Accepting the messiness of 2017

New Year’s Day is my favorite holiday of the year, full stop. An arbitrary demarcation that somehow has a cosmic-like pull on my psyche. In with the new, out with the old. Something inside me changes, I feel a spark, a little less weight. None of this real but it’s still true.

Maybe it started when I was younger, my family would gather around the television to watch the Rose Parade, half asleep in our pajamas. There was even one time in the mid-80’s when we all woke before the crack of dawn and drove to Pasadena only to find a tiny bit of cold cement to sit amongst the die-hards with their camping gear and folding chairs. Like a lot of immigrant families, we hadn’t amassed a trunk full of tailgating gear or organizational skills to scope out prime seating for a parade vaguely about college football.

I recall it was my idea for the family to trek to the parade at five in the morning. Sparked by my dad’s nostalgia, I had grown up with pictures of newlywed parents at the Rose Parade, they seemed so happy, so fresh in America that I had to recreate this feeling. It was a memorable morning, and to this day it was the only time we ever saw the floats made of roses, gladiolas, wheatgrass, marigolds, lilies, cornhusks, and seeds rolling down Colorado Ave. to the sounds of high school marching bands all within a few feet. There was always something so alluring about the Rose Parade and my father has always been in awe.

This is how it was in America, we built gorgeously impermanent structures of every type of plant material to ring in a new year, and it was amazing! In those days, we were a regular family of four, living in this country, with high hopes, innocence and a bit of simplicity.

I wanted to share about the past year before I let some of it evaporate into the ether. Yet I have re-written this post a few times in the past week. Something kept stalling me, I’d written thousands of words only to cut and paste them away into a google doc graveyard. My inner voice telling me that my thoughts were too dark, so tinged with cynicism and negativity, and maybe more useful as a journal entry rather than a narrative blog post. Sometimes I’d think, fine just go with the honesty, inside I am dark, and I took a lot of knocks in 2017. I am tired, a bit jaded, and confused. The messages haven’t coalesced, the movement is murky, and there is so much in-fighting. I can’t make sense of it all. I’m not sure if what I did, all the marching, sign making, protesting, organizing, and researching even mattered. As of yesterday, that’s where I stewed for weeks. Were any of my efforts worth the energy, investment of time, and money? And the dark forces rose up within and put a stranglehold on any connective thought that was worth sharing. For I am sure, we are all filled with some negative takeaways from 2017. So when I went to hit publish, I paused, the pessimism didn’t feel worthy of my experiences.

Because when I really sit with it all, I still believe in hope.

I know this word, hope, is so trampled upon. Synonymous with Obama’s face on a poster made by infamous by Shephard Fairey.

We are afraid to conjure hope, it was what screwed us up right? We hoped so much we were blinded, an opiate for the masses. We were so giddy, we just drank unicorn shakes and farted glitter.

And while our force field of hope was beaming to the high heavens we forgot our magical superpowers had a kryptonite-like Achilles heel. In our singing hosannas and prancing around, holding hands with our black, brown, white, mixed, gay, trans, old and young Democratic bubble-mates we didn’t see the orange monster creeping around the edges.

So he seeped in, the man that would change the world. We let him enter our homes as he fired away, and pointed, and yelled, looking for birth certificates and a secret Kenyan chain migrated family of shape-shifting lizards.

And then he won.

Our bodies writhed Charlton Heston-like and before us loomed a dust bowl of destruction as we landed on our knees screaming nooooo to the severed head of liberty.

And then we rose up.

I walked all over the streets in 2017. It was as if I needed this motion, my worn down boots pounding the pavement, one foot after another. Chugging along. Family crafting turned to minimally effective sign-making skills. Exacto knives, stencils, sharpie markers, thick paint pens, poster board, tape, and all matter of supplies filled the garage.

We weren’t gonna take it. That’s what I wanted my girl to know, and her friends too. They were all between 8-10 years old in 2017. An age when memories make an indelible mark, the sort of times we all recall in a haze but aren’t exactly sure what any of it meant. Iranian hostages, terror attacks in Beirut, the Gipper and his jellybeans, John Lennon died, religious people hated abortion, what was an abortion, what is inflation, and why is there no gas for the cars? I didn’t know then, but I do know.

My girl, she needs to know why in the future. It was okay that she didn’t get it all. But it was a messy year, taking her to protests didn’t often work out so well. As I was soaking in all the community, masses of people, signs, and outrage, she was overwhelmed. And then I began to see it from her vantage point, standing in between a sea of adults who she’d never seen so angry. So pissed about rape culture, sexism, racism, hate, bullying, destruction, and the end of the world.

