MyTien

"So when you sail across the ocean waters
and you reach the other side safely
well could you smile a smile for me'
Cause I'll be thinking about you."- Norah Jones

With all my rebellion, they're going to drop me off in the middle of Lawrence or Lowell MA, where the poverty level is high, and the income is low, and the papers are BIG..... with BIG crime in the headlines. And I will be by myself in a small rundown apartment somewhere..... as I chuckle nervously, hmmmmmmmmm...., because I'm not sure that I'm ready.

A few days ago we drove into S.O.A.R conference at Trinity in Hartford, Connecticut. From the looks of it, they're more disconnected from the community than even Colby from Waterville. We drove through a very poor, highly guarded neighborhood and there it was "LIQUOR", there were your neighborhood liquor shop, your neighborhood barber. Hartford has a high Hispanic and black population,... first shallow impressions of the city very much reflected the media stereotypes of a poor neighborhood.

Never in my life did I think I'd be housed in the center of Hartford alone with 2 Colby students, going to a Mike Jones, Fabulous and Juelz Santana concert. I didn't stay long enough to understand the city... I'd probably lie if I said it didn't intimidate me.... or the dialect and"boldness" in questionable clothing choices of female concert-goers was.... umm... different. Something like a laughable scenario of a suburban white girl entering into the real world... Peter always tells me I'm very green, very "white".... This summer might be accompanied by several anxious moments. In the end though, the workshops were realisticly useful.... a refreshing group of diverse students and faculty members-- different ideologies. We got thanked by an older gentleman advocate for sharing our stories during one workshop....... humble little me with my un-unique story, I greatly appreciated that.

This entry that follows is something which I've thought much about concerning myself, my place... and my realization of me. It began in my journal about 3 weeks ago and as since spiraled.

Here goes.

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"Since this is going on my blog, how do I write what I’m about to write without sounding ignorant? As much as I try to run from it, my life’s calling I know, has everything to do with children, and minorities, and especially studying and changing how society raises them. Part of the reason I wanted to be a nurse was because I saw the stigma of how minority men are treated in the healthcare system because this society accepts the fact that young black men or young Cambodian men or Hispanic men are supposed to get into trouble and get hurt, so they become a statistic and no longer a person.

Part of (or the whole reason), I wanted to be a nurse was to “change” the way doctors are so detached from patients who are hurt and suffering because they can’t take the emotional burden of seeing all these people die or to see all the same people over and over again. There is a stigma to being black in this country- I took the Harvard test- I hold it myself. I find the stereotype of the chains, the pimps, the misogynistic rapper, the materialism, and the idea that black men (or Hispanic/Asian though the black and white dynamic is most prominent is American culture, and I tend to deny my black identity, so I’ll use black.), treat women badly. My younger brother, and the gem in the life of my mother and I, is only 14 and yet, let’s just say, he’s very intelligent, and athletically gifted, and lucky to be growing up suburban Maine. At 14, how does a kid know that he’ll cheat when he starts dating and is immensely intrigued by the idea of playing the field and breaking up with one girl for another and many sex perceptions which I won’t speak of? He has standards for the type of girls he likes and how much he’d like them to talk (minimally- not too much of world-saving tree hugger (because he thinks I am) and without too much of an opinion). I’m sure his friends reinsure this type of thinking, and what’s ironic is that my mother and I don’t discourage it. Not for one nano-second do we discourage it. I think mother and I would not be content if he were to marry the Michelle Obama type, but more so if he marries an Asian or White woman who knows how to be a woman, take care of him, and “keep the peace.” We laugh, “you’re not enough of a player to know how to cheat.” He asks, “What am I going to be a wimp, and stay with ONE girl throughout high school? Those guys are losers.”

So let’s recap, my brother is child who does well in school and athletics, is quite respectful and nice for the most part, grew up in a middle class neighborhood, yet his brain at 14 is flooded with harmful ideas that he holds as fact.

