A Letter to My Teenage Self

I see you little baby.
I see you trying so hard to be a good girl, the best girl, a perfect girl.

I see your lonely heart, your deep desire to be truly seen and understood.
You queer baby forcing intimacy with best fiends who don't feel as deeply in your relationship as you do.
Conversations center around boys you don't care about but are pretending to. Foreign creatures who don't see you and don't care to.

Boys don't know your brilliance. It scares their closed hearts, you feel too much for teens that feel too much but keep it bottled up inside.
You're so brave the wear your heart is exposed. The way you want so hungrily.
Later you'll learn to cover that up, when you realize it remains too much for most.
But it will be everything to some, hold them close because they are here for you, the real you--not the dulled out version you've created to make everyone else comfortable.

One day you'll want to feel and shine as brightly as you do now.

I see you with your big boobs and your big hair. Taking up space and feeling wrong in all that bigness.
Spread out sweet girl.
Wear the low cut shirt and the short skirt, take your hair out of the minimizing bun and feel the sea breeze blow through every strand.
Smile at how it shines golden in the sun.

Know that you don't have to be better than other people to be worthy of everything you want. You are enough exactly as you are.

I know nobody looks like you--no women in your life have the life you want.
One day you will find mamas, aunties, sisters that inspire you.
Some will look like you, others will have your same spirit and others will be so different that they teach you that difference is not wrong.
They will teach you how to be unapologetically bold, that being bad feels so good and that not saying everything on their heart doesn't mean they don't feel it.

One day you will know love. Complicated, overwhelming unbelievable love. It will be different than the movies. But it will be precious and new and revolution.

I know you feel like you don't matter, nobody understands you or cares about you.
The world is a much more confusing and sad place than your parents told you it'd be.
No amount of A's you get or friends you have will change that.
Just know that the world is also a beautiful and joyful place and it needs your fire.
I need your fire.

Be strong girl, you have everything you need inside of you. Follow your light.

For Philando, Dae'Anna & the Rest of Us

Almost a year ago I took a business trip to a conference at Disneyland. As I walked off the plane and checked my phone for the usual social media updates I saw the name Philando Castile appear over and over on my timeline. As I read the accounts of Philando's murder my mind started swirling, my breath was quick, my heart racing, I was physiologically triggered. I boarded the Disney Express airport shuttle with white families and their children excited for a fun adventure but I was in a daze. I sat down in my seat and cried. Then I opened my work laptop and wrote the next part of this blog. 

July 7, 2016

I must have been about eight or nine years old when I had a dream I would remember my entire life. A dream that became an important part of my black identity, something I would look back on when I searched my brain for what makes me black with white skin and blond hair. I woke up from this dream crying real tears, one of those dreams that felt so real that you were shook up for hours, or as it were, forever.

My mother and I stand in a deserted field, in our direct eye line is my father tied up to a burning cross, KKK members surrounding him, laughing, taunting him, looking on me with disgust.

This was a real fear of mine. Even as a multiracial child growing up in multiracial melting pot Hawaii. I knew from day one that the world hated us, hated me for my proximity to us, even though I could pass as one of them.

I think a lot about how white folks are always trying to protect their children from the world, from violence, pain, war, the tough stuff.  I wish every day that I could have been protected from those things so that I didn’t have to wake up crying in the middle of the night terrified that the KKK would murder my father in front of me. AT. EIGHT. YEARS. OLD.

Today it’s not the KKK although they’re there too, four-year-old Dae'Anna watched her dad get murdered by a racist right in front of her face. My worst nightmare was a reality today for one of my sisters. She’s not the first and I know she won’t be the last.

It’s always there, the fear of violence for being all the things: black, queer, a woman. Social media has thrown these fears into our faces on a 24 hour cycle and I’m never surprised. My first reaction is always angry that anyone has been delusional to ignore that this shit been happening. Angry at the people who ever walk down the street confidently not terrified that someone isn’t going to decide they will be beaten, raped, or killed that day. 

That terror is a slow burn, I barely notice it anymore. The reason I don’t show cleavage because my teacher in high school called home to say my breasts were disruptive to other people’s learning. I guess the discomfort I would feel in learning for the rest of the year for making me feel like my teacher was looking at my breasts didn’t matter to him. The reason that I barely touch my wife in public, especially if we are wearing make-up and heels, because the second we look like any semblance of a girl-on-girl fantasy someone might decide they want to rape us. Or kill us because our love of each other means that men are obsolete and not the center of the universe. The reason I stayed my brothers keeper, 10 years his junior, I fearfully reminded him to “stop yelling” because people might feel threatened by his 6 foot plus black body.

And over the years that fear does something to you. It keeps you from living, keeps you from seeing yourself outside of the gaze of other people. I was once told by one of my white cousins during a conversation about oppression that I seem like I'm "carrying the weight of the world." To that I say yes, it feels like that sometimes. 

It would be nice to get some help carrying it all, but you didn't mean you would help, you meant I should simply stop carrying it. If only that were possible.

_____________________________________

Yesterday morning I did the same social media scan that I always do but this time for my work's Twitter account. I was killing time before an all team meeting we had planned for the majority of the work day. And there on the left side of the screen under the heading "What's Trending" was the verdict for Philando's murderer. Usually I would turn to my all Black team and immediately inform them of this news. We would close our office door and feel our anger, pain and outrage together, something most Black folks have to wait another 8 hours until they get home to do, we are lucky. 

But I didn't do that yesterday. Instead I clicked out of Twitter and I swallowed hard. Swallowed all that pain and fear. Swallowed mourning and hopelessness. Swallowed history and my own heart. 

I couldn't bring myself to turn to my team and open up that place we as Black people keep locked away. It's the place that will swallow us whole and we may never get out of, the place where we feel all of the things that being Black people in this country means, all of the nuances for us individually and all of the pain of our people collectively. 

Later on last night Mary and I went to a Queer Hip Hop event and before the performer came on stage wearing a leather vest and boxing shorts the event organizer took a moment to acknowledge the news of Philando's murderer being acquitted. And as he stood there speaking words of sadness mixed with words of joy for the kick off of SF Pride I did it again. I pushed Philando into that dark place and reminded myself that we still survive. I watched my Queer Black brother tear the stage all the way up and I felt the type of joy/sadness combo that's hard to explain.

And this morning I decided to open up that dark place, let it feel and give it some light. 

For New Grads, Recent Grads & Pretty Much Anyone Who's Ever Graduated

It's that time of year when our feeds are flooded with photos of people achieving more than us. This is also known as graduation season. 

Nothing makes you feel old and unaccomplished like a 25 year old getting a PhD and managing to have amazing hair in one of those stupid hats.

Last week I attended the college graduation of one of my old students at my Alma Mater USF. Beside feeling like an ancient relic, I also felt a rush of happiness with a mix of not so happy memories of life after graduation. As I walked through the sea of students hugging their families I couldn't help but remember that amazing feeling RIGHT after the graduation ceremony.

You know the feeling when you're in your cap and gown and taking pictures and everyone is happy and you're so excited because this is the moment your life will REALLY start.

And about an hour after that, the reality sets in. 

The reality of having your entire family drive you completely crazy, of the fact that you are going to have to say goodbye to all these people you've grown to love and finally the reality that you have to actually do something, make a choice for what's next in your life. I'm telling you, graduations give you all the highs and then take you down to some low lows.

