June 13th, 33 years ago
She gave up her life to fight
against poverty, injustice, oppression.
I don't know if she knew the cost
nor the kind of ripples it would
make.
June 3rd, 10 days ago
I stand up against it too,
in a sleeveless gray shirt and naked feet.
Stop.
A glass jar in the corner of the closet
filled with sage, smoke, and secrets.
Two poems from mother and friend.
A congested throat trying to release
the locked voice.
Stop.
I feel his face in mine.
I lay down and feel his body on mine.
Body remembers what the mind must
lock away safely.
A sore jaw and tight IT-bands
I am safe, she says.
Does this mean what I think it means?
A long, intentional pause.
A gentle, clear, and honest answer.
Yes.
Yes, it does.
What does it change?
Everything.
Put it on a paper in a glass jar with sage smoke in the corner of
the closet contained.
Next to flowers and pictures and
drawings and pain.
You look like her, Jessica.
Eyes rimmed red, feet on the ground
Practice the roots.
You know, she died.
Along with 30 other young people
Bombed from above and bulldozed
over by soldier trained and endorsed
in the land I now live.
They can't even pronounce her name.
Abuelito found her head a month
later because she was one of only
two women and the only with short
hair.
He carried her head and a limb from
Managua to Esteli to be buried
with family.
You may rape me, America.
You may yell in my face and threaten
me.
You may even kill me like you killed
my Tia Nhordia.
No punishment you might inflict on me is worse than the punishment I put on myself by conspiring in my own diminishment.
I stand with much deeper roots.
With wind in my screams and
fire in my gut.
Kuan Yin in my hand and
Guadalupe on my back.
Rosaries around my neck
Prayers from black angels binding
and casting out all evil in
the Holy name of Jesus.
Fingers digging in my back ribs.
Salt and Holy Water and a circle
of candles.
Singing in tongues.
Drumming and swinging with big hair.
Borrowed sweat pants.
"I pray that Jessica is safe and keeps coming back so I have someone to play with."
Stacks of court orders and pictures.
Stolen white board lists changing
each day demanding.
The first time I call this place
Home.
I am bringing it all,
Surrounded in light blue light.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
What does courage feel like?
The secrets make us sick.
This past Sunday, I was at my friend Peggy's house and her roommate Ryan went crazy. I can't diagnose it or anything, but we are pretty sure he had some sort of break and he became violent. The event was both domestic violence and a hate crime. To be very honest, I'm just grateful none of us got stabbed. That's the short version of the story.
I'm reflecting on the fact that this marks a 3rd major trauma in my life since graduating from college (if I count "minor" traumas, I guess it would be the 6th or 7th...wow). It's not clear to me why I'm attracting all of this, but here I am.
At one point, Ryan, a white guy, was yelling at the top of his lungs at three women of color (latina, asian, and black). Yelling that we were racist, out of touch with reality, what's wrong with you people, n-word, Asian Pride, Jim Jones. And I stood up and faced Ryan and told him to stop. I stood there in between Ryan and the others. He yelled so loud that he was spitting in my face. And he came up to me, I stood my ground, in my face, I stood my ground, past the point where I could no longer cross my eyes, I stood my ground, literally an inch from my face. He threatened me. He yelled that if I was going to act like a man, he would treat me like a man. A disgusting understanding that both to be a man requires violence and dominance, and that strength is not attributable to women.
The story keeps going. We called the police twice and they never showed up. Ryan vandalized the entire house with racially charged hatred, all aimed at Peggy. The landlady managed to get him out and they changed the lock on the door. Everyone is safe. Both myself and Peggy are getting restraining/harassment orders. The community response has been an abundant blessing.
I've gotten a variety of responses for my role in all of this, but all of them label my actions as bravery. "Why do you have to be so brave all the time, damnit." Hero role. "Your strength and courage was beautiful to behold." "Thank you thank you thank you thank you."
