Hi friends,
Today is almost over and I am so ready for bed. But committed to a solid 15 minutes.
Today's topic? I'm not sure...
This morning I received an email message from a former student who is expecting a baby in May and with whom I have communicated about pregnancy and preparing for childbirth. I always am so excited and happy to talk with people who are expecting children and am struck by the fact that, at this stage and station in life, being pregnant is consistently happy and welcome news. In the instances when it's not welcome or happy, I don't know or hear about it. I am sure that I have friends and acquaintances who have had unwanted pregnancies in the recent past, but I note that there is a definite shift from the teens and 20s when most people I knew were trying to avoid getting pregnant. Having lived through those years, as well as the experiences of dealing with unwanted pregnancies, it really is a sea change to have all these people I know so able to be publicly happy about their pregnancies.
I remember being in high school and on a lunch hour off campus with my friend Rachel. I remember it like it was a year or two ago instead of TWENTY YEARS. Sheesh. We were at Upper Crust Bakery and there was a visibly pregnant woman in line. I exclaimed to Rachel that I found it so strange to see pregnant women out in public because it seemed like such incontrovertable proof of their having had sex. Rachel thought I was absolutely loony, but tried to best to get what I was getting at. When I reflect on that moment and what all was going on with me, it does in fact seem loony, but also entirely sane, given our general US culture and the culture of my upbringing. I think it also reflects how closely sex and pregnancy were stuck together in my mind. It was hard for me to imagine having had sex (or, more importantly, been sexual) and having everyone I came in contact with know that fact. In my high school years, sex and sexuality were so private, secretive, and wrought that they could hardly be talked about. And I know that's a cliche, but it's also true. That protruding stomach was much the same as a G-string and pasties, so far as I was concerned. But even worse, in some ways, since there was evidence of vaginal penetration -- the Real Deal.
Man, what a culture we live in.
There's much more to say, but it's been 15 minutes and I also can barely keep my eyes open.
Peace,
Briana
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
parental leave and the big shots
Hi friends,
Well, now, I'm starting to fall off my good practice. Post-spring break things have been picking up at work, stress is increasing and life is offering many opportunities to get overwhelmed, overtaxed, over-whatever. I have a stomachache.
And I also have just 15 minutes to write, so I'll keep it small.
On Friday, the conference I attended was for women in business and was hosted by a group called C200 made up of extremely wealthy and influential businesswomen. At the closing session, one of them offered early on that she was very concerned about the future of women in business because there was such an unresolved issue of balancing having a family with having a career. Not a new issue for sure, but yes, certainly still unresolved.
It was a beautiful opportunity for me in many ways. During the Q and A time (I was sitting in the front row and my boss was moderating the panel), I stood up and told them that I was very glad they'd raised the issue and I was in agreement with them that it needed to be better addressed. (I didn't explain my position as an academic advisor to MBA students, mainly because I didn't want to talk too long before getting to the point. I do that a lot and I wanted to practice being more direct.) I pointed out that nearly every other country in the world had addressed this quite effectively by having standardized, nationalized, paid parental leave in varying lengths. Had they talked about this as a solution in the US and had they or would they consider taking a stand as an organization in support of national leave?
Well. As an organizer, we used to evaluate the effectiveness of an action by the reaction it solicited. And I sure got a reaction.
To be fair, I didn't actually think they would say yes. But I thought there might be some debate or nuanced consideration. Not so at all. No! No! No! No! And Absolutely Not! The details behind their vehement no's were varied, but essentially all fell into the category of, "I don't want ANYONE telling me how to run my business, least of all the government!" This was punctuated by pacing, finger pointing, raised voices, and well, a little bit of emotion, I'd say.
I had lots of thoughts about this, but I'll share just one at the moment.
The most vehement woman was in her 60s and a very high level person who'd been at ExxonMobil for many years. She offered that having a child and having a career (and everything else in life) was completely about personal choice. She offered that she had gone into her boss when she was pregnant and said, "If you can afford to give my colleagues two weeks off for vacation, you can afford to give me two weeks off to have my baby." Her boss accepted her reasonable argument and gave her two weeks off to have her baby.
Later on at the reception, this woman approached me (another point for Briana on the reaction tally) to say she appreciated my opinions even though we disagreed. She said she was from Texas and Texans are very individualistic and independent. I told her I was from Texas too, and gave her a big ol Texas gal grin. I also offered that I was sure it had been difficult to go back to work two weeks after giving birth. She cut me off in order to correct me -- no, it wasn't hard at all. Not one bit.
Talk about reactions. Hm. I had one. It was very internal, but maybe she saw it on my face or in my body -- I'm not sure. It's not like I haven't heard people (e.g. Sarah Palin etc.) make such claims before. But I felt so immediately sad, just deeply, deeply sad. For her child? For us who are supposed to look to this woman as a leader? For society? Yes, all those, but for her too. Trust me, this lady didn't want me to feel sorry for her -- just the opposite, obviously. But I did. I felt so very sorry for her -- that the pain of that early, early separation from her child, of whatever pain had been there to make her feel that these were the personal choices available to her was so deeply buried as to be completely denied -- that's what made me so sad.
It's a big topic, this one, but like lots of social and political things, it's not really rocket science. It's just that people who weild a lot of power in business believe it is their RIGHT to make decisions about everything and everyone in society. I'm glad I took the opportunity to at least fight with my tongue and my mind.
Peace,
Briana
Well, now, I'm starting to fall off my good practice. Post-spring break things have been picking up at work, stress is increasing and life is offering many opportunities to get overwhelmed, overtaxed, over-whatever. I have a stomachache.
And I also have just 15 minutes to write, so I'll keep it small.
On Friday, the conference I attended was for women in business and was hosted by a group called C200 made up of extremely wealthy and influential businesswomen. At the closing session, one of them offered early on that she was very concerned about the future of women in business because there was such an unresolved issue of balancing having a family with having a career. Not a new issue for sure, but yes, certainly still unresolved.
It was a beautiful opportunity for me in many ways. During the Q and A time (I was sitting in the front row and my boss was moderating the panel), I stood up and told them that I was very glad they'd raised the issue and I was in agreement with them that it needed to be better addressed. (I didn't explain my position as an academic advisor to MBA students, mainly because I didn't want to talk too long before getting to the point. I do that a lot and I wanted to practice being more direct.) I pointed out that nearly every other country in the world had addressed this quite effectively by having standardized, nationalized, paid parental leave in varying lengths. Had they talked about this as a solution in the US and had they or would they consider taking a stand as an organization in support of national leave?
Well. As an organizer, we used to evaluate the effectiveness of an action by the reaction it solicited. And I sure got a reaction.
To be fair, I didn't actually think they would say yes. But I thought there might be some debate or nuanced consideration. Not so at all. No! No! No! No! And Absolutely Not! The details behind their vehement no's were varied, but essentially all fell into the category of, "I don't want ANYONE telling me how to run my business, least of all the government!" This was punctuated by pacing, finger pointing, raised voices, and well, a little bit of emotion, I'd say.
I had lots of thoughts about this, but I'll share just one at the moment.
The most vehement woman was in her 60s and a very high level person who'd been at ExxonMobil for many years. She offered that having a child and having a career (and everything else in life) was completely about personal choice. She offered that she had gone into her boss when she was pregnant and said, "If you can afford to give my colleagues two weeks off for vacation, you can afford to give me two weeks off to have my baby." Her boss accepted her reasonable argument and gave her two weeks off to have her baby.
Later on at the reception, this woman approached me (another point for Briana on the reaction tally) to say she appreciated my opinions even though we disagreed. She said she was from Texas and Texans are very individualistic and independent. I told her I was from Texas too, and gave her a big ol Texas gal grin. I also offered that I was sure it had been difficult to go back to work two weeks after giving birth. She cut me off in order to correct me -- no, it wasn't hard at all. Not one bit.