And we never talk about that. We're all, "you're so amazing! you're doing great!" which is true, but there's a whole other part that comes after graduation. After everyone around you has built you up and celebrated you and told you how great you are. It's the disappointment that comes when life doesn't actually miraculously change and become this amazing beginning of a rom com montage of fashionable work outfits and glamorous latte runs while on a call with the London office.

Change is scary and when people around you are banking on your "success" (or rather what success means to them) there's a lot of pressure to make the right decisions.

I've had 3 major graduations in my life and each one of them opened up another chapter of my life, but those chapters weren't really what I expected. Things were harder than I'd thought they'd be and lonelier. With the magic of social media you can forever compare yourself to other people doing "better." Unfortunately, nobody after they've just graduated from anything is posting "I am at a job I'm not sure I like and I am so sad and unfulfilled." Even though that's probably what they're feeling. So you find yourself feeling so confused and wondering what the point of going to school was because maybe you're not in the place you wanted to be. Plus it feels like everyone you graduated with is doing amazing and that just adds insult to injury.

So from one former graduate to new graduates everywhere I want to say things may just be disappointing for a while. You may not land the job or the fellowship you wanted, you may feel the weight of those student loans, you may just miss the high of getting an A (I seriously miss this).

And in those moments I want you to try and remember that feeling of complete confidence and joy you felt during that post-ceremony photoshoot. 

Remember that you are all of those great things people told you on that day and more. 

Remember that your accomplishments aren't the measure of your worth. 

Remember to trust your passions and your gut. 

Remember that if you make a wrong turn, you can always right the ship. 

And as I sit here 4 years after grad school, 9 years after undergrad and a whopping 13 years from high school graduations wondering about my own life, my own career journey and passions,  I'll try and remind myself of all those things too.

Congrats Class of 2017, you're gonna be great.

Sad Realization: I Will Never Be a Video Ho

Since as long as I can remember I've been singing and dancing in the mirror mimicking the pouty faces, sultry eyes and gyrating hips of pop stars and girls in the background of hip hop videos.

By 5th grade I was bossing my friends into triangular formations and barking "ka ka pop's" at them like a real adult choreographer. My parents couldn't afford the dance lessons I spent pretty much all of my childhood begging for so I had to make do with what I had, my own imagination and a stellar collection of Spice Girl CDs.

Dancing in the mirror & in front of my mom holding our video camera sufficed until I was a Freshman in high school and finally started taking lessons at a studio. 14 is practically 100 in dance years and it SHOWED. I had musicality and could pick up choreograph okay but what took me months to perfect was already written in the body memory of my classmates who had been taking lessons and doing double pirouettes since they were 6 (see Dance Moms).

On top of the fact that these girls had like 10 years of professional lessons on me they were also ALL Asian. I know that doesn't really seem like a big deal but let me tell you that you never forget the feeling of being an awkward in 5'5 limby, untoned body with Double D breasts and a oblong frizzy-kinky bun (nobody ever taught me how to make that cute with styling baby hairs and using gel to slick the frizz back) standing next to 15 5 foot tall, toned, long straight black haired, perfectly tanned beauties. NEVER. It's the same feeling I got when a (white) boy I liked told me that he wasn't into me because I wasn't Asian...NOT GOOD. Dancing with that group didn't make me feel beautiful or sexy (when a dance called for it), it just made me feel gross and not good enough.

But I loved dancing so I persisted, just like those Women's March memes covering the internet, I was so brave you guys. For 3 years I took jazz, hip-hop, and voice lessons at the same company and by my senior year could KINDA do the splits and could FINALLY do a clean double pirouette. But at that point I looked an my priorities, I weighed my options. I could go into Senior year still being a mediocre dancer/singer and spend 3 days a week at the studio with girls I didn't have anything in common with (the studio was an hour bus ride away from my house & I didn't go to school with my fellow dancers) or I could actually hang out with my friends, join the school paper I'd been dying to write features for and just chill the fuck out before I was off to my REAL life in SF.

The thing about that decision was that I knew I'd never ACTUALLY be good. And if I couldn't be really good then what was even the point? In the years between then and now I have pined for dancing and singing. I watch music videos and So You Think You Can Dance and I wish that that could be my life for just a second.

So today I decided to try out a dance video tutorial and have some fun for old times sake. Some things have changed since high school, one being that I grew into myself and started feeling WAY more beautiful and sexy. So when I chose a sexy Hip Hop number to Tinashe's Superlove I popped on a crop top, let my hair down and got ready to WORK IT and go "full out" as the dancer folks say.

See video below if you would like to imagine me in my living room struggling with this choreo.

OMG you guys it was kind of a disaster. The first 2 set of 8-counts DESTROYED me. Somehow indulging in this bit of "me time"  left me feeling like a red faced, awkward 14-year old girl AND an old woman...AT THE SAME TIME.

HOW???

My body creaked and cracked, my heart raced and my breath was short---and not in a good way. In a way that I was realizing my own mortality and feeling like I have WASTED so many years of being a hot 20-something video girl that I will never get back!

In college I used to joke about quitting school, losing 20 pounds, learning how to do my make-up like a Kardashian and heading to LA to stand in line to grind in front of video casting directors. I still feel I could have made it--I have huge boobs, I'm racially ambiguous, have long hair AND can grind pretty good if I do say so myself.

And NOW IT'S TOO LATE!!!

I went out with some friends a few weekends ago in leggings and a tied up T-shirt a-la Hotline Bling girl and people were LOSING IT! I had never experienced the kind of "YOU LOOK SO GOOD" compliments from people who actually are looking at me through sexy glasses (read-not straight girl compliments that are semi-useless). And for a moment that night I thought maybe I could still realize my video girl dreams.



But today I was QUICKLY reminded that I am over the hill in the entertainment world. I guess I'll have to settle for my life as a non-profit worker and just daydream of being a video girl when I'm watching Rihanna's Rude Boy for the millionth time.

Moana & Longing for Connection

As a child my mom tried to get me to join a Hula class and learn the beautiful dance of the Hawaiian people. I wanted to dance ballet. I clung to french words, pink tights and graceful gestures for my long limbs.

Then when I was 13 I accompanied my friend to her Tahitian dance class and I was mesmerized. I was intoxicated by the drums, they seemed to fill me all the way up and all I wanted was to move my hips to their rhythm like the beautiful women I saw with their long black hair flowing, their rapid hips and their graceful hands. I begged my parents to let me join and weeks later I was enrolled. I skipped TGIF (a serious sacrifice) to let those drums fill me up once a week and let my budding womanhood come out and play for an hour. An hour where my body was for myself in all it's movement and sexuality, an hour where I wasn't afraid of how I looked only how isolated my hip movements were and how much they moved with the beat.

A year later I went back to classical styles and started a jazz class but I always practiced my fa'arapu alone in my room, my CD player blasting the recording of a drum session. And one day I returned to Polynesian dancing, kind of by accident. When I began to learn the moves and vocabulary of Hula I experienced a new kind of joy. The ancient kahiko dances with their precise movements and melodic chanting made me feel connected to something bigger than myself. As I spoke Hawaiian words I felt reverence for a people who had endured so much. Reverence for the land that was stolen and the culture and language that they fought to get back. The same moves I was dancing and the words I was chanting along with my teacher were all banned in their birthplace for decades by foreigners.