So I digress. My brother is still a minority. I am still a minority. We don’t exactly get these gender ideas from the Brady Bunch. You would think that in Portland ME, there’d be no segregation, well… In 2007, Deering had a 25 percent drop-out rate, and I don’t know the exact demographics of that rate but I do know that I was 1 of 2 Asian students in each of my honors classes, even though the school had a 33 percent minority rate. (Yes, my classes do consist of more than 6 students). Debate teams, drama club, Art Club, National Honors Society, sports teams (besides the few African American students who joined basketball and track), were white. On the contrary, (and I will be very blunt) Cambodian, Vietnamese, Spanish, and Somali boys would have the reputation of constantly skipping class, hanging out in big intimidating groups, getting busted for marijuana and get suspended and kicked out of school all together. (Not that they had the reputation of even going to school.) So as an Asian student at Deering, one could be multicultural and hang out with kids who liked me, (many of whom wore clothes like they were 50 cent in a rap video, thought it was un-cool to get good grades, or to be white-washed, or to speak properly and respectfully to girls.) Or in my case, my best friend was/is/will always be Brittany Gordon, daughter of an educator, avid language and cultural learner and 13th in our class. She’s also, despite her vase knowledge on cultures, white. My quirky best friend in middle school, Anika, was white. My best friend at Colby during my freshman year, the beautiful, intelligent, and lovely Erin, is white. Kim and Sarah, who have helped me maintain my sanity at Colby this year, are white. My roommate, the people I’m around in general, the older women I get my guidance from are white. Speaking in a politically correct manner, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with this, they’re the people who are there and who listen, and I love them. So there shouldn’t be anything wrong with this, at all, except that, epiphany, epiphany, there’s so much wrong with this.

What did I say in the beginning of the paragraph? Right, my brother is still a minority and I’m a minority. So, is it simply because I happen to get along better with white people, or is it because subconsciously, all of my dreams, ambitions, everything positive I see for myself derives from white culture? And my limitations? You guessed it. I don’t have an accent, as a very young child, I probably did that purposely, because somehow accents, and words pronounced incorrectly annoyed me. I remember telling my boy Miguel that, “If I ever get married (unlikely) he may very well be white and conservative, idk- maybe I'm racist- but they just seem so much nicer- and not afraid to be dorky- whereas Spanish men, Asian men, Black men- are often more of a diva than I am and have such big chips on their shoulders.”

In an ideal world, it has nothing to do with race, but in the real world, it has everything to do with race. Everything I said to Miguel was probably a lie. It shouldn’t bother me, nor should it be my business, that a lot of Asian, Spanish, and Black females on this campus, a lot of exceptional ones here and in the corporate world chose to date white men. Generally speaking, they have more opportunities to be educated, and more role-models who aren’t martial arts artists or gangsters or basketball players or rappers. They have images of themselves which don’t consist of working in manual labor and construction and lining prison cells. (Don’t hate me for generalizing), but they know how to talk to women. The difference in the way Euro culture raises men and the Euro concept of male/female relations is arguably much more progressive than Asian, African American, and Spanish cultures where both what daddy says and what “sugar daddy” says become law. Yet, despite this great white male phenomenon, knowing myself- even though I’ve been with white men, I won’t end it up with one. I’ll generalize some more as to why. (I’m sure my uncle would like to know.) I don’t fault white men for society’s ills but let’s count the odds, of why, even in high school, a large percentage of minority males are already the way they are. I don’t fault many of them for having a free pass- but as a minority women, knowing the clear minority struggle- how could I take that free pass or even find it desirable?
What about not owning up to that, fighting to get the word out that minorities are still facing inequalities and filling the sectors of undesirable jobs, we hate on the rappers but it’s the white men who own them. So I don’t imagine myself taking the free pass because it would be like turning a blind eye on the issue for my own gain, I see black men working at MacDonald’s, Asian men working manual labor, and I date a white lawyer and get my pass? Not that he doesn’t work hard, not that he doesn’t see the pain, but how relatable is it, is he on the ground dealing with it? I probably didn’t make that much sense. I don’t fault white men for being born in the middle class or the upper class, or having the credibility of white skin, but I would blame myself if I were to count out minority boys and men the way society has. In a way, if I ended up with a white man, I would be reemphasizing that fact that minority men aren’t good enough, and that I don’t see them and their struggle.

Damn, this is long!

But allowing myself to admit that it has everything to do with race is hard to swallow. Because, (shall I dare say), that if it weren’t for my relationships with minority men, I would be a lot happier, more open to the world, and not have a wall taller than me up nice and firm. I love my white friends, but there’s a difference between my love for them and my admiration of seeing black men enrolled in a college like Colby, many of whom are standout students a top their class, taking leadership positions, erasing stereotypes. Of course a lot of black and Asian college men are as ignorant or more so than white men, and some are impolite especially to women, and some give me hell but they’re here, kicking ass, being entrepreneurs, smarter than society gives them credit for, they know the logic, the chemistry, the novels, the writing.