It wasn’t gonna be all fidgit spinners and Pokemon Go anymore. And there were early days when my sponge of a child, who absorbs and processes like those canaries we all talk about in the dusty mines that still need to exist, simply said ENOUGH.

And yet, I persisted a word placed upon us like a totem for our righteous zeal. I marched, yelled, called, signed, and emailed. And when the slight whispers of MeToo wafted in the air, I couldn’t absorb it at first. It was all TooMuch. One the one hand I am swatting away sexist pig, nazi scum from my streets in San Francisco and Berkeley, and on the other, I was flooded by memories of sexism. The whip of inequality kept building each day. Revelations, chapter and verse, exposed so much pain.

Then I drove in a haze caused by a fury of fires, burning souls, and homes, wine countries and farms. And it collapsed me. I knew I had to turn inwards. Check in on my kid. Make cupcakes and feel gratitude for our home with filtered air and tightly sealed windows. Because she was right to wanna tap out.

And as we approached the year anniversary of The Election, I tuned into voices that were saying what was hard to admit. The Resistance kept us in the shadow of the orange man. It left no space to think outside the pull of his existence. His livelihood insists upon perpetuating a decline. And I wasn’t going to let my family slide into this darkness. I had to find to find a way to monkey-wrench my way out of the twisted up narratives.

So it became a slow puttering fall into a fattened up holiday season. I tip-toed here and there. My swords crossed a few times as more men fell down the swirl. I wasn’t happy about much but I was hopeful that I could remain honest.

Honestly, I am not sure if the choices I made were all that great. Maybe I screamed too much about oppression and white supremacy. Perhaps I became repellant. I wasn’t living rooted in hope, inter-connectedness, the idea we do have blue states and red states but we all believe in the union of these states. And states of mind and theories all of these are formed to live in some sort of messy soup bowl of unison.

There was a man who said these things, and he left behind a legacy of hopeful youth I tuned into each week. Crooked Media was a continuation of the idea that not everything is a deeply twisted nest of 5-dimensional chess. These bros counteracted the cynical, pessimistic, angry, lonely testosteronic grumbly naysaying bros that crunched my forehead and left me no place to turn. All they say, it’s rigged, rigged, rigged, a pile of junk, all diseased and hypocritical and full of shitheads and fuck this and that and HER. It’s HER fault, she sucked, sucked, sucked. So what are they asking me to do now?

Some things are simply right in front of us. Telling us what they were going to do all along. We get out the word. We sign people up. If we pay more attention than others, great, spread a bit of good knowledge to others who don’t. Not because they’re apathetic, do-nothings but maybe because they’re trying to live, to make it, pay bills, or don’t know how. If you do know how, teach others.

And that is the hope, I can do this. It feels better to reach across, yes to my white friends, and immigrant family. To an independent or a third party enthusiast. Do it, build more parties, I am so down. I will be there to help. But you can’t build from the top, roots begin in the ground, foundational supports, rebar, flexible two-by-fours of diplomacy and taking in all sides, yes all sides.

It took me all week to write this year out, it doesn’t make a thread, it’s a messy tangle and I love it. I adore the mish-mash, mixed tape of so many voices and ideas. That is what our side has, we are not one big tent, suffocating dissent, beating down voices into a single tone-deaf khakied monolith that is crumbling away like a shortbread cookie left over from Christmas. Oh, and don’t you dare tell me about the war.

My dad, he still watches the Rose Parade on TV. Today I sat with him on the phone for over an hour while we patiently sifted through the equestrian pride, and flowers, and City of Hope float, dangling pandas, and synchronized bands with glimmering flags. He kept thinking we missed the float, he was so worried it passed him by. No dad, hang on it’s coming, I promise, they did it again this year. And then it came on screen and I was filled with pride. I really did feel like a full circle of my shared experience here in California, and I pulled my daughter in and we watched together. To see us, a float with turbans, phulkari dupattas, langar, towers from the Golden Temple adorn the phrase “Serving Kindness” did me right. It took me all day, to connect to all that happened in this mixed up year. But we are the hope right here. My family, we can live here, we are proud to organize huge weddings and then go to our jobs in cubicles or peach orchards.