Colonizers were brilliant that way. You create a kind of confusion when you cut people off from their culture, their ancestors, their language, their way of life. When you make people forget the essence of themselves, what makes them special and connected you can manipulate them. Today Hawaii's culture has been co-opted by the US. I grew up watching the mostly white casts of Save By the Bell and Full House travel to Hawaii and do horrible offensive renditions of Hula while wearing synthetic grass skirts, their blonde tresses flowing in the ocean breeze. My childhood brain was always confused by how different Hawaii seemed on TV when the Hula I saw looked nothing like that. When I began dancing myself I searched all over the island for the perfect leaves for a head piece or skirt, the skin on my fingertips frayed from the weaving and intricate knots I had to tie, the feeling of disappointment when I opened the fridge to see that my plumerias were brown on the edges, a sign that I would have to go pick a fresh batch before my performance even though I had a mound of homework and needed to detangle my hair. All of that is erased when all people see on TV is actors waving their arms around like idiots in plastic shit.

But something inside always tugged at me, something reminding me that as beautiful as it was and as connected to it as I felt, it was not mine. I am not Hawaiian or Tahitian and the only reason I was on this island at all was because the US had decided that Pearl Harbor was a strategic place to put a Naval Base. So I don't talk so much about all of this anymore, I stuff it down and only quickly mention I grew up in Hawaii before saying that my family isn't from there and I'm actually really from California.

Then every once in a while something triggers that connection and I am in a sea of tears longing for mountains and seas and flowers and bare feet. Tonight that trigger was Moana. I had resisted watching for as long as I could but when my (part Hawaiian) nephew donned a custom made Moana outfit for his Baby's 1st Lu'au I knew I'd have to watch it eventually.

As Moana sang of her island home and her longing for the sea I was reminded of the unbelievable story of the Polynesian people. A story of faith, courage and connection. I all of the sudden missed the ways my hips swayed to a Hawaiian song, the way my fingers waved gracefully and the repetitive rhythm of a Kaholo, my feet knowing exactly what to do next.

Then I was instantly filled with sadness. Sadness for MY people, for Black people. Our language, our dances, our customs, diverse and beautiful and connected to our souls were ripped away. Out of our resilience and resistance we created new culture, new language, new connection and for that I am always proud. But there is something about seeing people dance the same dance that their ancestors danced from the beginning that takes your breath away. I don't know that we'll ever have that in the same way as other people who were colonized on their own land do. It's a different story. I guess I hope I can feel some sense of connection to culture that belongs to my ancestors while also appreciating the gift that the Polynesian people gave me in Hula and Tahitian dancing.

For Love Stories Not Told on Valentine's Day

Love. What a wondrous, complicated, exhilarating experience to love and be loved.

On Valentine’s Day there are so many messages about how love is supposed to look, who is allowed to be in love and what you should do or act like if you are “in love.” 

As half of a queer, femme, interracial married couple let me tell you, it can be hard to find examples of our love. To this day I come across articles and listicles about love and marriage that are only about how love exists for straight couples. Although some things may be transferable most things just are not. 

So for today I’ll share this love story with you. One that doesn’t look like the kind in the movies or the kind that people look to for guidance, an old wrinkled man and woman holding hands on a quiet park bench. I’m sharing it because it is just as worthy as all of those other loves of being shared and because maybe it can contribute to a larger conversation that can open up the different ways love exists for all of us.

2005

Our love has always been sacred. From the first moment I saw you at 19, a little ball of light and laughter bouncing through the USF cafeteria. You saved my number in your phone as "Bre BFF" the first moment we met and in doing so conjured the most transformational friendship I have ever had. 

2012

One late night you texted me like you had a million times before, this time with a winky face just to make me feel the weight of the unspoken. That our closeness was on the verge of changing everything for both of us, to morphing into a romantic love that would turn us into a different kind of us. 

You kissed me on your bed 2 days before we went to a Justin Bieber concert. Later you said how normal it felt, I went back to Boston with your smell on me and dreams of our babies and a lifetime of adventures. There was no going back after that, I knew I'd be yours forever.

2013

We stayed up late one night and painstakingly wrote (while listening to 98 Degrees Christmas album) what we wanted this relationship to be. We started with acknowledging out ancestors and our collective work in pursuing justice by wrapping different colored ribbons around the handle of a small broom. 

During American Slavery Black couples would jump over a broom to signify their marriage and commitment to their community.

They wrap the gold ribbon to honor the enslaved Black people whose marriages were never legally acknowledged.

They wrap the pink ribbon to honor the Lovings who fought for the legal acknowledgment of their marriage and interracial marriages therafter

They wrap the purple ribbon to honor the LGBTQ people who fought and continue to fight for marriage equality.

Finally, they wrap the red ribbon to signify their solidarity with these communities.

We ended with the commitments we needed with room to grow and change and forever be ourselves. Today I am reminded of the power of love and the power of our love, queer, grounded in friendship, challenged by difference, showered in laughter and pushed to be fully honest. Our love is revolution every day.

I commit to always being your best fried, to have fun and laugh.

I commit to putting myself first. I will not allow you to lose yourself in our relationship.

I commit to being honest, even when it’s hard. To always putting effort into our 

relationship and to being open to changes that our life together may bring.

Finally, I commit to supporting you, caring for you, loving you and expressing my love in ways you can receive it.

For the Love of Writing

In graduate school I spent 6 months pouring my heart out for my Master's paper. I wrote about my life, the complicated experience of being a multiracial Black woman. I wrote about my family, my friends, childhood enemies and the women who saved me. It was very akin to that quote about writing where you're bleeding on the page.

This blog hasn't been quite as personal. Many of them were barely edited, apologies for the typos and general lack of commas. I did this project to prove that I could and to remind myself what it was I loved about writing. I was reminded that it's writing from my experience that I love the most. Quirky noticing and painful memories that helps me explain the systems of inequality we live in every day.

"B in the Borderlands" is meant to be a play on words, it's meant to reference my first initial and a state of being. A reference to Gloria Anzaldua's famous book that brings forward that which is usually hidden and ignored. The in-between, the intersections, the borderlands. When I came to terms with my Bisexuality I remember sobbing heavily, yelling out to the universe "why do I have to have another one of these identities?" The kind that don't make sense to people, the kind that aren't seen fully. I'd already struggled through navigating a multiracial identity and couldn't bear to feel that on another plane.

But here I am, in the borderlands just the same. 

I've tried to ignore the pull to confront these things in my writing. The need to write my experience felt like a vain quest for validation, more of our fame obsessed culture creeping in, my need to be the center of attention. But the more I write, the more I share myself--my borderlands I hear from the friends that have been kind enough to read, that it resonates with them too. I remember that so much of what we know is based on our experience and the experiences that have been shared with us. We are a country of people hearing the stories of those with power and not listening to the quiet voices of those on the margins.

I cannot speak for everyone but my ability to put my experience into words is a gift and a responsibility.

Infoglut & Social Media Overload

Last week I took a break from Facebook. 

I found myself becoming overly obsessed with the amount of likes each of these posts were getting. Then, I found myself being triggered over and over again. I figured that it was time to cut my loses and deactivate for the first time since I opened my account in 2004.

This is how we live now. It's the way we connect with each other, both people that we have no business staying connected to (elementary school pen pal) and people we need to stay connected to (mom). I've taken several social media breaks (which I jokingly referred to as "cleanses") in the past for days at a time. But this was the first time I left Facebook entirely and let me tell you it felt weird.

I switched the Facebook energy to Twitter and was instantly WAY more informed on a bunch of things. I was reminded that Facebook is limited in so many ways and I had been relying on it for things it was never meant to do. It was nice to be in a space with a little less, less characters, less pictures, less everything. Twitter is how I found out about the protest Saturday and where I went to watch it all unfold in real time. Note: this is not a Facebook vs. Twitter post even though it's kind of starting to sound like one.