I take it as unfortunate that people are unkind, especially since I don't believe in entitlement so I'd never demand anything from them, except a simple acknowledgement of me as a friend and the sensibility for them not to be arrogant. I think I make excuses to let it fly because I feel either the chip on the shoulder of many minority men or simply their desire to have the best of both worlds- be smart but still stoic and tough. As stupid as this sounds, white men don’t have the pressure of being “a gentleman and a gangster.” Unfortunately, with white men, I wouldn’t be so empathetic.

I used to joke with Raf that, “I deal with all your shit, not because I have to, but because it gives me material to put in my memoir.” Raf, who is mulatto, 5’10, and thin is still probably the most gorgeous person, (including any celebrity), that I’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s also probably the reason why I hate men (which I really don’t…. but I say it) yet love boys. Once you see a person this messed up, you don’t even know where to begin placing blame. He knew he’d be on the blog because he knew I was a writer and this is my therapy for having to deal with it for nearly 3 years. Til this day, I romanticize that whole thing to a nauseating extent.

Raf and I were the same person from completely separate worlds. He had an abusive father, no relationship with his mother, he was quiet, he didn’t have a lot of money, he didn’t have college, he didn’t have a real home, he did things I don’t even think I could write on here. I just turned 17, I was this protected, loved, probably quite shallow girl, green, naïve, ....how many other ways can I say this? We were barely middle class, but we pretended to be more and my house had this large pool in the backyard, I worked for the fun of it like 10 hours a week, I was being a geek, doing well in school and life was dandy.

But I always knew that it could’ve not turned out like that, with the hard work and shit my father went through. With the shit my grandmother went through, raising so many children by herself in a poverty striken country, and one them was black after the war? I don't know how she survived that. And the struggle wasn’t over yet, we have all these things but because my father and mother work their ass off, in undesirable jobs, and Peter and I don’t see it. My father buys things he never had, never dreamed he could have, but I knew that we’re one sickness…. a couple lost paychecks away from, living a working class lifestyle. I was protected from it, but I knew who I was and wasn’t blind.

When this handsome, intelligent, potential filled human being came into my world, at his 19 years of age, already disintegrated, already hurt beyond repair, already able and willing to say “fuck it” and to not give a shit about anything; he was ready to mess up anyone who so much as says a wrong word to him-- he wasn’t even human.

And I just saw this beautiful person even when he was in Maine drowning in his own bitterness, his own beliefs of governmental conspiracy theories, the definitions and violence it takes to be a minority man in a poor neighborhood, of seeing that they’re kicking him so he’s kicking himself more and saying “fuck you” and questioning my motives of every time I would bother to care. Why care? It’s this crazy, angry, stupid guy who people tell me to stay away from, and who won't amount to anything, and we will die young, save myself the drama, why bother? He doesn’t appreciate my friendship, he doesn’t see my effort, he doesn’t acknowledge my presence, he doesn’t acknowledge himself……….. how could he acknowledge me?

He left his job without a warning, Maine without saying bye, and I took it, (panicked, cried hysterically for hours, was tempted to get on the bus to wherever, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, praying to the lord proclaiming that I didn't care if he was out fucking 45 women, please let me know he's ok), I had never seen defeat and hurt like that. We got in contact by phone and I took more of his stupidity and neglect and hurt for 2 years because I wasn’t going to be that stupid, ignorant, selfish, superficial girl, that didn’t care like everyone else and who he could easily push away. It wasn’t about my stupid needs for a boyfriend (I have a good life… I don‘t have needs, right?), I was there to be his friend, and he could have sex with whoever… so of course he did.

BECAUSE

There were bullets of history everywhere in the stories that had no emotions. There was laughter that wasn’t cynical from time to time. There was talk of politics and lost dreams. There was so much potential that was crushed upon this kid (upon many kids in poorer neighborhoods) that I know if they received my education in my neighborhood, forget Colby…… he’d/they’d be in Harvard right now. If he were me, if he didn’t see all that he saw, experienced all that he’d experienced, was as lucky as me, he’d be somewhere great right now. How does one proclaim that the perpetual cycles of race and socioeconomic status, especially down South, doesn't have to do with it?A lot of men and especially minority men say they “don’t need shit, get the fuck away, stop the talking, stop the worrying, stop the trying to understand nonsense.” And with every chance and all insistence he does, acts like an ass purposely, we argue, HE hangs up. And I took it.

