it. Something was different. The rope; it was not the same one as before. The other one was rougher, sturdier. This one was softer, thinner, and not as sturdy. I was confused.
When the boy pulled me closer to him, he saw my face. "What's wrong?" he asked. I told him. "The rope...how...what happened to the old one?"
"Oh." His face reddened a little. "I lost it," he answered. "In a storm?" I asked. He said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders instead. I peered into his boat. The whole floor was covered in coils of rope of all kinds. Some were thinner than the one I held in my hand, others were thicker and sturdier like the one before.
"Well, we could always use one of those other ones, I guess," I said as I pointed to the sturdier coils.
"Th-this will work fine," he stammered.
"What are those other ones for then?"
"Oh, umm...they're for...for, um...other boats."
"Other boats?" I asked, slowly. "Why would you need them for other boats? I thought...I thought you were...I thought you wanted to be tied to-to my boat."
"I do! I do, it's just that sometimes...well, I can't always be tied to you. I need to go find other boats to...to use the different rope on, see." All of this he said without meeting my eyes.
I did see. I saw that my friend, my boy in his boat, had indeed been lost in the storm and would never come back. The silence seemed to never end. I stood there, rope in hand--a flimsy rope, but a rope nonetheless--wondering what should be done now. Let go and be left alone once again? Or hold on, for however long, and accept what I held there in my hands? The boy never knew, but I had longed for such a rope in times past. But now that I had it, I realized how inadequate it was to what I had before.
"I'm sorry," I said at last. "But I can't use this. I can't stay."
"What?" he asked softly, though I could hear the surprise in his voice.
"I can't...I can't use this now. I can't forget what I had before. You cannot ask me to settle for something less." He nodded, his face stoned with silence. I could feel the tears welling up again, and my throat began to feel clogged. This wasn't fair, but it was what was happening. I had to make a choice. I handed him the rope, just like before, only this time the pain sank in much deeper than before. I tried to not let it show.
"Well. Goodbye then," he said, as he averted his eyes yet again. He placed the rope back into the bottom of his boat, and sailed off. This time I could not watch, knowing it would be the last time I would ever see him. Instead, I sat there, my head buried in my arms, and thought about all I had gained and all I had lost. I thought about my boat as I softly ran my hands over its roughened wood: the storms it had weathered, the days it had seen, how it held me wherever I went--connected to another or no. It wasn't perfect, but it was who I was. It was all I needed.
I lifted my head and felt a breeze brush the back of my neck like a loving hand. I saw birds flying near the setting sun and I could hear their calls. The smell of salt flowed to my nose and I felt the gentle waves caress the sides of my boat. I may have felt lonely, and I certainly felt the pain of his absence and would feel it for some time, but it was then that I knew I wasn't alone. Not really.
In no time at all, we began to talk for hours, each sitting in our own boats, the bows touching occasionally. With our legs crossed and chins resting in our hands, we told each other stories of the places we had been to, of the storms we had gone through and how we had survived. With each line, our stories recreated every mark, every scratch, every chip of paint missing from our boats. It made us realize how strong our little boats really were. And it made us realize their beauty, even if no one else saw it.
Finally, he said, "Hey! I have a rope here. Maybe if we used it to tie our boats together, we wouldn't have to be alone when another storm comes."
"Does it mean that our boats won't get as hurt either?" I asked. The boy thought for a moment. "No," he said at last. "But I think it'll make things less scary and less lonely." So I agreed to tie my boat to his using the rope he offered. From that day on, we never parted.
The days passed, sunny and breezy, light and fun. We told more stories, played games, laughed, sang silly songs, and slept beneath the stars. In a way, he was right: I was all right if I was on my own, but the knowing that I was with another boat, one very much like mine, made things better. It made the times before seem dull in comparison. The water looked bluer, the sun shone brighter, and I even felt better about the way my boat looked. It was no longer shiny and new, but I now appreciated all that it had to show.
Then, one day, the boy was standing up near the bow, a telescope pointed to the horizon. His brow furrowed and his eyes clouded over. Something was wrong.
"What is it?" I asked. "Clouds," he answered. "Big ones. Dark ones. I think a storm is coming."
"Oh," I said. I was a little frightened, but I knew it would be all right. I had been through storms before and knew what to do. Besides, I would have my friend right next to me so I wouldn't have to go through it alone.
"I...I think I should go now," he said, looking away from me.