Talk about reactions. Hm. I had one. It was very internal, but maybe she saw it on my face or in my body -- I'm not sure. It's not like I haven't heard people (e.g. Sarah Palin etc.) make such claims before. But I felt so immediately sad, just deeply, deeply sad. For her child? For us who are supposed to look to this woman as a leader? For society? Yes, all those, but for her too. Trust me, this lady didn't want me to feel sorry for her -- just the opposite, obviously. But I did. I felt so very sorry for her -- that the pain of that early, early separation from her child, of whatever pain had been there to make her feel that these were the personal choices available to her was so deeply buried as to be completely denied -- that's what made me so sad.
It's a big topic, this one, but like lots of social and political things, it's not really rocket science. It's just that people who weild a lot of power in business believe it is their RIGHT to make decisions about everything and everyone in society. I'm glad I took the opportunity to at least fight with my tongue and my mind.
Peace,
Briana
Thursday, March 24, 2011
bee fear
Hi friends,
Oops! I missed yesterday completely! Very interesting how that happened. Yesterday was generally a rotten day.
This past weekend while we were in Houston, Mallika started saying repeatedly, "I don't like Grandma and Grandpa's house. I don't like it. I don't like it." Not surprisingly, this got her parents' attention. I asked her some very open-ended questions and figured out that an experience some weeks ago is still troubling the little tyke. When she is at her grandparents' house, she takes her nap on their bed in a very sweet little set-up of pillows, blankets, and dolls (and sometimes a pooped-out adult too). Mid-nap one day, she was awakened by a bee that had gotten into the house and was buzzing noisily. No sting, no fuss from Grandma, nada except something new and unexpected. Apparently, though, something about it frightened or disturbed Mallika such that, all this time later, she is saying she doesn't like her grandparents' house.
We talked to her about her fear and about bees, but didn't say anything to her grandparents. However, yesterday she was over there in the afternoon and had a hard time going to sleep and woke up a short time later and definitely before she was rested. I didn't even really think about it, but when I was giving her a bath last night, I asked why she had such a short nap. The answer? "the bee." Oh!!! Of course!!! Silly Amma!!! So I called my parents, told them about the situation, and suggested that they make a little sleeping place for her in a different room. My mom commented, "Well, it nearly broke my heart today when she came into my music room when she woke up and said, 'I want to go home.'" I suggested that the bee memory was probably the reason why. And today my dad set up a cute little bed on the floor with her blanket and a new book they got for her. And my mom even covered up the electrical outlets on the wall next to the bed. Thanks, Mom.
We'll see how things go.
Mostly, this has all been such fodder for reflection for me. Mallika is rarely scared of anything -- fire and sirens being a couple exceptions -- and this is a first experience that I'm aware of of her being scared of something and that fear hanging around beyond the moment of experience. But also, I'm calling it fear, and maybe it's not. After all, a two-year old has a relatively limited vocabulary. Fear or not, however, I have been so aware of my own reactions. In many moments I have had the impulse to brush things off -- "oh, it's nothing" or "she'll get over it" or "it's no big deal". And I've also thought, "she just needs to tough it out and deal with it" and variations thereof. Initially, when she said she didn't like her grandparents' house, I also got panicky -- "why?! did something bad happen there?!" Being present to and with a young person is just so instructive. Here is a "dislike", here is an experience, here is a fear. The child tells someone that she trusts. The trusted person does something with what she hears. And there are a lot of options for that "something" to be all kinds of things that reflect our adult conditioning.
That's why I like Mallika being in my life every day. I learn so much how to be more human by being with her.
Peace,
Briana
Oops! I missed yesterday completely! Very interesting how that happened. Yesterday was generally a rotten day.
This past weekend while we were in Houston, Mallika started saying repeatedly, "I don't like Grandma and Grandpa's house. I don't like it. I don't like it." Not surprisingly, this got her parents' attention. I asked her some very open-ended questions and figured out that an experience some weeks ago is still troubling the little tyke. When she is at her grandparents' house, she takes her nap on their bed in a very sweet little set-up of pillows, blankets, and dolls (and sometimes a pooped-out adult too). Mid-nap one day, she was awakened by a bee that had gotten into the house and was buzzing noisily. No sting, no fuss from Grandma, nada except something new and unexpected. Apparently, though, something about it frightened or disturbed Mallika such that, all this time later, she is saying she doesn't like her grandparents' house.
We talked to her about her fear and about bees, but didn't say anything to her grandparents. However, yesterday she was over there in the afternoon and had a hard time going to sleep and woke up a short time later and definitely before she was rested. I didn't even really think about it, but when I was giving her a bath last night, I asked why she had such a short nap. The answer? "the bee." Oh!!! Of course!!! Silly Amma!!! So I called my parents, told them about the situation, and suggested that they make a little sleeping place for her in a different room. My mom commented, "Well, it nearly broke my heart today when she came into my music room when she woke up and said, 'I want to go home.'" I suggested that the bee memory was probably the reason why. And today my dad set up a cute little bed on the floor with her blanket and a new book they got for her. And my mom even covered up the electrical outlets on the wall next to the bed. Thanks, Mom.
We'll see how things go.
Mostly, this has all been such fodder for reflection for me. Mallika is rarely scared of anything -- fire and sirens being a couple exceptions -- and this is a first experience that I'm aware of of her being scared of something and that fear hanging around beyond the moment of experience. But also, I'm calling it fear, and maybe it's not. After all, a two-year old has a relatively limited vocabulary. Fear or not, however, I have been so aware of my own reactions. In many moments I have had the impulse to brush things off -- "oh, it's nothing" or "she'll get over it" or "it's no big deal". And I've also thought, "she just needs to tough it out and deal with it" and variations thereof. Initially, when she said she didn't like her grandparents' house, I also got panicky -- "why?! did something bad happen there?!" Being present to and with a young person is just so instructive. Here is a "dislike", here is an experience, here is a fear. The child tells someone that she trusts. The trusted person does something with what she hears. And there are a lot of options for that "something" to be all kinds of things that reflect our adult conditioning.
That's why I like Mallika being in my life every day. I learn so much how to be more human by being with her.
Peace,
Briana
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
religion
I want to finish that posting about food, but I've got religion on the mind at the moment. Maybe some of you saw my facebook post today. If not, here it is --
short note
Hi, friends,
I just came across this very, very nice article by my friend Kathy Rowland -- "Ethan and Khairie, I Heart You." I don't follow the Amazing Race, but for anyone who does (or did back in November), perhaps this has additional meaning beyond the already compelling way Kathy talks about being Malaysian. Enjoy!
Also, I've noticed that I don't receive any comments on my posts, though many of you have mentioned to me that you're reading my blog. It's just fine with me to not receive comments, but let me know if you're trying to comment and running into any technical problems. Thanks.
Peace,
Briana
I just came across this very, very nice article by my friend Kathy Rowland -- "Ethan and Khairie, I Heart You." I don't follow the Amazing Race, but for anyone who does (or did back in November), perhaps this has additional meaning beyond the already compelling way Kathy talks about being Malaysian. Enjoy!
Also, I've noticed that I don't receive any comments on my posts, though many of you have mentioned to me that you're reading my blog. It's just fine with me to not receive comments, but let me know if you're trying to comment and running into any technical problems. Thanks.
Peace,
Briana
Monday, March 21, 2011
Houston
Hi friends,
This weekend Mohan, Mallika, and I went to Houston. Mohan was presenting a paper at a conference and we took the opportunity to get out of town. Travelling with a toddler always has its challenges, even though Mallika is a super trooper and very accommodating about being in the car, being off-schedule, etc. LUCKY US. Maybe the universe gave us a good traveller in order to balance out the poor eater -- we spend a lot of time and energy trying to get calories and nutrients into our girl. Anyway, we booked a hotel through hotwire and we got a handicapped accessible room. Nice to have a slightly different set-up than the typical hotel room and it was more spacious too. However, having everything accessible to someone in a wheelchair also means having everything accessible to someone who's about three feet tall and also can climb and reach like a little monkey. Craziness. Mohan kept asking me, "Briana, why did you give her ____ ?!?" (ballpoint pen, hair dryer, lotion, coins, wallet, etc) Usually, Ms. Mallika had availed herself of opportunities to get her hands on otherwise off-limits things. But I admit that a couple of times I just gave her items that were less likely to harm her just to keep her away from things that were truly dangerous. Oh, and the fact that hotel room doors automatically unlock when you open them from the inside? Bad news for a toddler parent! Soon after we arrived and Mohan was at his conference, we were playing hide and seek, I was hiding, Mallika was seeking, and I heard the door open and close. Panic! When I rushed out the door, however, I ran right into Mallika who was so stunned at having made her escape that she was just standing there looking down the long corridor. It only now occurs to me that she had opened the door because she was looking for me. After all, we were playing hide and seek.