Because with all his stoicity he would call back. And with the stoicity, one can hear every ounce of pain. The stoicity in saying that these women are only after the men for the money, the stoicity in saying he was beat as a child, the stoicity in saying that one doesn’t want to think or remember and weed kills the brain the cells, the stoicity in saying that this neighborhood sucks and his friend is dead. The tough guy façade, intense coldness, or argument would inevitably ensue after he caught himself being vulnerable enough to say “I love you.”, “I can’t believe you could care about someone like me.”, “I miss you- I wish you were here.”, “I value your friendship”, “I value your advice.”, “I don’t want to die yet.”. I think the one which sets his automatic wall up the most is when he would catch himself admitting that he cares. Because, come on, no one cares about him, society doesn’t give a shit, I’m probably faking it, how stupid is he to care back? He probably hated me because I was so persistent, for apparently no reason, in making him feel vulnerable by giving him a forum to talk.

And I can be quite bitter about men because he treated me like shit and most guys couldn’t do 1/100th of the things this boy can without getting a piece of my bitchiness and messing up their chances completely. Yet once in a while- as messed up as he’s got me- I do allow myself to miss my friend. I trained myself for the last two years to know that it’s not relevant, and I’ve moved on, but his lasting impact on me is that I know how many Joshua Rafael’s there are out there growing up right now, and I know how many give up on themselves before they allow society to inevitably and eventually give up on them first, and I can see how many end up like.... that. It scares me that sweet young boys could grow up to macho, and angry, and women hating men.

What does one say? People like Raf are bad? No, especially as men and boys who have the pressure of providing for their families when they’re not given that much of a chance, but they end up fitting these stereotypes. Because they’re hurt, and they give and they give and they give, and they still have no chance, they’re still nothing, they’re still invisible.

As a minority, it’s a flip of the coin whether you end up in a good neighborhood or a bad one, - I don’t know what happened to Raf. Sometimes I even get extremely disturbed at how people who look like me act, but my brother could have been him. Smart, handsome, deep, geeky, amazingly loving when he allows himself to be--When it comes to race and class and masculinity…. America is two separate, foreign nations.

So my last digression, I’m sitting at the same table surrounded by my white friends which I’ve been sitting at for some 21 years. I'm lucky, I’m not at all that book smart but I work hard so I’m somehow surviving at Colby and my parents, even with limited resources, take care of a lot of it. I might go out with this white top 10 in his class boy. And I might end up the upper class, at least middle class. And it’s like this very very safe box that’s carefree and sweet. And the box allows one to ignore everything that isn’t sweet, that doesn’t fit in that box. But then one realizes that, if she/me gets all that, and she/me is all this, then me as a minority woman is helping to perpetuate racism and hatred for those underprivileged by going along the safe, blind, and easy ride, while a million other MyTien’s, a million other Joshua’s are kind of floating around aimlessly. All this while I emulate everything that’s good about white society and puts that into my personality while getting rid of my side of "commoness", and detaching from those “common people” floating around out there…but flip of the coin. So not only can minorities feel like they’re put down, but also other minorities can proclaim that, “we made you, you must just be unmotivated or inferior, what’s wrong with you?” The latter is so much worse.

So maybe I’m starting to see the “epiphany epiphany” because college and higher education is there for a reason, it allows me explore myself and speak for those who can’t. "

I've written somewhat angry poems about this which I've either lost or left at home- but hopefully they can be found....... I'm 20.... somewhat in a middle of a life crisis.

News

"Well I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind, I left my body lying somewhere in the Sands of time." 3 Doors Down

I love lyrics, I love songs, so maybe I should write a little quote before each time I write now. Just something I find poetic I suppose. Break hasn't been uber helpful (or productive), my bad!!! However, in the mad search for newspapers, I find that in order to burst out of this suburban Maine bubble, one really must get out of Maine and for that matter New Hampshire as well. Bubble alert, this must be why my parents make it a priority that I know as many Vietnamese families as there are in Portland. Not that race and race relations are everything because Maine is a relatively poor state, but, one looks and besides Portland, town after town is 98 percent white......... idk...... I love my friends but lately (by lately I mean the last 4 or 5 years or so), it's been frustrating not having people to talk about the minority perspective with.

And I keep myself away from clubs based on categorization like Asian American Society, or whatever...................... there comes a point in the midst of laughing at a table full of my lovely white friends (who make my life better, who are very very caring people) when it's like....... race doesn't define ALL of who I am but dammit!! I am fucking Vietnamese and African American, when am I going to acknowledge that and take to understanding the struggles of Vietnamese people and African American people? How do I make myself a part of that when I've never really been a part of that..... are my white friends safe for me because... I never wanted to be contained in the box that said race was everything?

Once you have one Vietnamese friend, you have 45 Vietnamese friends. Once you know one Vietnamese person, 20 other Vietnamese people you have never heard of request you as friends on facebook like you go way back, because your last name is Huynh....... and what? That gives them solidarity? And the fucking International table at Deering High School and Colby College.