"What?!" I exclaimed. Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, and I could smell the electricity in the air. My words became stuck in my throat like anchors in mud. "But...but you said...I don't understand. If you're leaving, then why...why can't we go together?"
"The storm's coming too quickly. We wouldn't be able to get away fast enough if we were tied together. My boat can't handle too much damage. It's weaker than it looks."
I looked to the horizon. The storm clouds were getting thicker and heavier, and the wind was beginning to kick up. White caps were forming on the waves that rocked us. I didn't want to be alone, but what could I do? His mind was made up. With my eyes filling up and my hands shaking a little, I untied his rope from my boat. Looking down so he wouldn't see my tears, I handed it to him. "Thank you," I whispered around the lump in my throat."
"If you find me after the storm, we can tie our boats together again," he offered. I knew he was sorry to be leaving. But somehow I knew that if we ever met again, it would not be the same as before. Still, I nodded to show that I had heard him. He waved his farewell as he steered his boat away from the fast approaching clouds. I watched him go, all the while hoping he would change his mind and turn back. It wasn't long before he became a speck in the distance.
As soon as he was out of sight, the wind blew more fiercly and the waves began to splash up against the sides. I hurried to get ready for the inevitable storm, knowing that I would be all right on my own. Even so, the rain inside of me poured down my cheeks as I knew that my friend would not be there with me. I missed him terribly, and wondered if he would be able to avoid all of the storms that would come his way.
***
The storm came and went. I was drenched at the end of it, but waited patiently for the sun to come out so that I could be dry again. My boat suffered little, and the waters were calm again before I knew it. I looked around for the boy and his boat, hoping that since the storm had passed, he would come back. He was nowhere to be found.
The days seemed longer without my friend. There was no one to talk to, no one to pass the time with. I was lonely. Every day I kept hoping to see him, but he never came. Maybe he had not escaped the storm after all. Either way, my friend was lost to me for good. I had no choice but to carry on through each day, one after the other.
One day, when the sun was almost about to begin setting, I spotted something on the horizon. It was so small, it was hard to tell if my eyes were playing tricks. I moved closer and closer. The tiny form became bigger and bigger. I began to see its shape. A large, worn, white triangle sat taut against the blue sky, which was now turning hues of purple and orange and red. The boat below it was much like mine: scratched, gashed, the paint chipped and peeling.
I joyfully called out to my friend. His face brightened like the morning sky. I felt so elated, I didn't know what to say. I tried to come closer, but my hands trembled with such excitement that I could not seem to steer my boat. Finally, I called out, "Throw me the rope!" It took him a minute, but at last, a long white cord came sailing out to me. I caught it and held it in my hands. My fingers rubbed it slowly as I looked down at it. Something was different. The rope; it was not the same one as before. The other one was rougher, sturdier. This one was softer, thinner, and not as sturdy. I was confused.
When the boy pulled me closer to him, he saw my face. "What's wrong?" he asked. I told him. "The rope...how...what happened to the old one?"
"Oh." His face reddened a little. "I lost it," he answered. "In a storm?" I asked. He said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders instead. I peered into his boat. The whole floor was covered in coils of rope of all kinds. Some were thinner than the one I held in my hand, others were thicker and sturdier like the one before.
"Well, we could always use one of those other ones, I guess," I said as I pointed to the sturdier coils.
"Th-this will work fine," he stammered.
"What are those other ones for then?"
"Oh, umm...they're for...for, um...other boats."
"Other boats?" I asked, slowly. "Why would you need them for other boats? I thought...I thought you were...I thought you wanted to be tied to-to my boat."
"I do! I do, it's just that sometimes...well, I can't always be tied to you. I need to go find other boats to...to use the different rope on, see." All of this he said without meeting my eyes.
I did see. I saw that my friend, my boy in his boat, had indeed been lost in the storm and would never come back. The silence seemed to never end. I stood there, rope in hand--a flimsy rope, but a rope nonetheless--wondering what should be done now. Let go and be left alone once again? Or hold on, for however long, and accept what I held there in my hands? The boy never knew, but I had longed for such a rope in times past. But now that I had it, I realized how inadequate it was to what I had before.
"I'm sorry," I said at last. "But I can't use this. I can't stay."
"What?" he asked softly, though I could hear the surprise in his voice.
"I can't...I can't use this now. I can't forget what I had before. You cannot ask me to settle for something less." He nodded, his face stoned with silence. I could feel the tears welling up again, and my throat began to feel clogged. This wasn't fair, but it was what was happening. I had to make a choice. I handed him the rope, just like before, only this time the pain sank in much deeper than before. I tried to not let it show.