We are surrounded by so much stuff, information, opinions, images, facts and figures. I can only describe it as "noise." In therapy I've been working on listening to my own voice and trusting that. Let me tell you, in the current social media landscape that is VERY difficult to do. For those of us that have trouble finding out voice it's a hard task to be bombarded by other people's thoughts and feelings before we have fully figured out our own. Not to mention the consequences of how those thoughts and feelings if shared will be received by our network.

I'm so grateful for the space social media has created for me. I'm able to stay connected to people I love and people who's opinions and work I respect. I'm able to stay up to date on the latest news and information. But with that comes a kind of exhaustion, reading word after word starts to feel like sitting in a room where people are screaming things at you "I liked this movie!" "My baby walked today!" "The country is shit!" Individually these things aren't bad, it's nice to see a baby walk for the first time or feel validated in one's worries about the state of things. But when you mesh them all together in a feed with pictures and ads and doodads it's pretty mind numbing.

I'm back on Facebook now but I'm also trying to stay on Twitter because I remembered how much I enjoyed it. Add Instagram and the occasional Snapchat peruse and I'm back where I started. There's no handbook for this. No handbook for figuring out the uncharted waters of the emotional impact of information at our fingertips. For now I'll just continue to check in with myself and take breaks when I need them, deactivate if I feel like it and get totally sucked into my phone if I feel like it.

In this political moment I'll take more breaks and add to the conversation even if I don't get the likes I wanted.

Perspectives from a (kinda) Child of an Immigrant

I don't know when I stopped referring to myself as "French Canadian and Black" and made the shift to "Black and white."

It was easier somehow to tell people what they wanted to hear when they looked at my hair, then at my complexion and then search my face for other features that might give them a clue.

I stopped saying French Canadian because it didn't feel like it counted. Like when white people say they're Irish and Scandinavian but that's like from five and six generations back. The real thing they wanted to know was what my race was, so I gave it to them straight. French Canadian isn't a race and nobody even knows what it is anyway.

I always had to explain to people that the French "landed" on North America too but were beat out by the English for what is now known as Canada, save a little province called Quebec. Quebecois or French Canadians are the decedents of those colonizers who refused to assimilate into the British ruled Canada. It's a cool history of resistance until you think about the fact that all European colonizers were stealing the land from indigenous folks and claiming anyone got anywhere first is complete crap. Another reason I'm conflicted in my Quebecois pride.

I grew up in a bilingual household until about the 1st grade. Mostly, bilingual although my when my English-only speaking father was home from months out to Sea he complicated things. It weird to say that because I feels like the phrase "bilingual home" is reserved for other families that don't have a white french-speaking mother. My first two years in school I attended a French Magnet in San Diego. I remember moving to Hawaii halfway through 1st grade and staring at the kids as they asked me things in English and Hawaii Pidgin. Every morning we said the pledge of allegiance and I didn't know it in English. This is a common experience for bilingual children and for many children of immigrants who may not speak English in the home. But I still pushed back against the idea that this is my identity, because my mom is white and JUST Canadian so it doesn't really count.

When I moved to Hawaii the experience of having an immigrant parent was pretty ordinary. My best friend and I would joke about how our moms (her's Japanese) always had trouble understanding each other over the phone, both speaking with different accents of a language neither of them grew up speaking. When people would ask my mom where she was from I'd always stare shocked. That's not a question white people get asked very much and she had been speaking English since she was 16, I didn't even notice she had an accent.

Several years ago my mom's youngest sister was the first one in their family to become an American citizen. My mom talked about following suit and I exclaimed "NO! You don't want to be a citizen of this trash country!" Partially selfish (I want the option of dual citizenship in case the shit hits the fan, as it is now), it felt like an American passport would make my mom just another American white lady and I couldn't stand the idea of that.

The privilege of not wanting my mother to have an American passport is not lost on me, it's one that not many folks have.

This President and his administration aren't going after my mom. My commonality with child of immigrant stories stops at the fear of my parent being deported. Because race matters in this conversation. If you look at the list of the 7 "banned" countries it's rare that people who look like my mom (blonde and blue eyed) would not be stopped for "extra questioning."

In this time it's important for us to remember that in most cases whiteness trumps all and as we share stories and signs that say "we are all immigrants" I hope we'll remember that:
1)Blacks folks who are the decedents of slaves are not
2)Native folks who have been here all along are not

3)Not all immigrants are affected my xenophobia the same. Collapsing the nuanced experience of people who have come to this country in a multitude of different ways erases the fact that my mom and a green card holder from Sudan are not treated the same.

Practicing Self-Love by Acknowledging Limits

Today I went to a protest. More on that in a much longer post tomorrow because it's all I can do to keep my eyes open right now and I want to really write about that experience. However, there was something I realized while my body was slowly losing every bit of energy after a few hours without sustainable food.

My body is limited.

Even writing that feels like a failure. But I will practice radical self-love by holding this truth and loving myself fully. I'm hypoglycemic and that means that every few hours I HAVE to eat. Depending on how much energy I'm using (mental and/or physical) the amount and frequency with which I need to eat could be more. This fact coupled with my peanut allergy means that access to food I can eat isn't always available.

I've known this for a little over 3 years but that doesn't mean I've really accepted it. People that know me expect that I travel with snacks and always have a healthy meal brought from home for lunch. This is how I try to prevent my body from betraying me and limiting me. But there are times when I push it because "everyone else can" and because eating in a corner while everyone else is having fun makes me feel weak and like a frail oversensitive weirdo. When the lunch meeting goes too long or I have an after work hour event to attend with no real break for dinner I panic, freeze and then keep it moving. Only to be met with intense hunger pains and lightheadedness 30 minutes later because I ignored what my body was telling me. 

This changes the way I exist in a way I'm still frustrated with. It wasn't always this way, I used to be able to go a full day without eating anything but cereal. I would excel at my classes, ace the test, take incredible notes with barely anything fueling my body. And that almost makes it worse, the memory of days when I didn't have to think "how many snacks can I fit in this bag?" or "is there going to be a fridge there for my lunch?"

Today it happened again. As I packed my bag for the protest that same wash of panic came over me, how long will we be there, how long will this half a tuna sandwich, almonds and popcorn sustain me? The panic hit me again when the protest speaker exclaimed hours later "we're not leaving until all the detainees are released!"

As I walked out of the terminal exhausted and starving I felt the same guilt I always fell: I should be stronger, the detainees don't have food, they're tired from traveling, I need to be more. Luckily I had a community of people with me making sure I took care of myself and showering me with words of love and concern for my health. 

Tonight I'm trying to take in those words of love from my friends and family. 

I'm trying to remind myself that this body is worthy of care and love even with its limits because it's the only one I have and it is enough. 

Fergus Friday

It's finally Friday in what seems to be the one longest week in my adult memory. In my exhausted state I proceeded to cook dinner, walk my Fergus and watch an early 2000's Rom Com. After all of that I still had nothing to write about. But after taking Fergus on her last walk and trying to keep her from barking at the recycling (her favorite pastime after 9:30pm) I had the most fun playing with her. I was once again reminded what a gift this little quirky four legged creature is in my life.