It didn't feel like courage to me, but what the fuck does bravery feel like, anyways? My stance came from a space where I refused to be yelled at, I refused to let Peggy be yelled at. I refused to be abused. I've been abused too many times before and I never fought. I knew, as Parker Palmer says, that no punishment Ryan could have given me for opposing him would have been worse than sitting there and taking the abuse, conspiring in my own diminishment. What I do to myself in my silence is much worse than anything Ryan could have done, even if he had stabbed me.
I don't think I can call what I did brave or courageous. No. After all, in retrospect it was quite dangerous and a bit reckless. But if there is any courage in there, it came from the inner choice I made to find a voice I had believed was lost, and stand with a body I believed to be too broken.
that's kind of cool.
and I continue healing.
This past Sunday, I was at my friend Peggy's house and her roommate Ryan went crazy. I can't diagnose it or anything, but we are pretty sure he had some sort of break and he became violent. The event was both domestic violence and a hate crime. To be very honest, I'm just grateful none of us got stabbed. That's the short version of the story.
I'm reflecting on the fact that this marks a 3rd major trauma in my life since graduating from college (if I count "minor" traumas, I guess it would be the 6th or 7th...wow). It's not clear to me why I'm attracting all of this, but here I am.
At one point, Ryan, a white guy, was yelling at the top of his lungs at three women of color (latina, asian, and black). Yelling that we were racist, out of touch with reality, what's wrong with you people, n-word, Asian Pride, Jim Jones. And I stood up and faced Ryan and told him to stop. I stood there in between Ryan and the others. He yelled so loud that he was spitting in my face. And he came up to me, I stood my ground, in my face, I stood my ground, past the point where I could no longer cross my eyes, I stood my ground, literally an inch from my face. He threatened me. He yelled that if I was going to act like a man, he would treat me like a man. A disgusting understanding that both to be a man requires violence and dominance, and that strength is not attributable to women.
The story keeps going. We called the police twice and they never showed up. Ryan vandalized the entire house with racially charged hatred, all aimed at Peggy. The landlady managed to get him out and they changed the lock on the door. Everyone is safe. Both myself and Peggy are getting restraining/harassment orders. The community response has been an abundant blessing.
I've gotten a variety of responses for my role in all of this, but all of them label my actions as bravery. "Why do you have to be so brave all the time, damnit." Hero role. "Your strength and courage was beautiful to behold." "Thank you thank you thank you thank you."
It didn't feel like courage to me, but what the fuck does bravery feel like, anyways? My stance came from a space where I refused to be yelled at, I refused to let Peggy be yelled at. I refused to be abused. I've been abused too many times before and I never fought. I knew, as Parker Palmer says, that no punishment Ryan could have given me for opposing him would have been worse than sitting there and taking the abuse, conspiring in my own diminishment. What I do to myself in my silence is much worse than anything Ryan could have done, even if he had stabbed me.
I don't think I can call what I did brave or courageous. No. After all, in retrospect it was quite dangerous and a bit reckless. But if there is any courage in there, it came from the inner choice I made to find a voice I had believed was lost, and stand with a body I believed to be too broken.
that's kind of cool.
and I continue healing.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Violence does not make sense.
The other day someone told me something that has stuck with me.
You are very intelligent, and that is going to be your biggest hindrance. Stop reading. Violence does not make sense. It does not make sense that human beings can hurt each other.
Truth.
Ironically, I want to make sense of that. I think it's because we are all filled with God. Filled to the brim with God. All of us. So how can God violate God? How can Essence kill Essence? How can Self rape Self? I think that's why that Rwandan documentary said "If you knew me, and you knew yourself, you would not have killed me." So how can we both be filled to the brim with God and be so disconnected from God that we violate each other? Okay, yea, that's where it doesn't make any sense.
Sometimes there is nothing you can do about it.