"Well. Goodbye then," he said, as he averted his eyes yet again. He placed the rope back into the bottom of his boat, and sailed off. This time I could not watch, knowing it would be the last time I would ever see him. Instead, I sat there, my head buried in my arms, and thought about all I had gained and all I had lost. I thought about my boat as I softly ran my hands over its roughened wood: the storms it had weathered, the days it had seen, how it held me wherever I went--connected to another or no. It wasn't perfect, but it was who I was. It was all I needed.
I lifted my head and felt a breeze brush the back of my neck like a loving hand. I saw birds flying near the setting sun and I could hear their calls. The smell of salt flowed to my nose and I felt the gentle waves caress the sides of my boat. I may have felt lonely, and I certainly felt the pain of his absence and would feel it for some time, but it was then that I knew I wasn't alone. Not really.
THE END
"I am not afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my ship." Louisa May Alcott
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Sky Is Burning!
Have you ever seen a sky so amazing that it almost looks like the apocolypse is coming? You can't see the sun anywhere, but its light touches the clouds in such a way that it almost looks like the sky is on fire, or at least has burning embers somewhere just below the horizon, and it's enough to warm up the clouds. I don't see a sky like this very often, but I saw it last night. And it was speechlessly, breathlessly, and indescribably beautiful. I was very lucky to have my camera on hand.
These are only some of the 40 pictures that I took with my digital camera. (Insert footnote here: If my 17 year old self could meet my 27 year old self, she might be very disappointed. For the longest time, I passionately advocated for film photography instead of digital. However, I have since, as my former high school photography teacher put it when I showed adamant resistance, "grasped the future." End footnote.) I had already snapped some photos from my balcony, but as I was walking down my street on the way to choir practice a few minutes later, I couldn't stop taking these shots. I kept wanting to get more detail of the clouds, sharper silhouettes, and to capture the fire that seemed to be taking over the sky. It felt (and looked) as though God was making Her presence known and I didn't want to miss a second of it. I once wrote a poem (which I have since deleted) called "I Cannot Remember Clouds" which attempted to describe or explain why it was difficult for me to remember these vaporous forms that often create so much beauty in tandem with the sun. It's true...I cannot remember clouds, nor sunsets. I certainly didn't want to forget this one.
But this sunset was not the only amazing thing that I encountered last night. As I stood on one of the street corners, trying to capture this ethereal moment in time, a car rolled to a stop even though there was no stop sign. The woman inside the car looked at me, smiled and pointed to the skyline, almost as if to say, "Can you believe we're seeing this?!" She took out her iphone and snapped a picture or two and drove away. Not too long after, after I moved about a block in five minutes, another car came down the hill near to where I was standing. He, too, had the same reaction as the woman: looking at me, pointing, and smiling. "I know, right?" I said. He nodded, snapped his picture and went on.
These encounters were literally momentary. Much like sunsets. Much like clouds. But unlike the former two, I'll remember them. People remember those strangers that they shared traumatic moments with, but the same can be said for moments of joy and awe. The fact that I was able to share this sunset with a couple of strangers made it that much more memorable. I'm grateful that I had my camera with me, but I'm even more grateful that I wasn't alone to share the view.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Color Noise: A Reflection on Race
I came to Boston for a week in order to figure out if this is where I want to go to grad school. I want to get an MSW and eventually become a child therapist, and there was a program over at Boston College that caught my interest. I decided to attend their information session as well as spend some time in the area. While I love the Brookline neighborhood I'm staying in (I've subletted a room for a week), and there are parts of Boston that are beautiful, there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on that made me uneasy. Maybe uneasy isn't quite the right word. I just felt like there was something off; like there was this secret club everyone was in, but couldn't talk about or didn't even acknowledge its existence (yeah, kinda like Fight Club). At first I thought it was just an East Coast thing, but later I realized what it was. This town, and the BC campus in particular, is fuckin' white! Sure there's the occasional "minority", but there doesn't seem to be a strong representation, especially on the campus. I spoke to one of my roommates' friends about it, and he said it's all because the white kids have the super rich parents who can send them to a good school, even though the kids themselves are dumb as shit. (Ok, maybe not all of them, but for those of us with experience, we know this to be true. The rich kids get into the good schools, no matter what their SAT scores are.)