Dogs are also good for dressing up in family costumes

I never wanted a dog. I grew up allergic to the world and with parents who gave me pretty solid reasons for not having a dog. The fact that a dog would mean we couldn't stay out for long or go traveling on a moments notice (both things my family DID NOT DO, I might add) seemed like it wasn't worth the trouble. When Mary and I got together she talked endlessly about a dog and I told her that I would get a dog if I could name it Fergus.

Fergus was a dog puppet on a French Canadian children's show I watched on recorded VHS tapes sent to me by my Canadian relatives. I always liked the name and it seemed like a pretty solid compromise. So one summer after we had been married for 2 years and living in our apartment for a while we started the hunt for a dog. Since I'm technically allergic to dogs we had a short list of "hypoallergenic" breeds that we were limited to and were committed to adopting. A few weeks into the search Mary found our Fergus at a tiny rescue in Gilroy. After a short phone call with the "foster mom" I took a day off work and we drove the 2 hours to pick up our first fur baby.

Now if you've read anything about Fergus on this blog or know her personally this next part will sound very "on brand." We arrived at a random house in Gilroy and were let in by an older white woman who explained that "Bunny" (Ferg's foster name) was pretty skittish and didn't really do well with people. She suggested that we sit on the ground tossing treats and not making any sudden movements towards her. In perfect Fergus (then Bunny) fashion she proceeded to peer at us from the safety of behind a giant couch. She smelled those treats and would inch closer and then without us doing anything to startle her, she would dart back behind the couch. I was instantly in love. We forced her, terrified and very dirty into a too small for her crate (we were given different measurements) and we took our baby home.

Pets change your life dramatically. Depending on the species, that change could be more or less severe but there's something about co-existing with a non-human animal that changes the way you look at things. Dogs for example are very in the moment (or so that's what scientist claim). They are sad when you're gone and happy when you're there. They're mad when you accidentally step on them (sorry Ferg) and then seconds later they're back to loving you forever. It's hard to live with something that operates that way and not have it rub off even a little.

Since we got Ferg I've started to appreciate the little things more. She's forced me to appreciate going outside and getting fresh air because I'm forced to do it 3-4 times a day. If you had told me two years ago that I would be taking a 20 minute walk first thing in the morning every day I would have laughed in your face. But now that's the routine and I actually enjoy it (most of the time). She's just so happy to play and to be loved and doted on. That energy is so infectious.

There's a laundry list of things I wish I didn't have to worry about or do now that I have a dog but that's the other lesson in having a pet. You're not the only one that needs stuff. On top of that laundry list I also wish I could understand what she's barking at, upset with, scared of and a multitude of other dog emotions I don't get. Another lesson, every one (or being in this case) communicates differently. Sometimes that can be frustrating but sometimes it can teach you a lot to try to see things from another perspective.

So there's my little love blog to Fergus, my first ever dog. She's taught me a million things already and I'm sure she'll continue to amaze, challenge, love and shade me for the rest of her doggie days.

Please enjoy this weird video of her Name Sake below:

On Not Being Fine

So we're closing in on the end of week one of #TrumpsAmerica and let me tell you, I am EXHAUSTED. 

Every day, hell every few hours there's a new assault on my communities and the communities I'm in solidarity with and that shit is getting old, real quick. And this is JUST THE BEGINNING.

And this thing keeps happening, a thing that happens probably 5-10 times a day, people ask me "how's it going?" or "how are you?" It's what you say in passing in the kitchen to that person filling up their water bottle or passing you in the hall. As nice as these people might be and however pure their intentions are, that is a loaded question. It has always been a loaded question because the socially acceptable response is "good" or "fine" usually with a little smile and reciprocating ask. I am advocating for a cease and desist of this "pleasantry." Here's why:

I AM NOT FINE. 

I'm certainly not going to be fine for the next 4 years and let me tell you, a lot of shit has happened to me in the past year and a half that made me very not-fine on any given day. For a lot of 2016 I was on the verge of tears pretty much every other day. What happens when you ask me how I am is that I don't think about myself, I immediately think about you. How you're going to react if I honestly answer this question or how I don't want to tell you about the fact that I'm on the verge of tears. So instead of being honest with myself I lie, I smile and say "good!" I become an actress for keeping up appearances sake and not making anyone feel uncomfortable.

Here's what I suggest, let's stop asking people how they are unless we REALLY have the time and energy to know. Let's start saying, "nice to see you" or "how 'bout them ((insert professional sporting team here))." I don't want to lie anymore and I don't want to have to feel guilty about bumming you out because I'm only trying to warm up my oatmeal and I really don't want to talk to you at all.

One last thing. I am advocating for us getting real about our feelings in this moment. I understand that there's work to be done and that we need to keep moving forward. I'm not saying we stop doing that. But if you're feeling hopeless, just feel hopeless while you're being a good friend or clicking the donate now button on the Standing Rock Legal Fund page. I have spent a lot of the weekend and the week feeling guilty about not feeling hopeful and ready and positive about the fight ahead.

Feeling shitty and then feeling guilty about feeling shitty is DOUBLE SHIT. 

So if you're hopeful and ready that's great, but please let the rest of us feel upset, sad and deflated. It doesn't mean we aren't doing the work too or that we'll get stuck that way, it just means that right now, that's where we're at.

I Can't Have Sex Until Marriage, So Let's Get Married.

Today marks 15 years since the release of the epic film A Walk to Remember.

Besides the fact that these days I've been feeling ancient because things I have actual memories of are having 10 and 15 and 20 year anniversaries, this one is particularly important to me. In case you didn't know, I have LOVED Mandy Moore from the moment I watched her do bad choreography in front of a lime green 2000's VW bug. Consequently that was also my high school and early 20's dream car. But I digress.

For anyone living under a rock in 2002, A Walk to Remember was an romantic tale of a "bad boy" who after nearly killing his friend in a dare is given a weird punishment that includes being a part of a school play. Obviously he is WAY too cool for this play and is not interested in anything about it until a weird homely girl who doesn't talk peaks his interest somehow. After she throws a few snarky comments his way and gets a make-over for her role in the play (by make over I mean they make her wear a gown and curl her hair) he falls deeply in love with her. Of course, he gets her to like him too, as boys in these movies do, by stalking her and forcing her to hang out with him. About 45m into the movie you find out that she is DYING of cancer. PLOT TWIST! So naturally the whole thing ends with them getting married before she dies. Did I mention they were seniors in high school?

Now that I've made this movie sound ridiculous I will tell you how UTTERLY obsessed with it I was. I had a giant A Walk to Remember poster on my wall and I listened to the soundtrack like every day. If you haven't noticed I was really big into soundtracks. I watched the DVD over and over and could probably recite most of the movie and tell you so many fun facts about the movie, like how the costume director just got like 3 random outfits from Good Will to be Jamie's (Mandy Moore) wardrobe. I have watched the Director's commentary multiple times so I'm rife with useless details like that.

But despite all of that love I can recognize now, as adult that this movie is FILLED with horrible messages about gender, love and relationships. First of all, the fact that the main character is a pretty awful person doesn't keep him from convincing the most ethical and caring girls to like him. Seriously? He literally almost killed his friend and she's like I mean no big deal you're cute. Then there's the fact that the message this whole things sends to young women is that if you are pure and chaste and a total weirdo that reads bible versus to cute bad boys they will like you. THAT IS NOT TRUE! I mean, I never tried it but I work with teenage boys now and I can tell you I don't think they would look twice at a girl that wears the same outfit every day.