You are very intelligent, and that is going to be your biggest hindrance. Stop reading. Violence does not make sense. It does not make sense that human beings can hurt each other.
Truth.
Ironically, I want to make sense of that. I think it's because we are all filled with God. Filled to the brim with God. All of us. So how can God violate God? How can Essence kill Essence? How can Self rape Self? I think that's why that Rwandan documentary said "If you knew me, and you knew yourself, you would not have killed me." So how can we both be filled to the brim with God and be so disconnected from God that we violate each other? Okay, yea, that's where it doesn't make any sense.
Sometimes there is nothing you can do about it.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
no hay que temer.
from an email my mom sent me (my translation).
Temía estar sola hasta que aprendí a quererme a mi misma.
I was afraid to be alone, until I learned to love myself.
Temía fracasar hasta que me di cuenta que, únicamente fracaso si no lo intento.
I was afraid of failing, until I realized I only fail if I don't try.
Temía lo que la gente opinara de mí, hasta que me di cuenta que, de todos modos opinarían de mi.
I was afraid of people's opinions of me, until I realized, no matter what, they will have opinions of me.
Temía me rechazaran, hasta que entendí que debía tener fe en mi misma.
I was afraid of rejection, until I understood that I must have faith in myself.
Temía al dolor, hasta que aprendí que este es necesario para crecer.
I was afraid of pain, until I learned that it is necessary for growth.
Temía a la verdad, hasta que descubrí la fealdad de las mentiras.
I was afraid of truth, until I discovered the ugliness of lies.
Temía a la muerte, hasta que aprendí que no es el final sino más bien el comienzo.
I was afraid of death, until I learned it is not the end, but rather a beginning.
Temía al odio, hasta que me di cuenta que no es otra cosa más que ignorancia.
I was afraid of hatred, until I realized it is nothing more than ignorance.
Temía al ridículo, hasta que aprendí a reírme de mi misma.
I was afraid of ridicule, until I learned to laugh at myself.
Temía hacerme viejo, hasta que comprendí que ganaba sabiduría día a día.
I was afraid of getting old, until I understood that I gain wisdom day by day.
Temía al pasado, hasta que comprendí que no podía herirme más.
I was afraid of the past, until I understood that it cannot hurt me anymore.
Temía a la oscuridad, hasta que vi la belleza de la luz de una estrella
I was afraid of darkness, until I saw the beauty of the light of a star.
Temía al cambio, hasta que vi que aún la mariposa más hermosa, necesitaba pasar por una metamorfosis antes de volar.
I was afraid of change, until I saw that even the most beautiful butterfly has to transform before it can fly.
Hagamos que nuestras vidas en cada día tengan más vida y si nos sentimos desfallecer no olvidemos que al final, seimpre hay algo mas.
Let our lives in each day have life, and if we feel ourselves becoming weak, let us not forget that in the end, there is always more.
Temía estar sola hasta que aprendí a quererme a mi misma.
I was afraid to be alone, until I learned to love myself.
Temía fracasar hasta que me di cuenta que, únicamente fracaso si no lo intento.
I was afraid of failing, until I realized I only fail if I don't try.
Temía lo que la gente opinara de mí, hasta que me di cuenta que, de todos modos opinarían de mi.
I was afraid of people's opinions of me, until I realized, no matter what, they will have opinions of me.
Temía me rechazaran, hasta que entendí que debía tener fe en mi misma.
I was afraid of rejection, until I understood that I must have faith in myself.
Temía al dolor, hasta que aprendí que este es necesario para crecer.
I was afraid of pain, until I learned that it is necessary for growth.
Temía a la verdad, hasta que descubrí la fealdad de las mentiras.
I was afraid of truth, until I discovered the ugliness of lies.
Temía a la muerte, hasta que aprendí que no es el final sino más bien el comienzo.
I was afraid of death, until I learned it is not the end, but rather a beginning.
Temía al odio, hasta que me di cuenta que no es otra cosa más que ignorancia.