BUT

I've got to walk the balance. The truth is there are certain conversations one cannot have in table full of her lovely white friends. And to be completely frank, if one sits at a table, and all of her friends are white, that means that her friends make friends with other white girls.... why? It may be speculation, but my psychology tells me that, there is a relatability and safety, and comfort there, there is the acknowledgment of similarities and presumed similar upbringings__

I wonder if for the first time I'm facing the head on. It's definitely two different standards because people don't take note of it when a group of white girls are together, share sleepover secrets.... whatever..... but maybe as minorities (and I'm talking mostly about myself) we're so afraid of deliberatively being rebellious and setting ourselves apart based primarily on race, that when minorities hang out with one another......... IT IS NOTICEABLE.... AND WE ARE IGNORANT for not adapting or working harder to be part of society.

The majority does the same thing.

I've disgressed completely off what I came on here to speak of.

Maybe I will go to Dorchester Mass and burst myself out of this bubble of safety and getting everything handed to me on fucking silver platter. Even beyond the minority idea, it's the idea of being minority and not having to struggle..... EVER......... and being privileged.... while people who look like me.... sound like me........ are me... except for an unlucky flip of the coin are out there...... everywhere. People say it's not my fault, and life will kick me in the ass a lot too, but I go to a college that's $50,000 a year, my family is together, my home has 4 bedrooms. And once in a while when I'm not caught up in the superficiality of needing nice things, or needing a man, or needing to look good with ugly A&F polos.......... I'm like

FUCK PRIVILEGE

Not that I don't love Maine, not that I don't love white people, but it's time I tell the stories of people who look like me who'll never get the chance to get their stories out there.

Retract

"It's too late for you and your white horse to catch me now" Taylor Swift

Sometimes, my mean streak just spews out. I get a little wise and a little cold but always immediately after I retract. Very rarely do I ever get angry in a confrontational way, but it's worse when the negative energy inside is transparent on the outside.

I'm walking a narrow line. There are 3 options, I could say that it doesn't matter because I don't have energy to put to into caring about these things anyways, they're little, who cares? The second option is, "ok, I'm going to confront this because I wouldn't have reason to think about this if it didn't matter, I am upset." The third option is not forget but to not get angry as well, but to know that it's wrong, but to remain sweet and kind and work to always get rid of the mean streak.

When I can, I try desperately to keep to the third option, but I have seen that in order to remain sane, I visit the other two periodically. They're easier but..... of course things matter, of course I don't want to be an angry or confrontational person, so I "forget" or "act like things didn't happen" to uphold my positive view of people, (especially of people I like) and to act as warm and kind as I did before this something occured that upset me.

It works to a certain extent but occassionally it crashes and burns. They're easy but most of the embarrassing and stupid moments come when I pretend like something isn't important, or I make it so evident with my anger that it is important. They both lead to a coldness that others may or may not notice, but I notice and hate. I want to think that just because someone does something that I perceive as wrong, it doesn't say anything about their character or why I liked their character in the first place. Them being good or bad is not a matter of whether I am pleased or unpleased by their actions.

I don't know, the tragedy and the idea that makes me sigh constantly is that in order to overcome any potential negative opinion of people, or rudeness to people, I retract. I "forget" and I say something nice, or do something nice............. therefore, since they've already not acknowledged any wrongdoing, my actions gives them an incentive to never acknowledge anything. Or it gives them a pass to do it again- knowing I won't judge them, knowing that I'll take it, knowing that just because I may feel like they're wrong to me, that I may not think that they're necessarily wrong in general.

But the crash and burn comes from me not giving warrant to my own feelings of being slighted. So of course occassionally I get either kind of feisty or cold. It's probably a defense mechanism which protects me from my feelings of constantly feeling like I'm walked over. Worse than that, is the feeling that I welcome it, or live for it, or somehow think I'm a better person for it. I suppose I was sweet last night because I wanted to be, and I respect people, but I'm still trying to wage the battle between that and how to acknowledge myself as a person. When am I going to allow myself to escape from this ronde vu? I feel like everytime I let something fly; knowing internally I shouldn't, it makes future friendships harder for me to an extent, but more so for others who try to get close to me.

Ok poem....... I don't know if it's going to be a free writing poem, or a real poem, here goes.

If you would let me speak,
after being mum through the cycles of history
If I may speak past ingrained assumptions
and compete with minds reading minds

There's no mindreader in sight...