But then I noticed something else, too. It was when I was taking a bus on my way in to Cambridge. I was feeling a little anxious, as is usual whenever I'm in transit somewhere, and I noticed that my anxiety decreased when I saw two African American young men get on the bus. Usually, for a white girl like myself, even one from San Francisco, seeing those two men would have had the opposite effect. We live in a racist society, and those stereotypes and prejudices are in us all the time, as much as we might despise them. But when I saw those men, it was like my subconscious mind went, "Thank God! I've had enough of these scary white people!" These men represented something familiar.
While being in this city and seeing all the white people around here, I was constantly aware of my own desire to fit in somehow. "Do I look like I could be from here?" Do they recognize me as an outsider?" Think about it: I'm a white woman in a white crowd and I'm thinking these things to myself. Weird. But as soon as I saw someone who was not of my racial identification, I relaxed. The pressure was lifted from me. It wasn't that I thought of myself as superior to them, and therefore I could relax. It was something else, but I still couldn't figure it out.
I noticed this again as I went on the T around town. I was much more relaxed and even happier when I was in the presence of people of color. As I noticed this, I began to really think about why this was. It would be easy for me to just start applauding myself about how I've clearly "moved passed" racism. "I have learned to love people of color like they were my brothers and sisters! Amen!" Not so fast. It doesn't work that way. I'll admit that I will, in a moment of anger or frustration, internally call someone a racial epithet; or when I'm nervous because someone is acting in a way that I see as threatening or rude, I'll blame it on that person's race. Even if I stop myself right after thinking that, I still thought it. Racism lives on, no matter how much we (white people) wish to think otherwise. (Hey, just because you voted for Obama doesn't mean racism is dead.) But why did being in the presence of people of color, regardless if I wasn't interacting with them, put me at ease? The only thing I could come up with was: familiarity.
As a little bit of background, I'm from San Francisco, a city known for its diversity. I also formerly tutored inner city kids where there wasn't a white face amongst them, except for me and the other white teachers. I practice yoga at a studio where not everyone in the room is a straight white woman in her late twenties/early 30s. (We actually have a great crew of diverse queer people in attendance.) I'm used to riding on the bus and hearing at least three different languages at once (and none of them are from Europe). I'm not phased at all by any of it. I live with at least four or five people of color, and I'm close to a few of them. So I guess you could say that I'm used to being the odd one out. I've learned to accept my "minority" status in my small social circle. Except, maybe it's not that simple either. Yes, I have the appreciation for diversity, and I have the desire for the end of racial hegemony (which is an effect of systematic racism), but with this can come a kind of apathy and ignorance of race and the need to form genuine relationships with people and communities of color.
I realized that what I was encountering here in Boston was "color noise", as opposed to "white noise." I didn't feel the need to interact with these people, and I was satisfied to have them just be the background for my surroundings. What has often been noticed by those who study racism regarding white people in this country and their attitudes toward race and racism is, 1) the idea that being white is "normal", and 2) that there is no need to have significant relationships with other people of color, as long as they themselves don't harbor any personal prejudices. Both of these are outright lies. Yes, white is seen as the norm, but it doesn't mean that white isn't a race (but it is obviously a race with clear social distinction and social consequences based upon that distinction). Essentially, for most white people in this country, they have gotten used to the "white noise." For me, because of my own experiences in diverse settings, including being in a student activist group where white people were the minority, I have experienced getting used to the "color noise." I didn't notice the diversity I was experiencing until it was gone. I suppose this can be seen as a good thing. It shows that there is a possibility for, not only racial tolerance, but racial acceptance. But again, even though I have had positive experiences and relationships with people of color, I am still enclosed in my white bubble. I no longer have close relationships with my former student activists (Facebook does not count), I work as a nanny in a predominantly white neighborhood in San Francisco, I attend a predominantly white parish in a denomination known for its whiteness (Episcopalian), and while I do practice yoga at a diverse studio, I am engaging in something that has been massively appropriated by white Western culture and which continues to be marketed to the white community.
It is not enough that I am used to living with and around people and communities of color. Let it be understood that I am not trying to desparage myself in any way when I say that. Instead, I am acknowledging that more needs to be done, not only by myself, but by other people like me. Relationships need to be developed and encouraged in our communities. White people need to be aware of the problems that exist within communities of color, such as issues of environmental justice, and how our consumer practices can either help or hinder the solutions. We need to start having real conversations about race and racism, and not just in terms of black and white, either. We cannot become used to the "color noise" lest we become deaf to the real issues of justice and equality in our midst.