I was afraid of hatred, until I realized it is nothing more than ignorance.
Temía al ridículo, hasta que aprendí a reírme de mi misma.
I was afraid of ridicule, until I learned to laugh at myself.
Temía hacerme viejo, hasta que comprendí que ganaba sabiduría día a día.
I was afraid of getting old, until I understood that I gain wisdom day by day.
Temía al pasado, hasta que comprendí que no podía herirme más.
I was afraid of the past, until I understood that it cannot hurt me anymore.
Temía a la oscuridad, hasta que vi la belleza de la luz de una estrella
I was afraid of darkness, until I saw the beauty of the light of a star.
Temía al cambio, hasta que vi que aún la mariposa más hermosa, necesitaba pasar por una metamorfosis antes de volar.
I was afraid of change, until I saw that even the most beautiful butterfly has to transform before it can fly.
Hagamos que nuestras vidas en cada día tengan más vida y si nos sentimos desfallecer no olvidemos que al final, seimpre hay algo mas.
Let our lives in each day have life, and if we feel ourselves becoming weak, let us not forget that in the end, there is always more.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
genuine joy.
... has a way of pouring out, whether you intend it to or not.
Much has been shifting for me lately. I'm learning to observe myself. It has created a space for joy to fill. Real joy. Genuine joy.
I was driving back to the CapCorps house after yoga this week and experiencing that joy in me. I parked around the corner from the house, where I always do, and as I was getting out of the car, I accidentally hit the horn with my elbow. Mind you, I am not a clumsy person AT ALL, nor do I ever really use the horn when I'm driving. Well, it just so happened that two guys were walking down the street and turned around when they heard me (accidentally) honk. For a split second they looked intensely at me.
Hey! My bad! I didn't mean to do that, I said.
Hey! How you doing? They relaxed, and laughed.
I'm great. Have a nice day.
You just can't keep genuine joy to yourself. It will find it's way out.
Much has been shifting for me lately. I'm learning to observe myself. It has created a space for joy to fill. Real joy. Genuine joy.
I was driving back to the CapCorps house after yoga this week and experiencing that joy in me. I parked around the corner from the house, where I always do, and as I was getting out of the car, I accidentally hit the horn with my elbow. Mind you, I am not a clumsy person AT ALL, nor do I ever really use the horn when I'm driving. Well, it just so happened that two guys were walking down the street and turned around when they heard me (accidentally) honk. For a split second they looked intensely at me.
Hey! My bad! I didn't mean to do that, I said.
Hey! How you doing? They relaxed, and laughed.
I'm great. Have a nice day.
You just can't keep genuine joy to yourself. It will find it's way out.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
In Lak'ech
Tu eres mi otro yo.
You are my other me.
Si te hago daño a ti,
If I do harm to you,
Me hago daño a mi mismo.
I do harm to myself.
Si te amo y respeto,
If I love and respect you,
Me amo y respeto yo.
I love and respect myself.
You are my other me.
Si te hago daño a ti,
If I do harm to you,
Me hago daño a mi mismo.
I do harm to myself.
Si te amo y respeto,
If I love and respect you,
Me amo y respeto yo.
I love and respect myself.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
chronic pain
I help once a week at a place called the Community-based Chronic Disease Management Clinic (CCDM Clinic). The name explains itself-- we help people manage chronic diseases such as high blood pressure, diabetes, and high cholesterol. I basically help with the flow of the clinic, taking initial info, weights, blood sugar checks, signing women up to get mammograms, and setting up appointments, that kind of thing.