If you would let me speak.
Hear me out
My voice is softer than that of a person looking down from a pedastal
My heart is softer than stuck up
I listen, for my life is an open book that your words run through
and upon my wall I've built you foot petals

If you would let me speak........
Not from high level, or my level
for I left untouched petals there
knowing that I would have to leave my safe air
and climb to ground level
To not seem stuck........up

If you would let me speak...
My skin is composed from layers of fishnets
And my eyes glare through a field anew
My mind is milder than to pass judgement
My hands are weaker than to inflict pain

If you would let me speak.......
If only you could listen
I come with no intentions
Undefined and bare

I come with no damnations
no demands
or needs for promises
I come simply open
away from the high fields keeping my mind at rest
to volatile ground levels
underneath my layers of intimidation..... tears.....
call it stress

I come with no damnations
As I lay myself exposed.....
to keep overselves from doing the tango of confusion
If you would let me speak

Overextended

"It's personal, myself and I, we've got some straightening out to do." -Fergie

Work and.......... I can't find what the "struggles sessions" are in the Chinese text,
I can't go through Mam Phys without feeling depressed,
I can't go to hear poetry without seeing a devil,
that I am over, should be over, somewhat over,
I've been fine so much that it's time my anxiety acts up,
and the anxiety is full force.
Internships, then a lab to write up, a session to go to
making my incompetence evident,
midterm, miderm, paper.... as
I'm reading,
writing down scattered thoughts,
I don't see what a "Struggle Session" could be
besides this.
And he's sitting next to white women,
typical
As black women are pouring their hearts out on the stage
ironic
And I thought I never could be angry about this
unfortunate
I need to focus to do better on mam phys,
I opened my e-mail and Reunion.com sends me shit
about J. Madrey,
maybe I had too little sleep,
too much coffee, performance anxiety, damn I know what a thyroid is,
and what hormones do
I'm reading the words but my mind is glazing through,
it's not registering these "struggle sessions"

Go back to let water cleanse my tired joints,
And a body dirty from thoughts of inferiority,
insecurities which creep up with intriguing insistence,
When I think I'm fine just to see this week creep up,
And go back to Miller's street where I hope I'm not alone.
Which becomes the redundant story that steers the wheel to my being
sometimes.
And to think I thought I was too busy to think.
I write this, I suppose because I'm a little love sick.

I have two midterms to study for, so it's going to be yet another long night, and I have to write a 400 word biography on MYSELF hmmmm, intriguing, how shall describe MYSELF to the Colby college website browsing community? But the reason I wrote this "whatever came into my head sporadically" poem last night was because Dana Gilmore blessed Colby with her presence. The environment in the room, the spoken word, the students who read poetry, were all amazing, very empowering for women's history month. And the place was full, which is nice- so even though my little rant is quite horrendous compared to her poetry, it definitely released some much needed anxiety last night as I did not do as well as I had hoped on a test.

I don't know; it brings me back down the ground when I realize that unconsciously my tone turned cold. This used to happen all the time a couple of years back, so the best plan would've been to not pick up the phone at all because I can't stand myself that way. When I see someone several times, and I don't say "hi, how are you?" Or even when I respond with a "hi, how are you?" that doesn't sound welcoming, or I walk away without saying bye, without commenting on their page for weeks. The page is deliberative, but none of the others are, so even if day by day it matters less, shouldn't that mean I should be kind, be me and not sound..... cold or bitter and like I'm thinking "why are you even talking to me?". I should stop analyzing things like little turns, and glances, and greetings..... and just take them as accidental coincidence. I should've ignored the side of my head and focused completely on Dana Gilmore because my analyses of my visions occasionally lies. But regardless of what it means, it's (likely) lack of meaning... I don't know,
if one was over me a long time ago,
then let him be...
without the pressure of being kind and acknowledgment and forced conversations,
and awkward meetings in the street....
I'm fine.... all these things only make analyze things unnecessary
I don't want anyone to feel bad.

Psychology...

is such an interesting science. How do people think? Why do they think about the things they think about, and does the environment and the world around them create these thoughts. In order to graduate, I need to fulfill my history, art, mathematics, and literature requirements, plus 7 more anthropology classes. If I take 4 classes each semester, presumably I will only have 12 left, since I will spend a semester abroad in the world, and there's no guarentee that those classes will count towards fulfilling my requirements.

But what I really want to take and feel like I have an obligation to take before I leave Colby is "Child Development","Boys to Men" and "Girls and Women". Especially boys to men... which I'll talk more about in a later blog that I'll be posting up soon about the culture of almost, the double disadvantage of being male and of color, especially in society. And I did say disadvantage of being male, but that's for a later time.