It’s right here and not that hard to see as I live it. This is what I needed, a day in my house, a place for the first time in my adult life I don’t actually want to leave. For I have finally made a space filled for my family’s comfort, a lair of books, food, a bubbling pot of Thai noodle soup, leftover candy, a drying Christmas Tree.

I finally bought table mats, and cloth napkins for the holidays that tuck into little golden rings and I am filled with hope for 2018.

January 1, 2018 2

Women marching forward and leaving the grumbly stuff behind

This essay is a part of the writing challenge called #52Essaysin2017 and my continuing series called Dismantling. These are my thoughts, opinions, and ideas about politics, activism, community organizing and family. Please join me on my journey.

It had only been eight days after the election when I got a text from a dear friend. “Do you want to come with to the Women’s March in DC?” I was still in a funk over it all. Like so many, unsettling emotions would sweep through me in waves. My mind could be filled with usual working momma stuff for hours and then it’d hit me in a crushing flash that Donald Trump won. But I also knew that there was a lot of work to be had in order to keep important issues on the table—equality, human rights, and the environment would need our protection. I didn’t admit this to my friend at the time but I also felt unsure about the current state of feminism, after the heady days following over a million women in Pantsuit Nation, the thought of a women’s march kind of rankled something inside. I felt deflated, irritated and I just wanted to shrug it away, curled up in bed, and watch YoutTube with my daughter. The feminist messages all around also annoyed me and I thought is this all we’re gonna do, remain nasty women, complain about pussy grabbin’ and wear safety pins? After the election, everything that had fueled white-hot feminist inspiration felt contrived and hollow in one instant. At the same time, I knew these grumbly opinions were around because I was awash with negativity and filtering ideas through a murky lens of self-flagellation.

At first, I wanted to respond to my friend with a mean and sarcastic quip to match my edgy mood. But she’s not that type of person, she is the sweetest, most kind woman I know, and to answer her earnest request for solidarity with a snide response felt wrong. I laid in bed, cell phone in hand and pushed myself to answer with the same generous spirit of the request. I knew I should try to take in her openness, her invitation for action and connection was real, it wasn’t a Facebook comment or Twitter follower. In all honesty, it was surprising she was the first of my friends to act because I didn’t expect it from her. In the nearly 15 years of our friendship, we had talked about issues but never discussed direct action or activism to any extent. So when she told me she had already bought her plane tickets, I was actually impressed by her quick response. I knew that as a Latina mother, who has worked tirelessly for her community as a public health professional, she was just as devastated as I was at the thought of a Trump administration, yet she was already rising up. So in my lame attempt to be ambivalent, I typed that I wasn’t sure if a women’s march was where I wanted to put my energy at this time. I couldn’t explain it to her, probably because I didn’t have the words myself, but I wasn’t all that inspired to trek out to DC in January. As she usual she understood and I told her to keep reaching out and I was here for support. Then she told me she had been reaching out to more than one woman friend and was met with resistance, ambivalence, questioning and felt disregarded and alone. I could understand that feeling, I had been gearing up as a community organizer in Oakland in the past few months and at times I had also felt alone in my quest to help the homeless and fight for police reform. Something about what she said made me sit up a little because here she was a busy mom of two, asking for support, trying to mobilize and fight one of the most corrupt Presidents we had ever witnessed in our lives and I wasn’t fully meeting her where she stood. We went back and forth for a good for 20 minutes and it clicked, she was trying to reach out to mostly white, upper-middle-class moms in Marin, some of whom wouldn’t ever be directly affected one way or another by laws that Trump meant to enact or dismantle. Eventually, we tepidly agreed that our white friends may not react with the same urgency because their privilege allowed them to remain passive. It felt a little liberating to be so blunt about the differences, but at the same time, it was a disappointing realization. But one thing was clear, this change in our country felt like a crisis to both of us, and we felt very sure that our communities and the issues we cared about would be adversely affected. Then she told me that one of her friends said that if the march had a single focus, like the environment, that maybe she’d be compelled to attend but that women’s rights was too broad for her to rally around. That’s when I said, fuck this, us brown mommas, we gotta go to DC! I immediately booked a seat on the same flight as my friend and it was in that moment that the grumbly crud that was starting to infest my worldview was wiped clear. I didn’t need to read a mission statement or know who was leading the march, or even the route. Being in DC on the first official day of Donald Trump’s presidency would be important and I didn’t need any more convincing. And through all the initial mess of the march’s organizing, the issues with permits, leadership, and conversations about the lack intersectionality in messaging, I just sat tight. I had a plane ticket, a marching buddy, a studio apartment in Dupont Circle thanks to some amazing happenstance and generosity of another good friend, and I knew it’d be worth our time.