One of the more memorable parts of the trip were our two trips to "Chinatown" on Bellaire Blvd in west Houston. Driving from Hwy 59 on Friday night, the signage on the strip malls shifted completely to Chinese characters in the space of about two blocks and we found the shopping center up on the left. The place was HOPPING! Completely packed parking lot, two stories of shops in an enormous complex, neon and fluorescent lights all over the place, and a million people coming and going from eating establishments, karaoke clubs, cell phone shops, grocery stores, and bubble tea joints.
I got so excited about feeling like I was back in Kuala Lumpur, I immediately started driving like I was too and, well, that didn't work out too well. Hilarious. Bellaire Blvd is something like an 8-lane but neighborhood road and the entrance to the shopping center has cross traffic and double left-turn lanes and about 80 million people trying to go every direction, complete with a lot of illegal maneuvers. I was no exception. Besides nearly getting into an accident, I ended up having to bypass our driveway (which was all Mohan's fault for yelling at me) and make the whole loop again. More legally the second time. Though I must say, following traffic laws also almost got us killed and got us honked at a lot more too.
Also typical to a KL Friday night dinner experience (where people DO NOT wait for Saturday night to really enjoy the weekend), it took us forever to find a parking place before finally arriving at The Banana Leaf Malaysian restaurant. Yay! A very small, quaint place with, not surprisingly, a bit of a wait. We ended up in the back corner, but so happy and excited, it didn't matter.
We ordered roti canai, barbecue fish, hokkien noodles, and kankung belacan. We nearly died of anticipation, but the enthusiastic restaurant noise kept us semi-conscious.
So, in case you don't know already, food is the national pasttime of all Malaysians, and the Malaysian diaspora (including those of us who married in) is no exception. There are many theories about why this is the case in addition to the obvious point that the food is SO DAMN GOOD how could you not talk about it all the time?? One theory is that Malaysians suffered so much during the Japanese Occupation during WWII and had to survive on nothing but sago and other roots and tubers that could escape detection by the Japanese that they're still coping with PTSD by eating as much good food as they can as often as they can. Nice idea, but heck, a lot of people were occupied during WWII who still have horrible cuisine. Another idea is that food is the one place where Malaysians are best able to live out a multicultural fantasy. Though the reality can get dicey at times, particularly where pork and beef are concerned, it is pretty darn cool how everyone uses everyone else's culinary tricks and makes them their own. And then sit down to share each others' food. It's all the more substantial as the political reality between the races becomes increasingly divisive, ugly, and violent.
Anyway, so much reflecting on food without actually talking about The Food.
However, this has gone on too too long today, so I'll have to continue tomorrow. Till then --
Peace,
Briana
This weekend Mohan, Mallika, and I went to Houston. Mohan was presenting a paper at a conference and we took the opportunity to get out of town. Travelling with a toddler always has its challenges, even though Mallika is a super trooper and very accommodating about being in the car, being off-schedule, etc. LUCKY US. Maybe the universe gave us a good traveller in order to balance out the poor eater -- we spend a lot of time and energy trying to get calories and nutrients into our girl. Anyway, we booked a hotel through hotwire and we got a handicapped accessible room. Nice to have a slightly different set-up than the typical hotel room and it was more spacious too. However, having everything accessible to someone in a wheelchair also means having everything accessible to someone who's about three feet tall and also can climb and reach like a little monkey. Craziness. Mohan kept asking me, "Briana, why did you give her ____ ?!?" (ballpoint pen, hair dryer, lotion, coins, wallet, etc) Usually, Ms. Mallika had availed herself of opportunities to get her hands on otherwise off-limits things. But I admit that a couple of times I just gave her items that were less likely to harm her just to keep her away from things that were truly dangerous. Oh, and the fact that hotel room doors automatically unlock when you open them from the inside? Bad news for a toddler parent! Soon after we arrived and Mohan was at his conference, we were playing hide and seek, I was hiding, Mallika was seeking, and I heard the door open and close. Panic! When I rushed out the door, however, I ran right into Mallika who was so stunned at having made her escape that she was just standing there looking down the long corridor. It only now occurs to me that she had opened the door because she was looking for me. After all, we were playing hide and seek.
One of the more memorable parts of the trip were our two trips to "Chinatown" on Bellaire Blvd in west Houston. Driving from Hwy 59 on Friday night, the signage on the strip malls shifted completely to Chinese characters in the space of about two blocks and we found the shopping center up on the left. The place was HOPPING! Completely packed parking lot, two stories of shops in an enormous complex, neon and fluorescent lights all over the place, and a million people coming and going from eating establishments, karaoke clubs, cell phone shops, grocery stores, and bubble tea joints.
I got so excited about feeling like I was back in Kuala Lumpur, I immediately started driving like I was too and, well, that didn't work out too well. Hilarious. Bellaire Blvd is something like an 8-lane but neighborhood road and the entrance to the shopping center has cross traffic and double left-turn lanes and about 80 million people trying to go every direction, complete with a lot of illegal maneuvers. I was no exception. Besides nearly getting into an accident, I ended up having to bypass our driveway (which was all Mohan's fault for yelling at me) and make the whole loop again. More legally the second time. Though I must say, following traffic laws also almost got us killed and got us honked at a lot more too.
Also typical to a KL Friday night dinner experience (where people DO NOT wait for Saturday night to really enjoy the weekend), it took us forever to find a parking place before finally arriving at The Banana Leaf Malaysian restaurant. Yay! A very small, quaint place with, not surprisingly, a bit of a wait. We ended up in the back corner, but so happy and excited, it didn't matter.
We ordered roti canai, barbecue fish, hokkien noodles, and kankung belacan. We nearly died of anticipation, but the enthusiastic restaurant noise kept us semi-conscious.
So, in case you don't know already, food is the national pasttime of all Malaysians, and the Malaysian diaspora (including those of us who married in) is no exception. There are many theories about why this is the case in addition to the obvious point that the food is SO DAMN GOOD how could you not talk about it all the time?? One theory is that Malaysians suffered so much during the Japanese Occupation during WWII and had to survive on nothing but sago and other roots and tubers that could escape detection by the Japanese that they're still coping with PTSD by eating as much good food as they can as often as they can. Nice idea, but heck, a lot of people were occupied during WWII who still have horrible cuisine. Another idea is that food is the one place where Malaysians are best able to live out a multicultural fantasy. Though the reality can get dicey at times, particularly where pork and beef are concerned, it is pretty darn cool how everyone uses everyone else's culinary tricks and makes them their own. And then sit down to share each others' food. It's all the more substantial as the political reality between the races becomes increasingly divisive, ugly, and violent.
Anyway, so much reflecting on food without actually talking about The Food.
However, this has gone on too too long today, so I'll have to continue tomorrow. Till then --
Peace,
Briana
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Japan
Hi friends,
To tell you the truth, right now I am so terrified, so sad, so angry, but mostly terrified because of what is going on in Japan. My brain keeps trying to comfort me with all kinds of strategies. But the fear just comes bubbling back up. I just feel like our planet and our human existence is so threatened by all these human-made horrors. I'm thinking principally of the nuclear plants, but also all the violence and weapons being used against people in Libya and so many other parts of the world. It becomes easy to hate oneself for being human. How can we do such horrible things to ourselves and one another and to the earth? It really is overwhelming me right now as I look at Mallika's beautiful smiling face in her school photograph. If we were living in Japan, I would be so angry right now. Because we live here, I'm more scared and sad. I don't know if these emotions do anything to help anything, but I do know that they're here in the room with me as much as the oxygen is -- breathing in, breathing out. Fear and sadness, fear and anger, fear. And the fear makes me want someone to blame.