I used to embrace being alone, and the autonomy of my own thoughts, and I've always blogged, journaled, I write for the school paper. Not love it, but it was a comfortable embrace of the idea. Because as a young person (which I still am), I had a tendency to think that only I could understand my own voice- or what I'm REALLY feeling. And there's a part of me that's still there, I'm not the most articulate, and I don't exactly make eye contact all the time, or create a smooth transition from point to point (if I really ever complete my first point that is.) There is still a part of me which I wish wasn't as socially awkward as I am at times, but it's something special when you see yourself, your transition, occur in front of your eyes and realize it. It's a gradual epiphany as I'm finding that people do see me past that awkwardness, they do see my points, they do see my passions, and how my awkwardness, and honesty, and my bubbliness is almost endearing. And there's been a lot of those people coming of late, pointing out to me that awkwardness is not the same thing as wrong or dumb, and it's become a perpetual cycle, the more they come, the more I open up, the more they continue to come. And for the first time in my life, though I have a million stresses in the world- and though people slight me, I see myself, I see my potentials, I see that people can see past my wall and know that I like them or love them (there are so few I don't like, and practically no one I hate), like I'm here and I make a diferrence, and though I don't articulate myself perfectly and people don't get 100% of what I'm saying, I try and they listen.

I'm alone on a Friday evening and I'm ok without any "him" here; and I know that if I'm not, I can write it in poetry and tell people and there'll be someone here. I know that as I'm becomming as strong on the outside as my opinions are on the inside that, if I go to Boston, or Tanzania, or Viet Nam, or Cape Town, that I'll find people to love and care for, and that there'll be people there who will love and care for me.

Part of my blog is more discreet and metaphorical, but this one is somewhat like a journal of me figuring out my psychology.

And the thing IS named "Honesty".

Over and over

"You can tell me I'm wrong, that I'm coming on way too strong, don't think I'll be crushed, just do it with love, love, love." -Hilary Duff

You know when you read a text nearly all the way through, and you get to the end to figure out that nearly none of it has sunk in? Yep. I should be more invested in Anthropology of Violence, it sounded like such a cool class until I actually was there. I was told by a friend in December that once you get to know someone, they may become less charming, the mystery may be gone and you realize that they're really just an ass. Intelligent? Yes! But still an ass, and not courageous. I need to take a step back dear Lord- honestly- I need to stop convincing myself that I want things that I don't want just because I don't have them. It's like you yearn for the butterflies and the nervousness all the time, that you make it happen without realizing that it doesn't. The devil, Macy's, whatever I call him, spoke, and I just realized it wasn't there. Which is good- it's just too rude and shallow for me to handle, and I'm too busy and already distracted enough to be having that. I sat yesterday writing another poem about it, which I will put up, but I'm glad that the bubbliness of it wasn't really there the way I had anticipated. And all this time I've been wanting it, as to not hurt my own pride, as to satisfy my curiosity, but there's nothing there to be curious about. So I accept that it won't happen, and I move forward.

Sit with me
Lie By Me
Don’t speak
Because your words are empty

Put your arms where they want to go
Release your energy where it needs to flee
But don’t speak

Give my eyes the candy of your presence
My soul the warmth of your security
But don’t speak

Let my tears cry stoically
And my needs hide rapidly
As you pretend not to care
Yet you’re there
No need to speak to me.

No need to speak
Or accept
or to hear
Just be

No need to work
or explain
or play games
Just be

Because with you, it’s enough
your presence is enough
the energy of your steps to be here
is enough

Sit with me
Put your arms where they want to go

Give my eyes the candy of your presence
Let my tears cry stoically

No need to speak
No need to work

Because with you, it’s enough
You can fabricate words
but you alone prove comforting.

Eve Ensler, Anne Hull, Kael Alford, Anna Badken.....