When I look back upon 2016 I can see I was preparing myself for exactly where we are now. I may not have consciously realized that I tapped into some sort of innate reverberating current. Sometimes it can feel as if there is a subconscious stream of knowledge, at times we act on this foresight, or we walk around feeling something is amiss, but mostly it goes ignored until it blasts through to consciousness. I started by connecting with groups online, following new Facebook feeds and signing up for events, lectures, and protests. This all began slowly at first, I sat by all winter and watched streets erupt in pain as another black man was shot by police. I saw the videos, heard the pleas for help, and understood the psychic distress of each fatal bullet inflicted on communities of color. All I could think to do was click yes on Black Lives Matter events, many of which I didn’t attend because of one complacent reason after another. I probably clicked yes so many times that the word lost meaning and eventually the virtual actions felt less impactful. I began to recognize that sitting behind a screen, in my safe haven, was not going to make a difference and it created hopelessness and disconnection. But still, I watched as yet another shaky cell phone video captured violence in which the only form of de-escalation was a bullet. I read every argument, comments online, and watched racists memes fill my channels. I began to recognize that in the background of a long, divisive Presidential campaign and the onslaught of police brutality that our country was already torn apart. By the middle of last year, what had been itching away in my gut became hard to ignore, there are people who want to protect their way of life and it has nothing to do with mine. I could see there was no going back, that it would take mass protest, feet on the streets, people like me, a middle-aged mother, living in Oakland to join the fight. I had to share my frustrations with my black neighbors because what was happening was unacceptable and I knew we had to let it be known that white supremacy is real, it creates violence and division that may never heal but needs to be addressed and eventually dissolved.

Then the Oakland Police Department became embroiled in a sex trafficking case that involved a minor and multiple officers plus a rotating door of police chiefs. Alton Sterling met his maker and Philando Castille got slaughtered in his car in early June. This was too much for me to bear and I rose up and out my chair. The confluence of subsequent events since Ferguson and Trayvon Martin connected a fateful tale of violence towards black men, and by default, to every person of color in our mixed-up country. And the realization that Oakland was a ticking time bomb filled with police corruption and sexual abuses of vulnerable women prompted a visceral reaction that finally ripped me away from my screen. I knew it then and I know it now, we have deep problems in our country, racism, economic inequality, lack of respect for women, the dominance of white culture was rearing its ugly head for all to see but what I didn’t know then was that my realization would be validated with the results of the 2016 election. In early June, I started clicking away more furiously than before, RSVPing for every march and social justice meetup I could find. I still had no idea which way to turn until a co-worker who I had recently friended on Facebook, breaking my usual protocol, asked if I wanted a marching buddy for one of the many protests that showed up in my feed. I said, yes, you’re exactly what I need, a marching buddy. And so my librarian friend and I marched in the streets and freeways of Oakland, with our backpacks filled with in-case-of-tear-gas lemons, scarves, granola bars and water. It was not an easy march, the messages were filled with suffering, we cried, and we marched with a slight unease one would expect to have as anarchists took to the streets in dark of night.

Looking back six months isn’t really a long period of time to ruminate over but it’d probably take another essay to fill in the details of everything I’ve learned about political activism and community organizing. Even though the time has been short, I’ve crammed in so much information and connections it’s a little dizzying. At times, I realize I am a few steps ahead of my friends who are just now waking up to a new reality and are probably clicking around looking for answers, groups, connections, and ideas (by the way I’m still doing this too). But I feel organized and ready to stay on task, keep up the energy and write about what is happening during this time in history. Every moment we live is part of history and there are times when the storyline is dull and nothing of much importance is happening on a grand scale but daily life is still part of the narrative. But then there are times like now, on the eve of a Trump presidency that is surely significant in the timeline of the 21st century. In a few weeks, thanks to meaningful, love-filled friendships, I will be in Washington DC, bundled in warm layers, marching with my ever expanding network of activist friends as we witness the Women’s March grow to have global influence. I know we’ll feel unified, inspired and ready to connect ideas in an accelerated manner. I do feel this strange level of awareness and sometimes insecurity that I have a lot to offer. I don’t feel disconnected, numb, scared or ambivalent. I know it’s valid to feel these emotions and I absolutely get it, but I’m not there anymore. It’s also been suggested I should try to meet people where they are but I’m super impatient and ready to forge ahead. So it’s a little hard for me to take steps back to meet everyone as I need to blaze my own trail and catch up to those who are ahead. I’m here and if someone wants to meet me where I am, I’ll try to wait up for a moment but please excuse me if I’m talking a mile a minute and tapping my foot! If you’re not ready, that’s cool too, I’m around, you’ll find me in community centers, city council meetings, women’s circles, living rooms and of course marching in the streets. Trust me, I don’t have all of the answers, I write all of this filled with humility, although I am hyper-aware it probably comes off as arrogant. I will admit I often feel like a crazed maniac, reading, talking, absorbing so much at the same time blending in family and work. But I’m okay with owning up to my strengths with much more ferocity and confidence than before. I might not have a clear path yet, and I’m sure all of my ideas, passions, and activism sound delusional but that’s how it works.

