It’s Mother’s day, again.
I’m reminded of you all month.
All the posts from social media to commercials!
I mean it’s not like I don’t remember you every day.
AND all the freaking posts for like months.
REMINDING ME THAT YOU ARE NOT HERE ANYMORE
I get mad at first because I can feel your absence, that emptiness. Then the avoiding, skirting, denying that I might have other feelings and need something that no one on this side of heaven can fill. Once I get over the discomfort of letting love in and relent, this is where the cycle of…
It’s not like this JUST happened.
Let’s not pretend hate crimes and murder against Asians never existed before ATL.
It’s been happening in this country since its inception (The 1619 Project), TO EVERYONE AND WITH EVERYONE.
It’s the game of the ego. The power puff game to feel better about self. The human games. It’s been happening for centuries.
Cue Hamilton about 100 years later.
You see it in there. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.
It’s not new. It’s been happening before Asians arrived here. It’s embedded in the Courts like our Black and indigenous families.
You know when your body and your mind are occupied, a deep knowing pops open from left field and you have that realization?
I had one of those today.
Take one for the team.
I knew this phrase and was well trained by the time I was 5.
It was trained and engrained, expected and in some sort of way, respected. Before I even knew what a team was or had been on a team.
You take the hit.
In Korean, the saying translates to,
you swallow it,
you eat it.
You, you, you, the laundry list of sibling things.
There is this seed of trauma that I’ve been tracking for a while.
I’m not sure exactly what moment was it but there are traces of it throughout my life.
I can feel Her.
She is Creation.
I’ve been with Her in moments, in ways I can have Her be with me.
It was THE MOST BEAUTIFUL COLOR I HAD SEEN. So I painted the white walls with it. It felt like oil pastels… but SO much smoother and smelled soo much better.
I was 4.
The time I drew castles on the white walls, worlds, and an ethos of…
I was a pimp before I knew about pussy.
You all know that pimp energy.
It doesn’t need a cock nor sex to feel it or use it.
Ha, this church girl was like
“Nah, I’m no pimp.”
Feeling herself all innocent.
You know that voice inside, that taskmaster inside that says,
“You betta hustle…”
Hustlin’ for —
grades, those straight jacket A’s,
the likeness of friends, those jokes and trends,
the cool factor, those bits betta have that bling factor,
achievement and all those gaps, those that do whatever it takes snaps,
the consecrated innocence, those fraudulent covers that…
Can I let the love in?
It feels like we met for the first time.
Strangers navigating social norms, yet we’ve had a lot of intimacy.
All the way home, we are strangers getting to know each other.
His hands all over my body; touching, hugging me close. He loves all the rolls as I sat on the train. Stunned as he lovingly ran his hands over my lower belly.
Can I let in the love?
Can I open here and let the love in?
Could I let go of this shame that’s been baked in for the better part…
For a Dracarys hatchling with so much rage
Something opened for me today.
From birth to 18 months the stories that my parents would tell about me — I was opinionated, stubborn, focused, affectionate, and cheerful. It seemed like I was a happy inquisitive little one with a strong will and a little mischief.
I was hilarious and dramatic.
Around 18 months, I noticed my mom’s belly getting bigger with my brother. I recall not feeling loved enough, not being able to cuddle or be held as I did before. My mom would say how affectionate and snuggly I was…
Years ago I was plagued by these random attacks.
SQUEEZING the life out of me, attacks.
The excruciating squeeze grips the tops of my kidneys.
Truly, those 8 seconds felt like riding a bull.
Out of nowhere, a vice grip squeeze on the tops of my kidneys. It would knock the breath out of me.
I couldn’t predict them. I couldn't get to the doctor in 8 seconds to assess what was wrong.
I told my favorite uncle about them and he took me to see a medicine woman.
She paints cranes using watercolors. Not in any…
I was too much to control.
I was dangerous to myself and others.
I was exhausting to manage.
Sibling jealousy is a real thing.
I was 2 years old.
I learned about myself and this feeling of separate, here in this box. I learned to be contained, quiet, and safe, here in this box.
All of my life, I’ve been wrestling with this box that was meant to contain my too much-ness, my unrelenting pursuit, my emotions, my needs. Railing inside this box for love, affection, attention and to feel a sense of control. …
Here’s the thing with alchemy.
It’s a deep spiritual reaction that transforms the pain, oppression, enslavement. It means, I have liberated myself and in doing so I found forgiveness and compassion for you. That is love pointed right back at you. That’s power. It’s a lot to acknowledge. #whitefragility I’m looking at you.
Let’s be honest, this didn’t happen overnight. Nor was it easy. It took me a while to gather myself. I needed a group of women who truly stood for themselves and each other’s deepest freedom. I needed to know that I wasn’t alone in this mess. I…