Maybe it's just the news that I happen to catch, but I've noticed so much coverage and so many images of nuclear power plants. Not really so many of people. In contrast, I remember lots of images of crushed houses and more domestic things and crying, suffering people during the Haiti earthquake. I recognize that there was no nuclear meltdown threat going on in Haiti, but that's not the whole story.
I've been thinking a lot about Werllayne Nunes's artist's statement at his show last week where he talked about how poor people of color from the global south rarely get depicted as joyful. His art does a wonderful, powerful job of countering that important fact.
I also read a friend's facebook post yesterday with a CNN blog about why it is that Japanese aren't looting. The blogger (Cafferty) published a lot of random people's speculations about the explanation for this phenomenon, and my friend also posted on fb that she thought we in the US had a thing or two to learn from Japan. I kind-of had to wonder what those one or two things were -- that next time we have a natural disaster we should replace all the Black people with Japanese? She didn't specify, but given the bloggers' contributors' comments, it's not too hard to reach that conclusion. Read on...
"Unlike our Katrina disaster, the Japanese don't see this as an opportunity to steal everything in sight. The so-called civilized world can learn much from the stoic Japanese."
"The people of Japan love their country and do what is best for the nation, unlike the United States where we love our country and do what is best for ourselves."
"The Japanese are resourceful, innovative and disciplined people with a great sense of national pride. While they also have criminals and felons, it is not quite in comparison to the sleaze balls we have in our streets. It was disgusting to watch these scum bags loot stores in New Orleans during Katrina when they should have helped their fellow citizens in need. While watching the devastation in Japan is heart wrenching, it is so refreshing to see the civility of people within the calamity they are facing."
And my very favorite: "Personally, I've always thought it's because they're a more highly evolved race."
When people don't know shit and when they're scared, they look for order, for explanations that make sense to them, for scapegoats. (I'm included in this "people" category too, BTW.) And all it takes is a little scratch for the rabid racism to come spewing out. I've seen it happen too many times to count, and this seems to be no different.
Before I sign off, I'll say that I've found yet another cultural anthropologist that I like -- Keibo Oiwa, who has founded the Sloth Movement. I like.
Peace (and stay alive while you're at it),
Briana
P.S. I'll be traveling tomorrow, so no new post until Monday.
To tell you the truth, right now I am so terrified, so sad, so angry, but mostly terrified because of what is going on in Japan. My brain keeps trying to comfort me with all kinds of strategies. But the fear just comes bubbling back up. I just feel like our planet and our human existence is so threatened by all these human-made horrors. I'm thinking principally of the nuclear plants, but also all the violence and weapons being used against people in Libya and so many other parts of the world. It becomes easy to hate oneself for being human. How can we do such horrible things to ourselves and one another and to the earth? It really is overwhelming me right now as I look at Mallika's beautiful smiling face in her school photograph. If we were living in Japan, I would be so angry right now. Because we live here, I'm more scared and sad. I don't know if these emotions do anything to help anything, but I do know that they're here in the room with me as much as the oxygen is -- breathing in, breathing out. Fear and sadness, fear and anger, fear. And the fear makes me want someone to blame.
Maybe it's just the news that I happen to catch, but I've noticed so much coverage and so many images of nuclear power plants. Not really so many of people. In contrast, I remember lots of images of crushed houses and more domestic things and crying, suffering people during the Haiti earthquake. I recognize that there was no nuclear meltdown threat going on in Haiti, but that's not the whole story.
I've been thinking a lot about Werllayne Nunes's artist's statement at his show last week where he talked about how poor people of color from the global south rarely get depicted as joyful. His art does a wonderful, powerful job of countering that important fact.
I also read a friend's facebook post yesterday with a CNN blog about why it is that Japanese aren't looting. The blogger (Cafferty) published a lot of random people's speculations about the explanation for this phenomenon, and my friend also posted on fb that she thought we in the US had a thing or two to learn from Japan. I kind-of had to wonder what those one or two things were -- that next time we have a natural disaster we should replace all the Black people with Japanese? She didn't specify, but given the bloggers' contributors' comments, it's not too hard to reach that conclusion. Read on...
"Unlike our Katrina disaster, the Japanese don't see this as an opportunity to steal everything in sight. The so-called civilized world can learn much from the stoic Japanese."
"The people of Japan love their country and do what is best for the nation, unlike the United States where we love our country and do what is best for ourselves."
"The Japanese are resourceful, innovative and disciplined people with a great sense of national pride. While they also have criminals and felons, it is not quite in comparison to the sleaze balls we have in our streets. It was disgusting to watch these scum bags loot stores in New Orleans during Katrina when they should have helped their fellow citizens in need. While watching the devastation in Japan is heart wrenching, it is so refreshing to see the civility of people within the calamity they are facing."
And my very favorite: "Personally, I've always thought it's because they're a more highly evolved race."
When people don't know shit and when they're scared, they look for order, for explanations that make sense to them, for scapegoats. (I'm included in this "people" category too, BTW.) And all it takes is a little scratch for the rabid racism to come spewing out. I've seen it happen too many times to count, and this seems to be no different.
Before I sign off, I'll say that I've found yet another cultural anthropologist that I like -- Keibo Oiwa, who has founded the Sloth Movement. I like.
Peace (and stay alive while you're at it),
Briana
P.S. I'll be traveling tomorrow, so no new post until Monday.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
books
Hi there,
OK, I'm ditching the working parents topic. Too burdensome, no fun, and no energy today to pursue it. Suffice to say that we're in a particular moment where the burden of having kids and earning a living falls almost entirely to individual parents and to the individuals who love and support them. One sentence is all this subject gets today.
Much more fun and exciting is that Mohan, Mallika, and I visited the CHILDREN'S section of the Perry-Castaneda Library today! PCL is a humongous library at UT Austin and has a stupendous collection of books -- one of the best in the country. It's across the street from my office, and less than ten minutes walk from our apartment. But until today, I never knew they had children's books. Not only that, but they have children's books from around the world. So very exciting!
At lunchtime, I ate my chicken curry, rice, and saag while listening to Mohan read "Under the Banyan Tree -- A Tale from Tamil Nadu" to Mallika. Even the very beginning was so wonderous. Muthu and Selvi live in a banyan tree with their eleven children -- Muthu writes plays and Selvi cleans houses. Whenever Muthu earns a little money, someone borrows it.
What a radically different and stupendous start for a children's book than what we get in the US! And it continues throughout the whole story. The rich people don't turn out to be good, the poor people don't get rich (but they do get fed), good fortune gets shared liberally, the common sense of the public is wrong, and the helpful spirits get acknowledged and thanked. What a relief to read a story with a different milieu!
My sense is that a lot of people in the US, even people of color, don't get what all the hullaballoo is with the multiculti stuff for kids. Everyone is always (or usually) happy to sing songs, share "ethnic costumes", and, of course, eat "exotic" food. But when it's inconvenient or definitely when it challenges the status quo, things can get very hairy super fast.
When I was listening to Mohan read this story to Mallika, it felt like: here is another world, a differently oriented world, a world that is also hers, a world to enjoy and participate in. When there aren't books -- or food or smells or people or customs or languages or communities or institutions or music or movies -- that are available to people, these other worlds just wither, fade, and die out from being part of our existence.
In the book, there was a bit about how the tree spirits came and oiled the children's hair and gave them crisp, new clothes. Mohan added in an editorial comment that the children's mother didn't make them wash the oil out of their hair in less than 24 hours. Fair enough, that comment. Putting oil -- coconut or olive -- in your hair is a very old and very beautiful south Asian custom and something that Mohan does for Mallika on a regular basis. For me, who grew up with very fine, very oily hair, and who always felt kind-of white-trashy about it, as well as without this particular tradition of hair care, I have a difficult time liking the way Mallika's hair looks when it has a lot of oil in it. I've suggested to Mohan that this practice makes more sense for people who have thick, dry, or curly hair hair. But that doesn't mean it makes no sense for Mallika whose hair is thin, occasionally dry, and only vaguely wavy. It does, however, mean that it's a point of tension, even if that tension mostly is able to stay in check.