But then I noticed something else, too. It was when I was taking a bus on my way in to Cambridge. I was feeling a little anxious, as is usual whenever I'm in transit somewhere, and I noticed that my anxiety decreased when I saw two African American young men get on the bus. Usually, for a white girl like myself, even one from San Francisco, seeing those two men would have had the opposite effect. We live in a racist society, and those stereotypes and prejudices are in us all the time, as much as we might despise them. But when I saw those men, it was like my subconscious mind went, "Thank God! I've had enough of these scary white people!" These men represented something familiar.
While being in this city and seeing all the white people around here, I was constantly aware of my own desire to fit in somehow. "Do I look like I could be from here?" Do they recognize me as an outsider?" Think about it: I'm a white woman in a white crowd and I'm thinking these things to myself. Weird. But as soon as I saw someone who was not of my racial identification, I relaxed. The pressure was lifted from me. It wasn't that I thought of myself as superior to them, and therefore I could relax. It was something else, but I still couldn't figure it out.
I noticed this again as I went on the T around town. I was much more relaxed and even happier when I was in the presence of people of color. As I noticed this, I began to really think about why this was. It would be easy for me to just start applauding myself about how I've clearly "moved passed" racism. "I have learned to love people of color like they were my brothers and sisters! Amen!" Not so fast. It doesn't work that way. I'll admit that I will, in a moment of anger or frustration, internally call someone a racial epithet; or when I'm nervous because someone is acting in a way that I see as threatening or rude, I'll blame it on that person's race. Even if I stop myself right after thinking that, I still thought it. Racism lives on, no matter how much we (white people) wish to think otherwise. (Hey, just because you voted for Obama doesn't mean racism is dead.) But why did being in the presence of people of color, regardless if I wasn't interacting with them, put me at ease? The only thing I could come up with was: familiarity.
As a little bit of background, I'm from San Francisco, a city known for its diversity. I also formerly tutored inner city kids where there wasn't a white face amongst them, except for me and the other white teachers. I practice yoga at a studio where not everyone in the room is a straight white woman in her late twenties/early 30s. (We actually have a great crew of diverse queer people in attendance.) I'm used to riding on the bus and hearing at least three different languages at once (and none of them are from Europe). I'm not phased at all by any of it. I live with at least four or five people of color, and I'm close to a few of them. So I guess you could say that I'm used to being the odd one out. I've learned to accept my "minority" status in my small social circle. Except, maybe it's not that simple either. Yes, I have the appreciation for diversity, and I have the desire for the end of racial hegemony (which is an effect of systematic racism), but with this can come a kind of apathy and ignorance of race and the need to form genuine relationships with people and communities of color.
I realized that what I was encountering here in Boston was "color noise", as opposed to "white noise." I didn't feel the need to interact with these people, and I was satisfied to have them just be the background for my surroundings. What has often been noticed by those who study racism regarding white people in this country and their attitudes toward race and racism is, 1) the idea that being white is "normal", and 2) that there is no need to have significant relationships with other people of color, as long as they themselves don't harbor any personal prejudices. Both of these are outright lies. Yes, white is seen as the norm, but it doesn't mean that white isn't a race (but it is obviously a race with clear social distinction and social consequences based upon that distinction). Essentially, for most white people in this country, they have gotten used to the "white noise." For me, because of my own experiences in diverse settings, including being in a student activist group where white people were the minority, I have experienced getting used to the "color noise." I didn't notice the diversity I was experiencing until it was gone. I suppose this can be seen as a good thing. It shows that there is a possibility for, not only racial tolerance, but racial acceptance. But again, even though I have had positive experiences and relationships with people of color, I am still enclosed in my white bubble. I no longer have close relationships with my former student activists (Facebook does not count), I work as a nanny in a predominantly white neighborhood in San Francisco, I attend a predominantly white parish in a denomination known for its whiteness (Episcopalian), and while I do practice yoga at a diverse studio, I am engaging in something that has been massively appropriated by white Western culture and which continues to be marketed to the white community.