Next I will dive into that trope I'd like to call: "I can't have sex until marriage so let's get married tomorrow so we can have sex." A Walk to Remember did this WAY before Twilight did it but the concept is the same. Jamie was a preachers daughter who obviously was a chaste virgin and couldn't even do any heavy making out. In one scene they're kissing for like 1 minute and she's like "hey now!" and he's like "oh yeah sorry." For what, kissing her for more than like 2 seconds? So weird. They tried to play off the whole getting married thing by making it about her bucket list and how she wanted to get married in the church her (dead) mom and (alive) dad got married in but we know the REAL deal. That bucket list item was "fuck a hot bad boy." Also why is everyone dead? What are the chances that a mom dies and then her daughter dies like 17 years later? What kind of curse is on the women in this family and where is the prequel where we find out?

Finally, why are there so many films about dying girls finding love? Why do girls have to be dying to be in loving relationships? It's like the only way to make a teenage boy act like a caring partner is to give his girlfriend a death sentence. Also, why is romance the only important thing that dying girls could possible want to experience? Why didn't Jamie just quit school (why are you still going to school if you're dying?) and travel a bunch or write a Memoir and then go on a fancy 20 city book tour? It's like dating a teenage boy is the thing you wanna spend your last days doing? Dream bigger 18 year old girls!

Either way, I can't recommend this movie highly enough. It's a classic that also has an amazing movie song by the one & only Mandy Moore. Enjoy the video below which is very confusing because you can't tell if Mandy Moore is being Mandy Moore or Jamie, her character in the movie.

3 Things I Miss About College

Next May will mark 10 years since I graduated college. I cannot even believe that I'm that old. I don't feel old and I know in a life of 70-75 years I'm actually not even half way done. But in these times of political uncertainty and general doom and gloom I find myself looking back at happier times, even if they were during the W. Bush years.

#1 All your favorite people are just a few steps away

This is the BIGGEST thing I miss about college. When you live on campus everyone you know is just a few floor away or best of all down the hall. When you go to dinner, you run into other people you like and then when you go take a shower it's a group affair (not in a sexy way, at least in my experience). All the general boring things that you have to do you get to do with FRIENDS! Luckily, in my current life I still get to do a lot of the same stuff with the same person I was doing all that stuff with back then. But still there are many more friends that are are across the city, across the bay or worst across the state and country.

#2 You never have to cook

This is a double edged sword for me because I was always a little stressed about having an allergy attack since I didn't know quite what was in all the food I ate. Plus the bagel area was like a peanut butter massacre. The great thing about living on campus for 4 years was the fact that I didn't have to meal plan, manage my money for food or grocery shop and I still had a really solid array of food to eat.

#3 It's your job to read and write

The thing I miss the most about college is that your literacy game is ON POINT. I read SO much and then read novels on the side for pleasure like a huge dork. I loved writing papers and having concise and solid arguments. The feeling I got when I read over a particularly brilliant (if I do say so myself) line making a solid argument with great justification--POW! I rarely get that feeling of pride anymore. In grown-up life my writing extends to emails and a daily tweet for my work's account.

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That's why this little blog project has been so important for me. I love writing and since I started my non-profit career I've been so exhausted with the day to day of life that I just didn't ever do it. I would say in passing to Mary mid-rant about how everyone hates the Kardashians (perhaps a post about this later) "I should blog about this!" And then I never did. I felt so confident in my voice in college. Confident that I had a well researched paper or my reading reflection had solid connections and a unique perspective. After I graduated I lost so much of that confidence. I started to feel smaller somehow and like my voice and perspective weren't anything special.

So I guess I just want to say thanks for reading--thanks to all my friends who have said kind words, shared and liked the posts. We're a week away from the end of this experiment and I'm grateful to you for being along for the ride.

The Trouble with Greeting Cards

I remember growing up and going to the Hallmark store and searching for hours for a card for Mother's Day or Father's Day and feeling so left out.

It seems like such a small thing to walk into a store and get a card that reflects your family but for a lot of us it's not a small thing at all. I would go over card after card reading the inscriptions of the cards with the white mom's and white daughters on the cover, loving the words but not connecting to the pictures, so I moved on to the next one. I did the same with my dad, searching for the tiny section with the Black cards, if they even had them, and finding the same problem, a Black mom and dad with a Black child smiling on a beach. It didn't fit. Of course cards with actual people on them are not the only option and so I resigned to never buy a card with humans because it was just too complicated.

As a teen I looked for birthday cards for my best friends, Asian girls, Latinas and mixed Black girls who didn't look anything like the little white girls in tutu's and lipstick on the cute "classic" photography cards. I bought them anyway, always feeling a little bummed. I would point out who was who based on eye color and hair color but we all knew that cards were limited and it was the thought that counted.

And now Valentine's Day and Anniversaries come with similar but different anxiety. The gender neutral cards with cartoon hearts or funny saying are the one's I can choose, that's my section. The "wife" cards are filled with messages of being a lucky man or some subtle straight coded language that makes me feel like it's just not quite right. And the same thing stands, no humans because finding a card with two girls is hard enough and something with an interracial lady couple is only available for $8 cards and ordered from some obscure seller on Etsy.

It doesn't seem like a big deal when you think of all the other cards there are to choose from. But it makes you feel just a little wrong every time. And those little wrongs add up, every Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, Anniversary and birthday add up to so many little wrongs until finally you feel like maybe you just don't matter. Maybe your family doesn't matter, your love doesn't matter, you don't matter.

And again today, in Trump's America, feeling left out of Saturday's festivities--the general feeling of hope in them I wish I could muster up & critiques I wish I could ignore--it feels like I just don't matter.

Moonlight & the Beauty of Black Masculinity

Moonlight left me stunned. Stunned by how much I missed witnessing the beauty and tenderness of Black masculinity in my life.

I walked into the theater ready to connect with this film around the main character’s experience of queerness and left feeling like it had given me something I had been missing but didn’t know was missing. And now it feels like there’s a gaping hole I didn’t realize was there before.

I was raised by two Black men and a white woman. In my formative years I thought Black masculinity WAS Blackness. I spent my early childhood days in awe of my older brother Shany, ten yeas my senior, he and his friends oozed cool and confidence. I’d come home from school and watch them in the backyard a mix of Black, Latino and white teenage boys rap battling with make-shift sound systems they’d pulled together with odds and ends. Mic stands taped to the back of a lawn chair so they didn’t have to hold it up, leaving their hand free for the gestures that I’d seen in rap videos.

I worshiped those boys and they doted on me. They’d fly through our front door stopping for snacks, to say hi to my mom and tease me and then headed straight for the back yard, the kick-it spot of my brother’s crew. “Nigga” was thrown around with the easy camaraderie of teen boys of color, my mom always worried, perplexed, frustrated with “the language.” She didn’t get it but I watched and soaked up every gesture, word, nod and pound. This was the soundtrack to my homework and afterschool snack.

My brother taught me to swim in a Mickey Mouse shaped pool at our grandmother’s apartment complex in Orange County. Hardly the beautiful picturesque scene in Moonlight but it was special just the same. He always dotted on me. Let me tag along (way less times than I remember I would later find out) with his friends on adventures that I had no business being at. He spoke to me so sweetly like I was the most special person in the world to him. All of the toughness and bravado he had with his friends just melted away when we sang Aladdin songs together and played like we were sleeping only to poke the other person in the eye or give a wet willy.