I realize that all parents have tensions about their kids -- one parent likes the frilly pink stuff, the other wants bold colors and sneakers; one parent thinks a strict bedtime is crucial, the other finds it oppressive and unpleasant. All of these kinds of things are normal and all of them create tension, and much of it is healthy tension. But in a mixed relationship, I find that these tensions arise a lot around "cultural" practices and when the dynmic is white/non-white, it's very easy for the white to reign supreme. That's what I understand white supremacy to mean and it's not something I want to practice in my house with my child. So, though it's not fully and easily resolved, Mohan oils Mallika's hair, I actively work on liking how it looks, and focus on how much love and pride goes into this papa/daughter ritual.
Peace,
Briana
OK, I'm ditching the working parents topic. Too burdensome, no fun, and no energy today to pursue it. Suffice to say that we're in a particular moment where the burden of having kids and earning a living falls almost entirely to individual parents and to the individuals who love and support them. One sentence is all this subject gets today.
Much more fun and exciting is that Mohan, Mallika, and I visited the CHILDREN'S section of the Perry-Castaneda Library today! PCL is a humongous library at UT Austin and has a stupendous collection of books -- one of the best in the country. It's across the street from my office, and less than ten minutes walk from our apartment. But until today, I never knew they had children's books. Not only that, but they have children's books from around the world. So very exciting!
At lunchtime, I ate my chicken curry, rice, and saag while listening to Mohan read "Under the Banyan Tree -- A Tale from Tamil Nadu" to Mallika. Even the very beginning was so wonderous. Muthu and Selvi live in a banyan tree with their eleven children -- Muthu writes plays and Selvi cleans houses. Whenever Muthu earns a little money, someone borrows it.
What a radically different and stupendous start for a children's book than what we get in the US! And it continues throughout the whole story. The rich people don't turn out to be good, the poor people don't get rich (but they do get fed), good fortune gets shared liberally, the common sense of the public is wrong, and the helpful spirits get acknowledged and thanked. What a relief to read a story with a different milieu!
My sense is that a lot of people in the US, even people of color, don't get what all the hullaballoo is with the multiculti stuff for kids. Everyone is always (or usually) happy to sing songs, share "ethnic costumes", and, of course, eat "exotic" food. But when it's inconvenient or definitely when it challenges the status quo, things can get very hairy super fast.
When I was listening to Mohan read this story to Mallika, it felt like: here is another world, a differently oriented world, a world that is also hers, a world to enjoy and participate in. When there aren't books -- or food or smells or people or customs or languages or communities or institutions or music or movies -- that are available to people, these other worlds just wither, fade, and die out from being part of our existence.
In the book, there was a bit about how the tree spirits came and oiled the children's hair and gave them crisp, new clothes. Mohan added in an editorial comment that the children's mother didn't make them wash the oil out of their hair in less than 24 hours. Fair enough, that comment. Putting oil -- coconut or olive -- in your hair is a very old and very beautiful south Asian custom and something that Mohan does for Mallika on a regular basis. For me, who grew up with very fine, very oily hair, and who always felt kind-of white-trashy about it, as well as without this particular tradition of hair care, I have a difficult time liking the way Mallika's hair looks when it has a lot of oil in it. I've suggested to Mohan that this practice makes more sense for people who have thick, dry, or curly hair hair. But that doesn't mean it makes no sense for Mallika whose hair is thin, occasionally dry, and only vaguely wavy. It does, however, mean that it's a point of tension, even if that tension mostly is able to stay in check.
I realize that all parents have tensions about their kids -- one parent likes the frilly pink stuff, the other wants bold colors and sneakers; one parent thinks a strict bedtime is crucial, the other finds it oppressive and unpleasant. All of these kinds of things are normal and all of them create tension, and much of it is healthy tension. But in a mixed relationship, I find that these tensions arise a lot around "cultural" practices and when the dynmic is white/non-white, it's very easy for the white to reign supreme. That's what I understand white supremacy to mean and it's not something I want to practice in my house with my child. So, though it's not fully and easily resolved, Mohan oils Mallika's hair, I actively work on liking how it looks, and focus on how much love and pride goes into this papa/daughter ritual.
Peace,
Briana
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
working parents
One of the things I enjoy and appreciate about being the age that I am is the bigger perspective it affords. It feels like there's just enough years spent on the earth that I can start to see more of the landscape of where I am in it all. They say that developmentally, that's one of the most dramatic things about children -- that from birth onwards, they are learning more and more about the world around them and their place in it. Differentiation. And it IS really cool to observe. They go from not even really being able to distinguish "me" from "milk" (it's just "need" and "now") to all of a sudden being able to put on their shoes and ask to go outside. Though it's not as dramatic later in life, I find the same process continues. My landscape now includes a lot more history and politics than it used to, and this includes the subject of being a working parent.
Now anyone who has been a parent or ever read anything about parenting has some knowledge that ALL parents work simply because parenting is a lot of work all the time. Like any other job, different people throw more or less of themselves into the experience, whether because of choice or circumstance or a combination of the two. But it's work no matter what, no question at all.
What I find very interesting is how parenting fits in right now with work for pay and/or work outside the home. I've read a fair bit about the topic, and certainly talked to a number of people about it, thought about it, and, of course, struggled with it both philosophically and practically. It's really an enormous topic. I'm tired just thinking about it. And not too sure what I want to say.
And actually, I've been writing for nearly 15 minutes, so I think I'll reflect on this until tomorrow and then continue.
In the meantime, I fear to imagine what I would be going through right now if I lived in Japan. What a nightmare. Sending them my thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
Briana
Now anyone who has been a parent or ever read anything about parenting has some knowledge that ALL parents work simply because parenting is a lot of work all the time. Like any other job, different people throw more or less of themselves into the experience, whether because of choice or circumstance or a combination of the two. But it's work no matter what, no question at all.
What I find very interesting is how parenting fits in right now with work for pay and/or work outside the home. I've read a fair bit about the topic, and certainly talked to a number of people about it, thought about it, and, of course, struggled with it both philosophically and practically. It's really an enormous topic. I'm tired just thinking about it. And not too sure what I want to say.
And actually, I've been writing for nearly 15 minutes, so I think I'll reflect on this until tomorrow and then continue.
In the meantime, I fear to imagine what I would be going through right now if I lived in Japan. What a nightmare. Sending them my thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
Briana
Monday, March 14, 2011
where you live
Last night I had occassion to remember again how significant "place" is in building a life -- as a couple, as a family, for a child. It was a long time ago now, but I do remember, way back when, the very clear sense that living in Mohan's context -- in Malaysia -- was absolutely crucial to us staying together as a couple. It may well be that many couples that are international or intercultural don't feel so strongly about this, about living in the other person's culture, but it was really important for us. Partly, it was because of our own priorities and personalities. However, it was also because there was a whole bigger dimension of the questions "Who is this person and why don't I understand them???" than just the Mars and Venus dynamic. Anyway, it's true that, after nearly five years in Malaysia, I did understand Mohan much better because I had daily, first-hand experience of the people and places that had shaped him. I'm so thankful for that knowledge and also for the myriad ways it also made, and makes, me the person that I am now.
It's easy to forget, though, how much we live an "American" life now. I should be specific. It's easy for ME to forget. I think it's impossible for Mohan. There is the familiarity that is forever familiar because it's what I knew first in my life and it is therefore still familiar to me. And also, there is a lot of value in living and investing in wherever you are now. But when that here and now is largely oblivious to and ignorant of the place that is correspondingly familiar to my partner, it ups the ante for me to take on more personal responsibility. I don't know if that's the way to put it -- it sounds like Ronald Reagan is talking to me. So, axe that personal responsibility crap.
