2:11

"I think I need a barber, none of these bitches can fade me." (Beyonce in Run the World)

I thought a 9 hour work-day where I saw a number of senior clients who were in need would exhaust me mentally and emotionally. And it did. But I slept from 11 p.m.- 1:30 a.m. and now am wide awake in a dark room.

What wakes my mind up is walking home from the Subway and how alert, and often mean, I have to be when I walk past a number of inappropriate men who have nothing better to do than act perverted. It speaks a lot to male privilege, as fit as I am, as a woman alone, I still would prefer not be "holla'ed" at. I take it with a grain of salt, ignore them, but it is still uncomfortable and my survival instincts are heightened. I'm ready to whip out my training and RUN at any moment. I feel that, in this day and time, women are intellectually strong, but men still have the edge of physical intimidation that many use recklessly to get their way. I think harassment is underreported and people don't take it as seriously as we should.

Mark Tappan's education classes about power, entitlement, and privilege were rushing back to me at 1:40 a.m. Oddly, the reality of walking home everyday and being afraid of being holla'ed at or followed is a big reason I haven't gone back to Colby and am not planning to for a good while. Six months after graduation, those men I walk past remind me of my experience senior year and how I let myself settle and get disrespected by a douche-bag. I don't regret it, and I always ALWAYS say that no one is better than anyone else, BUT it becomes clearer to me how men use intimidation, privilege, meanness, fear, especially in college and during our 20's to feed off young women and get what they want.

A lot of girls almost sell their bodies in college and I stayed away from that for at least a few years... but senior year... I thought I was empowered... and I can do whatever the hell I want with my body... but obviously the douche-bag was used to momentarily fill a physical void that I may have been better just living with. Because in the back of my head, I knew he was an ass, everybody did. And he knew he was the college mistake story that he wanted every girl to tell when they're in their 30's, married, and laughing about their college whore days. And WE knew that I wouldn't waste breath on him after I left. And WE also knew that I got tested for every STI under the sun after that whirlwind.

But I guess ending the cycle of open relationships/ friends with benefits that's been going on for well over two years, (one great lasting friendship, one good guy, one disgusting pathological liar) and being open to dating again in a market of guys who are primarily douche-bags brings me back to the Colby dorm room. How my mind, and to an extent, my body could convince me that that was a friendship (WHA????), and not a settlement, or something that was nasty, is now laughable.

Hint: When a guy tells you he's shallow, he is.

I don't mean to be cynical because I believe in good people and good men. But I also know that I have more confidence than when I was a teenager or even a year ago, that I don't let "lonely" determine who gets a piece of my mind and my body. I'm 23, I haven't been through everything or know everything, but I DO know that MEN know that some women get flattered by the sharp tongues on guys who just see women as walking vaginas, and they use that to their advantage... It speaks a lot to the insecurities of women, about weight, about looks, about intelligence, even in 2011, and it speaks a lot to the intimidation and privilege that men hold. Even the men who aren't worth a damn possess that.

Senior year and the Wheaton creep who insists on running on the treadmill next to or behind mine and making conversation with a girl who just wants to work out, taught me what to look out for... so I'll repeat that I don't regret senior year. I still like them gully, I like them thuggish, I like them real, I like them confident, and I always will, but above that, I like them kind, intellectual, respectful, and revolutionized. Many still don't know the difference between the actors they see in rap videos (many of which I love) and how to be an upstanding person in day-to-day life. Men who aim to be more shallow than a pot-hole puddle are problematic but pervasive.

The definition of intellectual, gully, kind, confident, revolutionary.

Mirror

"I can't miss a woman like I can't miss court dates." -Lil Wayne.

When I look in the mirror, I don't see Vietnamese. I've been My for so long that MyTien (Me-Thien) takes getting used to. I guess my gut doesn't scream it. And the people who know me, know this.

My edge is American. My friends are Black, Caribbean, Latino... My ideology is LEFT. My music is R&B.

So I took this job because it's nowhere close to my comfort zone. I don't embody Vietnamese heritage. I don't like pho.

And when I fight for social justice, it never has revolved around issues facing Vietnamese Americans. I guess because I feel disconnected to the cause and empty with that label on me; it's like a pair of jeans that don't fit right. And the position lets a community of people define me... which... makes is frightening.

Needless to say, going full circle and learning compassion and patience toward people who originate from where I originate, is a process that's no where near complete.

And the position allows me to get better at Vietnamese, to talk to Vietnamese seniors, to understand to a certain extent... how lonely they are. They feed me free veggie eggrolls and sticky rice, treat me just like any other Vietnamese grandchild, which I appreciate, yet, viscerally, my body is fighting it and mind is kicking and screaming each step of the way.

Fighting against the process of me becoming completely fluent, or becoming literate, or feel IT in my identity when I wake up. Every word I say or learn how to say in as sweet a manner as a Vietnamese woman says it, almost makes me feel limited, and enables others' lack of understanding of who I am. And sometimes I feel that the tongue... ala the language... ala the physical organ itself... does not belong to me.

I read the word, Vietnamese, hundreds of times a day..

how Vietnamese Americans are struggling...

the health problems that Vietnamese Americans face...

the gang problems of Vietnamese Americans...

the education problems of Vietnamese Americans...

the financial problems of Vietnamese Americans...

Among other things... but I've almost come to resent the word and my head is wondering, 'what is that?' Wanting to and not wanting to explain to each Vietnamese person that I don't want my skin to be lighter over time or to live and breathe the language and have cute Vietnamese babies with Vietnamese last names. Nothing against it, but individually it doesn't fit.

The Vietnamese boxes opposes my internal revolution. I didn't come to D.C. through my own volition to further suppress the African diaspora that I feel more connected with.

And I know that that's at least part of the problem...

that mom/dad/grandma/uncle didn't want me to lose the language or the culture that they ended up choosing the language, the culture, the exposure, the way of living, the identity, for me....

and the more I grow up, the more I fight it, the more uncomfortable I feel around large Asian gatherings, the more I want to get the whole picture, the more I want to be exposed to the other side of me... the more I relate to my other side.. the more I empathize with the people who represent my other side.

I guess taking the job means, that I didn't want to go so far that I'd again be polar...even if it's my ME side. I want to at least find comfort with that Vietnamese-ness.... My mother possesses it, and even when I don't feel it in my bones, I didn't need to fight it so bad that I don't allow myself the chance to empathize with it.

It's still good work, good experience, and a good fight for integrity and equity for minorities which is all I want.

Being in the city on the weekends with Americorps members helps too.... Being around strong, young individuals of color is air and provides good balance.