January 8, 2017 6

Dismantling: Giving Thanks

It’s not hard to find gratitude and I do take thanks in the smallest joys. There is so much to be thankful for even if I’m filled with an extra dose of cynicism this year. Of course, I have my family, friends, health, nature and creativity to fill me with pride and gratitude. I’m very thankful to have dinner in my Bay Area bubble with like-minded friends. I kinda don’t have the energy to reach across or learn about an opposing view today. But, I do have empathy for those, who have traveled through a gauntlet of harried travelers and bumper to bumper traffic, only to navigate potentially thorny conversations at dinner, sitting tight-lipped and tense. Hang in there friends, it will soon be over, just be happy you have a community! Anyhow, it’s probably the best advice for all of us to avoid politics at the table this year, I’m not sure my digestive tract can take much more anxiety. Buurp.

And frankly, I’m also butting heads with my liberal friends who are still struggling with their whiteness, trying to convince me that my activism is part of the problem. We are all a mess over this election, casting dispersions and blame to and fro. None of this feels very comforting and sometimes I’d rather just go at it with my Republican family because they’re not filled with guilt and confusion over their positions. Oh, and yes, there are members of my brown, immigrant family that did vote for Trump. So that should blow up some of the stereotypes. Trust me, they can care less about diversity, identity, and have no interest to learn about intersectionality. It all comes down to the almighty dollar. They will get their rich people tax cuts and go back to exploiting the oppressed to win elections. Mostly they’re benevolent businessmen who want what’s best for their family and view capitalism as a means to end for their own self-interests, a system they feel works equally for all. But I am so thankful I don’t have to listen to them this year or bite my tongue, which is a difficult task for a big mouth. Anyhow, I have mostly given up, why bother talking to people who read Anne Coulter? I will never, ever agree with them and visa-versa. The most frustrating thing about Republicans is how dismissive they are about any of the negative consequences of Trump’s administration. They just chalk it up to media bias and liberal hogwash and there isn’t really an end-game to win this debate. Instead, we just walk around the huge elephant in the room and breathe a sigh of relief when as we part ways.

Well, I am about to make pies and a yummy cheesy gratin. I love this white people holiday, mainly I’ve boiled it down to food, food, food. But I have not overlooked the fact that this artificially constructed day was created to promote capitalism, white supremacy and greed. Like most of us, I just stuff the feelings with tons of food and alcohol and hope to pass out early from an overdose of tryptophan. I do love a nice long four-day weekend, even if I am aware I’m a part of the managerial class, the liberal elite (I guess?) that has the privilege to overeat and wallow in self-pity. Yes, my sadness has given way to a streak of anger but I’m pretty sure this is one of the stages of grief.

I do wish everyone a lovely holiday and hope you don’t sit around questioning the validity of protesting as brave indigenous people, who at this very moment are getting tear-gassed and attacked by the evil forces of corporatism. All I have done is donate to the Sioux tribe, so at the very least I ask all of us to honor their sacrifice. They are using their bodies to stand in the line of fire, a fight that began when English separatists landed at Plymouth rock. I am grateful for their stance and seeing the horrible images from Standing Rock reminds me not to waver from fighting for justice and equality, and yes one way will be civil disobedience and protest. To all those that question the purpose of protesting, I ask you to read history if you have time this weekend or try to recall past successes that arose out of people power. Try not to be dismissive of these actions, find ways to honor the legacy of true heroes, some who have given their lives in the fight for human rights. And finally, I say thank you to all the civil rights crusaders, past and present, who stand tall against cynism, anger, and hate.

November 24, 2016 0