I guess I was remembering what it's like to walk the streets in Kuala Lumpur -- in Brickfields, in SS3, in Federal Hill. None of those places have references for most of you, I know -- you'd have more of something to imagine if I said Buenos Aires or the French Quarter or the mountains of Tibet. I was thinking about how I could describe the way the streets in Brickfields smell and, well, it just seemed so stilted and impossible. Half the things that I could identify -- cooking oil, chicken curry, jasmine flowers, turmeric, diesel fumes, teh tarik, holy ash, rice, sambal belacan -- are just a very small part of what makes the experience of walking down the street. Even the sunshine and the drains and the trash and the blooming trees have their own smells. And the memory of those streets are as strong and as easy as if I could walk there right now, as close as my own apartment is to me now. But when I think that Mallika has never been there to see or hear or smell that experience or any other one at all in Malaysia, my chest siezes and I get panicky. If I don't take her NOW, she will grow into one of those horrible, irritating American kids who thinks their dad's home country is dirty, stupid, and backward. Yes, I do worry about that. But more immediatley, it's also that I want her to know and love that place too, so that it is as familiar to her in the rest of life as Shoal Creek and tortillas and pecan trees are to her now. Every day that we're here, we are not there. Most days, that's just fine, just a fact of life. But sometimes it breaks my heart.
It's easy to forget, though, how much we live an "American" life now. I should be specific. It's easy for ME to forget. I think it's impossible for Mohan. There is the familiarity that is forever familiar because it's what I knew first in my life and it is therefore still familiar to me. And also, there is a lot of value in living and investing in wherever you are now. But when that here and now is largely oblivious to and ignorant of the place that is correspondingly familiar to my partner, it ups the ante for me to take on more personal responsibility. I don't know if that's the way to put it -- it sounds like Ronald Reagan is talking to me. So, axe that personal responsibility crap.
I guess I was remembering what it's like to walk the streets in Kuala Lumpur -- in Brickfields, in SS3, in Federal Hill. None of those places have references for most of you, I know -- you'd have more of something to imagine if I said Buenos Aires or the French Quarter or the mountains of Tibet. I was thinking about how I could describe the way the streets in Brickfields smell and, well, it just seemed so stilted and impossible. Half the things that I could identify -- cooking oil, chicken curry, jasmine flowers, turmeric, diesel fumes, teh tarik, holy ash, rice, sambal belacan -- are just a very small part of what makes the experience of walking down the street. Even the sunshine and the drains and the trash and the blooming trees have their own smells. And the memory of those streets are as strong and as easy as if I could walk there right now, as close as my own apartment is to me now. But when I think that Mallika has never been there to see or hear or smell that experience or any other one at all in Malaysia, my chest siezes and I get panicky. If I don't take her NOW, she will grow into one of those horrible, irritating American kids who thinks their dad's home country is dirty, stupid, and backward. Yes, I do worry about that. But more immediatley, it's also that I want her to know and love that place too, so that it is as familiar to her in the rest of life as Shoal Creek and tortillas and pecan trees are to her now. Every day that we're here, we are not there. Most days, that's just fine, just a fact of life. But sometimes it breaks my heart.
Friday, March 11, 2011
blue eyes
Like all parents, before my baby was born, I wondered what she would look like -- imagined it, fantasized about it, allowed myself to get lost in reveries of little fingers and toes and eyes and nose, amazed that my growing stomach would actually turn into a human child. (Who could have thought up a more bizarre science fiction concept?) I wondered if she would look like me or her dad or one of her grandparents or aunts or uncles or like none of us. And I certainly wondered, often aloud with Mohan, what skin color she might have and how we and others would respond to and treat her depending on her lightness, darkness or in-between-ness.
What I don't think I ever imagined, however, was that my child would end up with blue eyes! Leave it to the universe to not only constantly surprise me, but to sock it to me with challenges I never would have thought to consider.
Most of you reading this blog have met Mallika in person and you know that her eyes are indeed very striking. When she looks at you, there is an engagement and a focus that's hard to deny, and many people point to the color of her eyes as the source of this power. They are striking, they are beautiful, and they add a whole different dimension to her being a mixed-race girl and my parenting of her that strives to be anti-racist.
It's just a little bit, or a lot bit, of a conundrum. With friends, particularly ones whose politics I share, it's pretty comfortable to just say yes, her eyes are beautiful, and isn't it funny they came out blue? But even so, I am often aware, especially when there are other children around, that other kids don't frequently receive the kind of complimentary attention Mallika does. Even if they don't have beautiful eyes, sometimes their hair is gorgeous or their smile is shining or their laugh infectious... And sometimes their eyes are beautiful. But brown. It's just a delicate -- not fragile, but delicate -- balance to maintain in which I honestly recognize a beautiful feature of my daughter and don't deny or minimize it while also striving to honor, comment on, and draw attention to the wonderful physical attributes of other kids. And the physicality IS important, especially when it comes to race. Racialized features + young girls = a potent mix. Sure, I also make it a point to do a lot of positive reinforcement with kids of things like skills, abilities, behavior, character. But how you look DOES matter and matters a lot, and I feel it's important for me to do what I can to help create a context for kids that doesn't ignore that social reality. And it's also important to me to valorize physical features that aren't associated with whiteness.
The moments that are viscerally uncomfortable, however, more often are with strangers, but perhaps I'll write about that on a different day. There's weird crap that comes out when people interact with kids, and people's interactions with my kid are no exception.
On a related note, I have to say I really like how Mohan has handled this eye color thing. Many women in similar situations have had their husbands/partners question who the baby's father is and/or left them high and dry to raise the baby on their own. Thank god I never even had to worry about that. I have actually learned a lot about how to handle the blue-eyed thing from Mohan's good-humored approach. In response to people saying things like, "Where did she get those eyes?!?", he's said things like, "Oh, probably some Portuguese hanky-panky with the Tamils back when they colonized Sri Lanka." (16th century, before the Dutch, before the British.) Or even just, "Hey, it's just a great irony of life and my anti-racist politics to have a blue-eyed Tamil daughter!"
I don't know if it was my intelligence, my intuition, or my good fortune to have chosen such a great husband. Or maybe I just fell in love with his eyes.
Peace,
Briana
What I don't think I ever imagined, however, was that my child would end up with blue eyes! Leave it to the universe to not only constantly surprise me, but to sock it to me with challenges I never would have thought to consider.
Most of you reading this blog have met Mallika in person and you know that her eyes are indeed very striking. When she looks at you, there is an engagement and a focus that's hard to deny, and many people point to the color of her eyes as the source of this power. They are striking, they are beautiful, and they add a whole different dimension to her being a mixed-race girl and my parenting of her that strives to be anti-racist.
It's just a little bit, or a lot bit, of a conundrum. With friends, particularly ones whose politics I share, it's pretty comfortable to just say yes, her eyes are beautiful, and isn't it funny they came out blue? But even so, I am often aware, especially when there are other children around, that other kids don't frequently receive the kind of complimentary attention Mallika does. Even if they don't have beautiful eyes, sometimes their hair is gorgeous or their smile is shining or their laugh infectious... And sometimes their eyes are beautiful. But brown. It's just a delicate -- not fragile, but delicate -- balance to maintain in which I honestly recognize a beautiful feature of my daughter and don't deny or minimize it while also striving to honor, comment on, and draw attention to the wonderful physical attributes of other kids. And the physicality IS important, especially when it comes to race. Racialized features + young girls = a potent mix. Sure, I also make it a point to do a lot of positive reinforcement with kids of things like skills, abilities, behavior, character. But how you look DOES matter and matters a lot, and I feel it's important for me to do what I can to help create a context for kids that doesn't ignore that social reality. And it's also important to me to valorize physical features that aren't associated with whiteness.
The moments that are viscerally uncomfortable, however, more often are with strangers, but perhaps I'll write about that on a different day. There's weird crap that comes out when people interact with kids, and people's interactions with my kid are no exception.
On a related note, I have to say I really like how Mohan has handled this eye color thing. Many women in similar situations have had their husbands/partners question who the baby's father is and/or left them high and dry to raise the baby on their own. Thank god I never even had to worry about that. I have actually learned a lot about how to handle the blue-eyed thing from Mohan's good-humored approach. In response to people saying things like, "Where did she get those eyes?!?", he's said things like, "Oh, probably some Portuguese hanky-panky with the Tamils back when they colonized Sri Lanka." (16th century, before the Dutch, before the British.) Or even just, "Hey, it's just a great irony of life and my anti-racist politics to have a blue-eyed Tamil daughter!"
I don't know if it was my intelligence, my intuition, or my good fortune to have chosen such a great husband. Or maybe I just fell in love with his eyes.