Half way through my childhood my brother and my father swapped out. During those early years my dad was active duty in the Navy and was not home much more than a few months out of the year. Years ago I found a doodle in a notebook from my childhood that said “dad is gone, I love Shany.” That was it in a nutshell. But when my brother was 19 he left home and I was left with my father to take back his role in my life.

In high school my dad was my ride. Those were our special times together, sitting in the car riding around bumpin the latest Hip Hop and R&B hits on the way to and from my dance lessons. He woke me up every morning when I ignored my alarm and made sure I got up for school, saying with a half smile in his voice “nigga you better get up and get ready for school.” Every birthday card he tirelessly picked was signed with the message to “follow your dreams, you can do anything, I’m so proud of you.” We went on adventures together, hiking, ice skating, body boarding, all with the 2000’s soundtrack of Ja Rule, DMX, 50 cent and Snoop. We’d rap loudly with the windows down and the warm breeze around us his chain and diamond earring glimmering,, the smell of his cologne lingering in the air. I felt so proud to be in that car with him, my dad with his easy charisma and quiet strength.

All those little scenes in Moonlight brought me back to these moments. Made me remember the sacredness of witnessing Black masculinity in the world. The sacredness of being loved by and cared for by Black men in a world that has twisted the image of Black men into an ugly lie. I am grateful to Moonlight for bringing us another version. The complex version I know so well of tenderness, survival, care and boundless love.

Real Women Have...

I did not go to the Women's March today. For some of the reasons that I will write here and other reasons I won't. I envy the folks who were able to feel camaraderie and community in this action. I'm glad that they/you were able to feel that.

When Mary and I were in college we made a joke about the phrase "real women have curves." It started with a discussion of how some women felt like left out by this statement. So we started brainstorming, what is it that "real" women have? We started at the obvious uterus but decided that was transphobic and left out intersex folks and women who had had hysterectomy. Then we went to the living human things: spinal cords, which we realized was ableist and tried to make better by saying, "real women have partial spinal cords." But that felt weird because men also have partial spinal cords. Eventually we landed on "real women say they're women." It doesn't sound like it from the way I'm retelling it but we were in hysterics during this conversation. It was so silly that we were trying to find the THING that makes women.

Today the Women's March tried to do that again, as many feminists before them have tried to do. They brought together people around the idea of supporting the essential thing that is a woman. But what IS that thing anyway? At the end of the day does it even exist?

I saw a lot of folks on my feed going the route of me and Mary's first statement: "real women have uteruses" or rather pussies. I want to be clear that in no way do I find vulvas and vaginas and the mention of them offensive or vulgar. I am a queer women that has sex with women. I am quite fond of and familiar with vulvas and vaginas. But as photo after photo came up of women referencing their genitals I started to feel upset. I started to feel like yet again women's experiences and even our resistance is about our pussies. And the worst part is that THEY (Trump, Republicans, etc)  made it about our pussies and here we were taking their message and running with it. It felt like once again people were equating women with pussies. And then doing this weird thing where they made pussies cute and sassy like pink knit caps with cat ears on them or giant bedazzled vulva signs. And the thing is that the march did really try to include the voices of all women, including women who may not have pussies. Also I don't know if anyone knows this but...ALL PUSSIES ARE NOT PINK. But patriarchy has made everything about women centered around our lady parts so that the second someone says "women" we think BOOBS, VULVAS, PUSSIES!

This body-centric focus coupled with the fact that standing up for sex workers was taken off of the women's march declaration is also upsetting. Because we only want to reference genitals when they aren't about sex and the moment they become about how women's bodies and sex exist in a capitalist system there's no room for boobs and pussies. The grim reality is that often the most lucrative part of women is still our pussies.

Women are real. Women are varied and nuanced and no two are alike. We shouldn't have to be. Equity is about getting people what they need and most of the time what we need is not the same. As a queer woman in a monogamous relationship with another woman, access to birth control isn't something that I need. But I understand that for other people it's vitally important. So I will fight for that, not because it is how we are the same, but because I know that "you're liberation is bound up with mine."

But honestly I'm afraid that when my needs as a Black Queer woman aren't the same as "all women" they might not show up the same way for me. I hope they'll prove me wrong.

#FollowFriday Online Media

Now that Trump has been sworn in you're gonna wanna read a lot of things by a lot of smart people. So I will provide you a short list of places you can get your fill of said things by smart people.

Bitch Media 

Bitch started as a print magazine and has stayed relevant by continuing to have a great online presence. Their articles are truly intersectional and they have a ton of super smart people working and writing for them. They are always up on the latest pop culture things and weave in a great intersectional feminist take on everything from silly to vitally important.

Reading List:

• Lovely Speeches Are Not Radical

Black Girl Dangerous

This amazing blog was started by writer Mia McKenzie and has become a go-to place for Queer people of color writings and commentary. It is radical in politics and unapologetically authentic. It is one of the few places where I can go and read something that reflects ALL of my identities and for that I am eternally grateful.

Reading List: 

• "White-ish Christmas. Or, Dealing With My Non-Black In Laws

Crunk Feminist Collective

Part feminism, part academic, part Hip Hop and a whole lot of awesome. This website features the voices of feminist women of color who "embrace of those new cultural resources, which provide or offer the potential for resistance." Not at all the White Feminism you're used to, these writings center the lives of people of color and the multiple other identities at play in our lives.

Reading List:

• How to Survive the Next Four Years

Learning from Our Stories of Resistance

I started the Autobiography of Ida B. Wells today. I bought it two years ago at a used bookstore because I knew of the SF High School of the same name. I had never heard of Ida B. Wells after being an African American Studies Major and getting a MA in Sociology. It's lucky that SF Unified made the decision to not name every school after a dead white guy so that I could stumble upon this woman's legacy of perseverance and resistance. I'm about 20 pages in and already both of her parents have died in a plague, she has started working at 14 to care for her 7 younger brothers and sisters and she's sued the Railroads for forcing her out of a ladies train car for being Black. This is before the GOOD STUFF like her extensive civil rights work and writing career!

There is a reason that we don't hear these stories. 

For every MLK there are countless people who spent their lives working towards justice in little ways and big ways that were/are never shared with the world. It makes us feel like change is impossible, like it's too hard and nobody has done it before.

But it has been done, it continues to be done and we need to start digging up every last story we can find to prove that resistance is ordinary and change is inevitable. 

Hidden Figures did this brilliantly. As much as Katherine Johnson was the main focus of the film I was completely taken with Dorothy Vaughan. She made sure that an entire department of Black women had job security for the future, that had GENERATIONAL impact. She knew that her success was important but she had a department of women looking up to her and she had to take them with her.

We can all move forward if we take care of each other, she understood that.

Every time I watch a new movie or read a new book with people of color at the forefront I am reminded of how few stories of our lives are in the world. I am validated in ways that I didn't think possible, in feelings that I thought were odd, experiences I assumed were just my own. And so I will spend the next 4 years and beyond devouring every last story of ours I can.

I will take solace in stories of love and resistance, of stories of ordinary people living ordinary lives and making their communities better. Then I will take that inspiration and continue to do the work.

The Inevitability of Awkward

The older I get the more I realize, awkward is inevitable. 

This past weekend Mary was on a Mimi's World binge and while I popped in and out of the vaguely entertaining reality special I was horrified by one thing: awkward flirting. Mariah and one of her dancers Tanaka flirted in the most excruciating way. The really unsexy, kind of 12 year old way where you say stuff while smiling too much and then giggling while you walk away. Every time they were on screen together I couldn't help but hide my face.