It is not enough that I am used to living with and around people and communities of color. Let it be understood that I am not trying to desparage myself in any way when I say that. Instead, I am acknowledging that more needs to be done, not only by myself, but by other people like me. Relationships need to be developed and encouraged in our communities. White people need to be aware of the problems that exist within communities of color, such as issues of environmental justice, and how our consumer practices can either help or hinder the solutions. We need to start having real conversations about race and racism, and not just in terms of black and white, either. We cannot become used to the "color noise" lest we become deaf to the real issues of justice and equality in our midst.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
This Still Gets Me
About four months ago, I bought the Van Morrison album "Astral Weeks" on vinyl. For those of you who know Van Morrison, this is considered to be one of his best albums (though it turns out, he himself never thought much of it. He just created it as a way to pay the bills). The title track is one of the most beautiful on the album, and one of my favorite songs ever. Around the same time that I bought the album, I went looking on YouTube for a possible video of the title track. The first one that came up was a live cover done by Glen Hansard. The minute this guy opened his mouth, I knew I had come upon something really special. (You may remember Hansard as one of the main characters in the movie "Once".) There was a quality in his voice that captivated me, and when he uttered the words in the chorus my heart just ached. It still does, and I'm still trying to figure out why.
Hansard doesn't use all of the lyrics that Morrison did, but it doesn't in anyway take away the power of his performance. This song is about desperation, but not in a pathetic sense. It's about a longing for things to be different, to start over. ("Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes/Lay me down in the silence easy/To be born again.") If you look at the full lyrics here, you can see that this is all about a relationship that is ending, or struggling, or has already ended. He wants to be found by his love, almost like a lost child being found by his mother. He wants the struggle to be over, for the complexity to disappear and be left with one who will always love him, will always find him, and never let him go. He's battling between still loving this person, and realizing that things aren't the way they should be and that it's probably time to go. It's a realistic message, and yet the music behind it makes it poetic and ethereal. It's both relatable and somehow seperate from our existence. I guess this is what really good music can do.
But back to Hansard's performance. He embodies the message of this song by the way he sings it, by the way he passionately strums his beat up guitar. The gentle desperation in his voice as he sings, "Would you find me?" gives way to outrage as he screams, "Don't you point that finger at me, no!" and crazily strums away between two chords as if he's trying to tear his own heart apart to show his anguish. It's perfect, and it gets me every time. I must have posted that video to my Facebook profile at least three times. I want people to get it, to understand the power and emotion behind this little-over-three-minute performance; to feel every word sung not only sink into the soul, but rake across the skin as it makes its way in. . .and to breathe easy and deep while it all happens.
I know it seems silly to be so emotionally attached to one little song, but I'm a firm believer that music is the sound the soul makes. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. According to an article from Wikipedia (yeah, I know), Lester Bangs wrote of the album: "What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend." All of this in an album. A man struggles between love and anger and desperation in one little song. And another man picks up his beat up guitar, gently tells the crowd in his lilting Irish accent, "I'm gonna play you a Van Morrison song," and succeeds in making every phrase sung come alive with the passion and complex emotion it was meant to have. Beautiful.
Hansard doesn't use all of the lyrics that Morrison did, but it doesn't in anyway take away the power of his performance. This song is about desperation, but not in a pathetic sense. It's about a longing for things to be different, to start over. ("Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes/Lay me down in the silence easy/To be born again.") If you look at the full lyrics here, you can see that this is all about a relationship that is ending, or struggling, or has already ended. He wants to be found by his love, almost like a lost child being found by his mother. He wants the struggle to be over, for the complexity to disappear and be left with one who will always love him, will always find him, and never let him go. He's battling between still loving this person, and realizing that things aren't the way they should be and that it's probably time to go. It's a realistic message, and yet the music behind it makes it poetic and ethereal. It's both relatable and somehow seperate from our existence. I guess this is what really good music can do.
But back to Hansard's performance. He embodies the message of this song by the way he sings it, by the way he passionately strums his beat up guitar. The gentle desperation in his voice as he sings, "Would you find me?" gives way to outrage as he screams, "Don't you point that finger at me, no!" and crazily strums away between two chords as if he's trying to tear his own heart apart to show his anguish. It's perfect, and it gets me every time. I must have posted that video to my Facebook profile at least three times. I want people to get it, to understand the power and emotion behind this little-over-three-minute performance; to feel every word sung not only sink into the soul, but rake across the skin as it makes its way in. . .and to breathe easy and deep while it all happens.
I know it seems silly to be so emotionally attached to one little song, but I'm a firm believer that music is the sound the soul makes. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. According to an article from Wikipedia (yeah, I know), Lester Bangs wrote of the album: "What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend." All of this in an album. A man struggles between love and anger and desperation in one little song. And another man picks up his beat up guitar, gently tells the crowd in his lilting Irish accent, "I'm gonna play you a Van Morrison song," and succeeds in making every phrase sung come alive with the passion and complex emotion it was meant to have. Beautiful.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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