Peace,
Briana
Thursday, March 10, 2011
post-partum dream
Hi friends,
Wow. I had not expected the momentous outpouring of love I've received from you in response to this project! It totally feels like I walked into a room of all my favorite people from all different areas of my life and received a million smiles and hugs all at one go. Thank you so much for the gift of loving encouragement. It makes me really aware of how fortunate I am to have such wonderful people to share my life with.
And it also makes me all the more able to enter the space of vulnerability needed for writing.
I'm going to get myself a cup of coffee and then launch in! ;)
Opposite my desk (I work in an MBA program, mind you!) I have a poster that I've had for many years that I still love and look at every day. It has a photograph of Audre Lorde, hands raised, gaze slightly up, and a smile on her lips. The quote says, "When I dare to be powerful -- to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid."
I also remember the writing advice, perhaps from Natalie Goldberg: "Go for the jugular."
Plus, at this stage in life, time's a wasting!
(oh, hilarious. Ready to write now and I get a call from Germany, a call from Mallika's pediatrician, and a call from China all in a row! There are drawbacks to writing while at work.)
The political and physical dimensions of race and racism shifted to a very different level for me with Mallika's birth. She was born just two weeks after Obama's inauguration, which had been such an amazing and hopeful moment. On inauguration day, I remember going over to the Center for African and African-American Studies to watch the ceremonies on TV with a group of people. While there, I felt my place in history so distinctly -- so many things that had happened to me in my individual life and all the forces, decades and centuries old, that proceeded my sitting there with my enormous stomach, carrying my mixed-race child, and watching and listening while a mixed-race Black man became president.
However, the significance of Obama's election took on a different dimension when Mallika was born.
I was still in the hospital and recovering from the incrdulousness that after labor and delivery, there was still more to do -- what? a crying, hungry baby??!! where's my well-deserved nap??!! I hadn't slept more than maybe 15 minutes at a stretch in at least 24 hours, but when I was finally able to really SLEEP, I had a very powerful and disturbing dream.
In this dream, I was living and working with a group of people, a small group of people, of all different racial backgrounds, though most of us were young. We were living in a very bounded space -- somewhat like an office or an office with cubicles. It was very clear to all of us that this space and our lives within it were very, very vulnerable. We had to be constantly vigilant, watching for threats all the time, working in shifts to keep doing our work while also protecting our little community. In fact, as Mohan helpfully observed, it was very much like in the Matrix! We all knew we were fighting every moment of every day to keep ourselves and each other together. What was very striking, however, was that even though we knew that we would "lose" people to the outside forces, there was no sense that these losses would be betrayals. We all fully understood that the pressures we were facing were shared by all and that we were all doing everything in our power to keep ourselves and each other together.
So, we were used to being under siege and having to confront all kinds of threats all the time -- our foes were very strong, very smart, very strategic, and ever-present.
What happened in the dream is that I received a package addressed to me. It was a very large, padded manila envelope, addressed to me in somewhat hurried, all-caps handwriting. I knew that I had to open it and, when I did, I found, to my horror, that it contained a human leg. And not just any leg. It was the skin of Obama's leg, and it had been stuffed with ground-up Obama, like a sausage. They had killed him just to be able to send me this horrifying message: if I was going to celebrate the "mixing" of races, they were going to let me know how much power they had to destroy mixed race people, including the President of the United States. I held this leg and mourned for the space of a breath the disgusting violence enacted on this man who, after all he had lived, had become yet another victim of violence. I knew that "they" could see me, though, and they knew exactly how this piece of gory hate mail would effect me. I also understood that, though I wanted to scream and vomit, it was absolutely essential to take a deep breath, put the leg down, and carry on as if nothing had happened.
I awoke then, and cried out for Mohan who was sleeping on a couch in the hospital room with me. He came and held me while I sobbed uncontrollably and I tried to tell him about the dream and how disgusting, horrifying, and terrorizing it was. A nurse heard me and came to check that I was OK -- I must have sounded like a crazy lady. But perhaps new mothers go through similar emotional or psychological experiences post-partum more often than I'm aware.
I'm sure there are many interprettations of this dream, but what I felt very clearly has stayed with me ever since: that racial violence is ever-present and that, in giving birth to Mallika, I now occupy a different place in society, a place that requires a certain type and amount of vigilance to protect myself and the people I love.
Writing about this now, I reflect on the fact that, in my dream, silence and carrying on as if nothing had happened was the response I clearly felt was my only option. Sometimes this may be true, especially when oppression is at its greatest. But perhaps my waking reality offers the possibility of other responses.
Peace,
Briana
Wow. I had not expected the momentous outpouring of love I've received from you in response to this project! It totally feels like I walked into a room of all my favorite people from all different areas of my life and received a million smiles and hugs all at one go. Thank you so much for the gift of loving encouragement. It makes me really aware of how fortunate I am to have such wonderful people to share my life with.
And it also makes me all the more able to enter the space of vulnerability needed for writing.
I'm going to get myself a cup of coffee and then launch in! ;)
Opposite my desk (I work in an MBA program, mind you!) I have a poster that I've had for many years that I still love and look at every day. It has a photograph of Audre Lorde, hands raised, gaze slightly up, and a smile on her lips. The quote says, "When I dare to be powerful -- to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid."
I also remember the writing advice, perhaps from Natalie Goldberg: "Go for the jugular."
Plus, at this stage in life, time's a wasting!
(oh, hilarious. Ready to write now and I get a call from Germany, a call from Mallika's pediatrician, and a call from China all in a row! There are drawbacks to writing while at work.)
The political and physical dimensions of race and racism shifted to a very different level for me with Mallika's birth. She was born just two weeks after Obama's inauguration, which had been such an amazing and hopeful moment. On inauguration day, I remember going over to the Center for African and African-American Studies to watch the ceremonies on TV with a group of people. While there, I felt my place in history so distinctly -- so many things that had happened to me in my individual life and all the forces, decades and centuries old, that proceeded my sitting there with my enormous stomach, carrying my mixed-race child, and watching and listening while a mixed-race Black man became president.
However, the significance of Obama's election took on a different dimension when Mallika was born.
I was still in the hospital and recovering from the incrdulousness that after labor and delivery, there was still more to do -- what? a crying, hungry baby??!! where's my well-deserved nap??!! I hadn't slept more than maybe 15 minutes at a stretch in at least 24 hours, but when I was finally able to really SLEEP, I had a very powerful and disturbing dream.
In this dream, I was living and working with a group of people, a small group of people, of all different racial backgrounds, though most of us were young. We were living in a very bounded space -- somewhat like an office or an office with cubicles. It was very clear to all of us that this space and our lives within it were very, very vulnerable. We had to be constantly vigilant, watching for threats all the time, working in shifts to keep doing our work while also protecting our little community. In fact, as Mohan helpfully observed, it was very much like in the Matrix! We all knew we were fighting every moment of every day to keep ourselves and each other together. What was very striking, however, was that even though we knew that we would "lose" people to the outside forces, there was no sense that these losses would be betrayals. We all fully understood that the pressures we were facing were shared by all and that we were all doing everything in our power to keep ourselves and each other together.
So, we were used to being under siege and having to confront all kinds of threats all the time -- our foes were very strong, very smart, very strategic, and ever-present.
What happened in the dream is that I received a package addressed to me. It was a very large, padded manila envelope, addressed to me in somewhat hurried, all-caps handwriting. I knew that I had to open it and, when I did, I found, to my horror, that it contained a human leg. And not just any leg. It was the skin of Obama's leg, and it had been stuffed with ground-up Obama, like a sausage. They had killed him just to be able to send me this horrifying message: if I was going to celebrate the "mixing" of races, they were going to let me know how much power they had to destroy mixed race people, including the President of the United States. I held this leg and mourned for the space of a breath the disgusting violence enacted on this man who, after all he had lived, had become yet another victim of violence. I knew that "they" could see me, though, and they knew exactly how this piece of gory hate mail would effect me. I also understood that, though I wanted to scream and vomit, it was absolutely essential to take a deep breath, put the leg down, and carry on as if nothing had happened.