Fast forward to tonight during a meeting with my teens while debriefing about how well they facilitating an event last week. "Talking to the other kids is so awkward!" One after one they each said the same thing and then resolved to learn how to make it less awkward when talking to strangers. I tried to explain that talking to strangers rarely gets less awkward, you simply have to deal with the awkwardness and keep it moving.

Later I watched my current favorite and VERY awkward show New Girl. I love that show because it highlights the everyday stupid stuff and of course the unbearably awkward. Like when you blurt out how something you know about someone because you stalked them on social media. Like when I FB commented on my elementary school's crush last week exclaiming, "1997! Isn't that the year you moved to Hawaii?" UGH! Why would I divulge that I knew that information, TWENTY YEARS LATER? Classic Jessica Day move. 

The thing about awkward is that it's real life. We've been fed so much media that shows relationships coming together so smoothly, both people are brilliantly witty and suave. I think that's why Issa Rae's Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl did so well. Everyone can relate to feeling like the most awkward person every once in a while. 

So, next time you do something awkward just chalk it up to real life and keep it moving. To quote Hanson "isn't it strange how we all get a little bit weird sometimes?" But really, how awkward was it that I quoted Hanson just there?

via GIPHY

Ok, baiiiii.

Top 5 Reason's Having a Childhood BFF as an Adult is the B.

Today is my oldest BFFs birthday, this post is in honor of her and all of our memories together.

HBD Erika San!

5. They were there for your "firsts." 

First kiss, first period, first relationship, first heartbreak. These things are monumental and chances are your BFF was there for a lot if not all of them. Not only can they recall that these things happened but they probably know the sordid and inevitably embarrassing details. Hell, they were probably the person you called, texted, or if you're a teen now, snapped seconds after it happened.

4. They know your childhood crushes and frenemies by first AND last name

What is it about grade school and referring to everybody by their first and last names, or even worse, first name, last initial? Regardless, your childhood BFF can easily recall the FULL names of the people your heart exploded for and your fists clenched for. As your #2 they were right there passing the "do you like me too?" note on one side and giving some serious side eye on the other side because--solidarity sister!

3. They know your family REALLY well

I don't know about you but I LOVED sleepovers. I particularly loved sleepovers at my house. What's not to love, your friend comes over and doesn't leave for a whole day??? Luckily I have achieved my ultimate dream of a 24/7 sleepover with my wife. But before there was Mary and Fergus there was Erika with a Roxy overnight bag full of PJs and toiletries ready to eat Boba and Costco pizza to our hearts content while watching A Walk to Remember. When you basically live part-time at someone else's house you get to know their family and their lives. She knew that we always had Diet Sprite in the fridge for a quick spritzer and that my mom would come annoy us a million times. She knew that she's be awaken by the sound of my birds screeching at 7am and my dad mowing the lawn on Sunday morning in a wicker sun hat. And I knew that I could always count on her mom to take us to Ala Moana and leave us alone (she's so lucky).

2. You don't have to explain

It's nice to know that you don't have to say more than "remember that time..." to be met with "OMG...YES!" When me and my BFF get together we go through about 4 different languages and talk about all the hilarious not-quite-adventures we had as teens. This applies to any present day issues too. If something crazy happens with your family there's no need to go into the background of what led up to it all, they know the story and why it's so important.

1. They've seen your growth

It is amazing how much growth my BFF and I have made throughout our 20+ years of friendship. We started out as shy over-achieving kids  (note the below photo of elementary school Student Council) and have grown into pretty fierce and probably still over-achieving women. We've seen our values change and reform, our careers develop and our personalities blossom. Even your parents can't appreciate the way you've grown like a peer can and that's what's great about BFFs. They can look at you & vice versa in this really awe-inspired way. Imagine how much you'll get to witness and be a part of in a lifetime of friendship!

 

from '96 to 2017 <3

On Fear & Activism

11.9.2017

This is a day for writing. A day for crying. A day for rage and a day for despair. What do you do when your home is on stolen land and everyone hates who you are? I woke up this morning trying to cherish the last few moments before I faced the inevitable, that this country has put its faith in an evil man. I spent this whole election not believing it could happen, my conspiracy theorist voice told me that the powers that be would not let this person control the most dangerous military in the world. Olivia Pope’s dad would protect the republic at all costs. Where is he, Where is Command? If this was an episode of Scandal someone would have mysteriously disappeared.

I’ve grown up in fear. Fear of being raped, fear of confronting my queerness, fear of being killed for being multiracial, for being black, for refusing to let someone rape me or date me or touch me or any other offense to someone that feels like my body owes them something. I’ve lived in this fear even in the most safe conditions. San Francisco, Hawaii, military bases, insular communities. And now that fear is about to exist in a not so safe place.

Hurt people hurt people. We are a country of hurting people that look outside for people to blame instead of inside at our hurting hearts. We were built on this. I scoff when I hear people talk about our perfect democracy and how we need to stay true to the ideals the country was founded on. But the country was founded on lies and the back of Black slaves and corpses of Native Americans. How is staying true to those ideals going to get us out of this mess? It is not just history, it lived in all of us. Trauma imprints on bodies and is passed on through DNA. We cannot move forward until we heal.

It’s not about “our side losing” it’s about the fact that this man has told us that we don’t belong here, we aren’t worth of respect, we aren’t worthy of life and the promises of this country.

I don’t know what to write anymore. I’m just tired from crying and texting and reading so much sadness.

I wrote that all on the morning after the election. 

I spent the next week crying and grasping for community for validation, listening to the podcasts, reading every article, showing up in hysterics at my good friend's house in the middle of the work day. 

All I could think was how our lives, my life, wasn't mine anymore. That I would have to live as many others before me had lived, for the hope of tomorrow being better, fighting for a better tomorrow that I wouldn't see or experience. 

As a 80's baby and a 90's kid I was sold this story of things getting better. Of our people doing better, The Cosby Show, A Different World, Family Matters all showed middle class Black folks doing good, going on family vacations and sending the second generation to college. I looked at my dad going to work every day as a sailor in the US Navy and I knew that I HAD to be better, be perfect. Take the sacrifices that he made, my grandma made, her auntie made when she brought over my grandma and her siblings from Mississippi after their father died of a broken heart on a share crop. I would be the generation that made it all worth it. It's pretty egocentric now that I think about it. That I really thought that centuries oppressive systems would suddenly vanish because I went to college. But the thing is that I believed it.

And as I started to come to consciousness and pick apart the realities of our country I shifted this thought. I moved to a place of living my resistance every day, in my relationships, the way I loved, lived, worked. I told myself that protesting wasn't the only way to make change. Life went on and I went to grad school, got married, got a "real job," an apartment, a dog, health insurance, my own cell phone plan, you know grown up things. Still inequality showed up in my life, in small ways and bigger ways but I came out later and skipped the horror of being gay in high school. I married a woman after California AND the Supreme Court made it legal. Things were okay-enough.

Since that week after the election I went back to work, focused on the millions of things that needed to be done, took a week off to be with my wife for the holidays then went back to work again. Life settled into its everyday and I pushed the reality of the impending administration farther and farther away. And now it's almost here and I am at a complete loss. I'm not ready for the fight, I'm afraid, I feel ill-equip and ultimately I'm worried that I'll bury my head in the sand and continue to accept okay-enough. The privilege of okay-enough didn't protect the Black and Brown people killed by the police, every trans women of color murdered, every person at Pulse, and the countless people killed and hurting from a system that has never worked for all of us.

This moment requires more of me.