And hopefully so many more. These are the names of amazing women advocates and writers whom I've met this academic year alone. Anne Hull's journalism, Kael Alford and Anna Badken's photographic journalism, Eve Ensler and her amazing advocacy for sexual assault victims. I got Ms. Ensler to sign my book with words "vagina blessings", my life may be complete. (This and taking part of S.H.O.U.T weekend workshops consisting of opening up dialogue and learning martial arts)

My to do list for this weekend now merely consists of
-Reading two Japanese articles
-Writing a response paper
-preparing for a quiz
-Echo article
-laundry
-taxes
-(and Mam phys/ study abroad aps... if I get to them)

and I think I might die. The thing is, I'm exhausted, and it's stressful but I don't really mind being this busy. I prefer it. I could sit in my room, not participate in S.H.O.U.T or meet Eve Ensler, have all my homework done by now, and be relaxed but... that's not living, that's not getting out there. The sense of change within me has become very relevant, and the shyness is almost non-existent at times here. I look at myself now, with the weight gain from staying up late and eating because I have a lot on my plate, and I feel like that girl who was afraid to speak up in high school, who hated her awkwardness, is growing into that awkwardness, into that womanhood of yearning the hard work, and the freedom, and the voice. I will try to do Echo tonight and most other things tomorrow, but I'll probably get enough sleep if I work through it diligently and I'll be ok. That's the only thing I miss about home, is the queen sized bed and the ten hour nights, but here with my network of friends, and finally having the major I enjoy underway. All this hard work, though I will complain about it incessently, is liberating, because I'm on my way to finding ME.

Miller

A part of me will open the mam phys book soon enough
but I'm thinking be here, be here
because the nights are brutal and I'm here, I'm here
I have too much on my plate so I'm here, I'm here
I don't get enough sleep so I'm a little worn out
And I dread the walk back in the night pitch black
In the air so frigid,
It cracks my knuckles,
chatters my teeth,
reddens my cheeks,
And the ten minute walk feels like eternal winter where the snow never melts
and I'm one girl countering the forces of nature
It's got me kind of down

All I'm thinking is be here be here
So I don't have to walk back... 'least not by myself.
Comfort me with the truth and the human side;
hot and numb like a third degree burn or hot and heavy...
away from the abstract facts of what heat represents in chemistry
The nights are brutal, I'm thinking be here, be here
I'm tired... I can't sleep without you here, you here.
I'll never admit my weakness with you here, you here...
but you suck at reading in a room full of silence... like a stranger...
I'm not a stone, you're not a climber.
The night is pitch black and you can't see that it scares me?

no matter how harsh your words
Speak
to lighten up my path

- I have 90 pages and at least three hours staring me down in the glorious Miller Library.

Since my dear friend Brittany follows this masterpiece, I feel the unprompted desire to assure you that I am not nearly this strange- my head may be awkward but I'd like to think I pull off normal kind of nicely.

Revelations...
I'm glad that normality and a sense of reason are such persistent things. As reluctant as I am to accept them, they always come knocking, it's almost comforting and endearing that they never allow me to fall too hard. Because I suppose I can't, I finished my mile high 'to do' list this weekend, and just as it was completed, another one was waiting at my door... the distractions of the right sort come at the right time.

God, I am turning 21 this summer! 21, I do not feel that old for one second, my personality still renders me 15 at times. But I'm thinking, with the advice of one beautiful and wise Robin Schafer that I might move to Boston and take up my internship there... or another city. I had intended on not staying home this summer, perhaps just living here on campus, being on my own for the first time.... yet it might be too safe. And maybe I want to explore a bit, it's a little nerve-racking to think that from now on, I won't be home much. On my own, creating my own bonds, testing my greenness, scary thoughts for sure. We'll see what happens with that, though I've got to get on it... living arrangements etc. I'm also nearly done with study abroad applications... one semester in traveling the world... how amazing is that? I'm so scared, excited beyond words.

So after hugs and congratulations, the conversation with my Colby mom surrounded her curiosity and concern as to why I would downplay getting this grant. And I defiantly said "I'm not, many people do many great things, it's not exceptional at Colby." I wanted to be even more so defiant, I would travel the world, adopt babies, write about injustices... take risks... my silliness is not that high on my priorities. But Ms. Schafer gave me the eye and the look that said she wasn't buying an ounce of it, though it might be true, she said "I haven't seen you ecstatic about anything in while, I know what will get you excited....you're regressing my dear, don't let it happen!" Gah... It's like Robin Schafer reads me like a book. Though I don't think it's completely true, I ask for acknowledgement (an acknowledgement that I'm not intimidating), but I don't ask for people to fill my necessities. Just the necessity to not feel intimidating, if that makes sense. I don't know that I would even call them needs-- because I do want to travel the world and adopt five babies-- so needs vary-- motivation to always go onward- though security (as the word suggests) is safe and comforting. I think the point of this post is that I love Robin Schafer and normality is coming back... little by little... sometimes that's good, sometimes it's not but I can definitely say without a doubt that my life has been at a very good place for quite a long time now, and for that I am thankful. Just because one only writes poetry when she's a little down, doesn't mean she's down all the time Brittany Gordon! I love you! Now back to work.