I awoke then, and cried out for Mohan who was sleeping on a couch in the hospital room with me. He came and held me while I sobbed uncontrollably and I tried to tell him about the dream and how disgusting, horrifying, and terrorizing it was. A nurse heard me and came to check that I was OK -- I must have sounded like a crazy lady. But perhaps new mothers go through similar emotional or psychological experiences post-partum more often than I'm aware.
I'm sure there are many interprettations of this dream, but what I felt very clearly has stayed with me ever since: that racial violence is ever-present and that, in giving birth to Mallika, I now occupy a different place in society, a place that requires a certain type and amount of vigilance to protect myself and the people I love.
Writing about this now, I reflect on the fact that, in my dream, silence and carrying on as if nothing had happened was the response I clearly felt was my only option. Sometimes this may be true, especially when oppression is at its greatest. But perhaps my waking reality offers the possibility of other responses.
Peace,
Briana
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday thoughts
Hello!
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Christian calendar, Lent is a holy period of forty days prior to the Easter triduum. The Easter Triduum is Good Friday -- when Jesus was crucified; Saturday -- grief and despair; and Sunday -- when Jesus rose from the dead. The forty day period of Lent invites Christians to return to their faith through prayer, fasting, reflection, etc in preparation for Easter. It's forty days because Jesus spent forty days in the desert, praying, fasting, and confronting multiple temptations.
Anyway, that's just a quick summary for those who don't know and wondered. Some of you may also not know that I'm Catholic, though I also claim to be part of the "loyal opposition" to the Church. If you're reading this, you know me well enough to know that I have a number of problems with the Catholic church. Maybe I'll get into some of that, maybe not -- time will tell. But suffice to say that I enjoy the liturgical calendar and how it helps guide me in life.
So, after thinking in the last day about this writing and about sharing it with you, what I most want to write about is being a parent, particularly being the white, American mother of a mixed-race (and mixed just-about-everything) child. Parenting is serious business. Race is serious business. And a lot of my conscious and subconscious time is occupied by these issues, and I think writing about them would be good for me. Not like taking my vitamins or eating my green veggies good-for-me. Just good for me. More like exercising, eating good food, having good sex, or getting a good night's sleep good-for-me.
Also, I remember way back in the previous century when Mohan and I first started dating and immediately ran into major issues around race and racism. I remember running to the college library one Sunday morning and frantically using all my research skills (which included card catalogs and large, vinyl-bound volumes -- yes, I am indeed that old) to try to find something about interracial relationships. I was desperate and knew I needed guidance from some trusted advisors, i.e. books. I was livid that I didn't immediately find things that were relevant. But over the years, many people, as well as books, journals, magazines, and yes, even blogs, have helped address some of those questions and difficulties. I especially remember one large book I found in a second-hand store in 1995 that was a collection of racial autobiographies. Some of the people featured there are still writers I come across or seek out, and I remember feeling that these individuals, with their lovely black-and-white photos and their thoughtful words, were part of a community I needed.
To be perfectly frank, that was something like sixteen years ago. A LOT has happened since then, I have learned a lot, including from many of you. And, like most knowledge, I also now have some vague sense of how much I don't know and still very much need to understand. There are many ways to learn. Writing is one of them.
More tomorrow.
Peace,
Briana
P.S. I found the book mentioned above: Names We Call Home: Autobiography on Racial Identity by Becky Thompson and Sangeeta Tyagi.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Christian calendar, Lent is a holy period of forty days prior to the Easter triduum. The Easter Triduum is Good Friday -- when Jesus was crucified; Saturday -- grief and despair; and Sunday -- when Jesus rose from the dead. The forty day period of Lent invites Christians to return to their faith through prayer, fasting, reflection, etc in preparation for Easter. It's forty days because Jesus spent forty days in the desert, praying, fasting, and confronting multiple temptations.
Anyway, that's just a quick summary for those who don't know and wondered. Some of you may also not know that I'm Catholic, though I also claim to be part of the "loyal opposition" to the Church. If you're reading this, you know me well enough to know that I have a number of problems with the Catholic church. Maybe I'll get into some of that, maybe not -- time will tell. But suffice to say that I enjoy the liturgical calendar and how it helps guide me in life.
So, after thinking in the last day about this writing and about sharing it with you, what I most want to write about is being a parent, particularly being the white, American mother of a mixed-race (and mixed just-about-everything) child. Parenting is serious business. Race is serious business. And a lot of my conscious and subconscious time is occupied by these issues, and I think writing about them would be good for me. Not like taking my vitamins or eating my green veggies good-for-me. Just good for me. More like exercising, eating good food, having good sex, or getting a good night's sleep good-for-me.
Also, I remember way back in the previous century when Mohan and I first started dating and immediately ran into major issues around race and racism. I remember running to the college library one Sunday morning and frantically using all my research skills (which included card catalogs and large, vinyl-bound volumes -- yes, I am indeed that old) to try to find something about interracial relationships. I was desperate and knew I needed guidance from some trusted advisors, i.e. books. I was livid that I didn't immediately find things that were relevant. But over the years, many people, as well as books, journals, magazines, and yes, even blogs, have helped address some of those questions and difficulties. I especially remember one large book I found in a second-hand store in 1995 that was a collection of racial autobiographies. Some of the people featured there are still writers I come across or seek out, and I remember feeling that these individuals, with their lovely black-and-white photos and their thoughtful words, were part of a community I needed.
To be perfectly frank, that was something like sixteen years ago. A LOT has happened since then, I have learned a lot, including from many of you. And, like most knowledge, I also now have some vague sense of how much I don't know and still very much need to understand. There are many ways to learn. Writing is one of them.
More tomorrow.
Peace,
Briana
P.S. I found the book mentioned above: Names We Call Home: Autobiography on Racial Identity by Becky Thompson and Sangeeta Tyagi.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Fat Tuesday
Hi friends!
Today is Mardi Gras and, silly me, I just learned that Mardi Gras actually MEANS "Fat Tuesday" -- ha ha! I've got New Orleans jazz on the pandora and had pancakes (wheat-free) for lunch along with some homemade apple blueberry sauce. It's nice to celebrate.
On the way to work I was reflecting on a blog that a friend just started and also on the experience of sharing my writing about becoming a new mom. The thought wafted through my little brain as I was waiting for the "walk" sign that maybe Lent would be a good time to start my own blog about all the subjects under the sun that I think about and sometimes want to share.
By the time the "walk" sign changed, I decided to follow that wafting thought, if for no other reason than I normally wouldn't follow through. After all, Lent is a time for reflection and writing seems an entirely appropriate way to reflect.
There is also discipline to Lenten practice, and my discipline is to write for at least 15 minutes each day (for the 40 days of Lent) Monday through Friday on this blog. I'll do it at work, since I love to find small and big ways to jab back at the capitalist machine, and also since I used to (with permission) pump breast milk for 20 minutes each morning and afternoon while at work and it didn't hurt my productivity one bit.
And also because, if you want change in your life, walk into it.
I look forward to sharing with you and invite comments, feedback, conversation.
Peace,
Briana
Today is Mardi Gras and, silly me, I just learned that Mardi Gras actually MEANS "Fat Tuesday" -- ha ha! I've got New Orleans jazz on the pandora and had pancakes (wheat-free) for lunch along with some homemade apple blueberry sauce. It's nice to celebrate.
On the way to work I was reflecting on a blog that a friend just started and also on the experience of sharing my writing about becoming a new mom. The thought wafted through my little brain as I was waiting for the "walk" sign that maybe Lent would be a good time to start my own blog about all the subjects under the sun that I think about and sometimes want to share.
By the time the "walk" sign changed, I decided to follow that wafting thought, if for no other reason than I normally wouldn't follow through. After all, Lent is a time for reflection and writing seems an entirely appropriate way to reflect.
There is also discipline to Lenten practice, and my discipline is to write for at least 15 minutes each day (for the 40 days of Lent) Monday through Friday on this blog. I'll do it at work, since I love to find small and big ways to jab back at the capitalist machine, and also since I used to (with permission) pump breast milk for 20 minutes each morning and afternoon while at work and it didn't hurt my productivity one bit.
And also because, if you want change in your life, walk into it.
I look forward to sharing with you and invite comments, feedback, conversation.
Peace,
Briana
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