I come into contact with pretty much everyone who comes into the clinic. Often there is enough time to talk a little with people and hear some stories about what is going on in the neighborhood. The stories are also often heartbreaking. Police brutality a couple blocks away, deaths, racist treatment from doctors. Sometimes the stories are lighthearted-- A week ago one woman insisted that I looked just like her granddaughter, Kobe, when I smiled at her. She whipped out a picture and it was as if I was looking at my 2nd grade self. She called out, "Bye, Kobe" when she left, and I told her to take good care. Oddly enough, this happened again to me this week by a coworker who was "freaked out" by how much I look like her granddaughter. It is interesting to me that both the grandmothers were black and both the granddaughters were biracial, but none of us would be considered the same race. Just goes to show how un-scientific (but not insignificant) race is. But I digress.
Working at the clinic makes me think quite a lot about chronic pain, what is really at the root of that pain, and what is really causing it. I mean, come on, OF COURSE the people who come into the clinic have heart problems and tension, just listen to the stories they tell. Their hearts are hurting. But instead of undoing racism and poverty in our communities, we tell people to take medication and eat better. That way, they are told it is their fault for the condition they find themselves in, someone profits off of their suffering through pharmaceuticals, and we don't have to lift a finger working to change our world.
I encourage you to check out some talks I've been listening to by Dr. Gabor Mate, who understands that we cannot separate the mind from the body and we cannot separate individuals from their environment. He specifically talks about high blood pressure and cholesterol and diabetes as a result of chronic stress manifested in the body. It is well worth the time listening to him if we are going to learn how to heal.
To be most honest, the reason all of this interests me so much is because I'm searching for how to heal my own chronic pain. I've had persistent stomach problems since coming back from Peru, and I know it's not really about diet or bacteria. Something deep in my human organism is crying out and my gut enflames. I understand that if I am to be a force of healing, I must heal myself.
I don't know how to heal myself, but I'm learning. I know I have everything I need to heal. I know healing comes from within, that I actually have to want to heal. Or at least be willing to be willing. To release the need for this in my life. I know I belong here, now. I know we belong to each other. I know I need to relax. I know it is okay to feel. I know that the longer I try to hide from pain, the longer it festers in me. I'm noticing my defense mechanisms. I know my body has knowledge beyond me. Something lately has been really shifting for me. I can't and won't explain it, at least not yet. But I am observing the sensations of my body, whatever comes, whenever it comes.
I pray. I meditate. I move. I notice.
I'm going to create more space at the CCDM clinic to connect to people. To hear stories, to listen. I think its that connection that helps us heal, not just manage.
We belong to each other.
I come into contact with pretty much everyone who comes into the clinic. Often there is enough time to talk a little with people and hear some stories about what is going on in the neighborhood. The stories are also often heartbreaking. Police brutality a couple blocks away, deaths, racist treatment from doctors. Sometimes the stories are lighthearted-- A week ago one woman insisted that I looked just like her granddaughter, Kobe, when I smiled at her. She whipped out a picture and it was as if I was looking at my 2nd grade self. She called out, "Bye, Kobe" when she left, and I told her to take good care. Oddly enough, this happened again to me this week by a coworker who was "freaked out" by how much I look like her granddaughter. It is interesting to me that both the grandmothers were black and both the granddaughters were biracial, but none of us would be considered the same race. Just goes to show how un-scientific (but not insignificant) race is. But I digress.
Working at the clinic makes me think quite a lot about chronic pain, what is really at the root of that pain, and what is really causing it. I mean, come on, OF COURSE the people who come into the clinic have heart problems and tension, just listen to the stories they tell. Their hearts are hurting. But instead of undoing racism and poverty in our communities, we tell people to take medication and eat better. That way, they are told it is their fault for the condition they find themselves in, someone profits off of their suffering through pharmaceuticals, and we don't have to lift a finger working to change our world.
I encourage you to check out some talks I've been listening to by Dr. Gabor Mate, who understands that we cannot separate the mind from the body and we cannot separate individuals from their environment. He specifically talks about high blood pressure and cholesterol and diabetes as a result of chronic stress manifested in the body. It is well worth the time listening to him if we are going to learn how to heal.
To be most honest, the reason all of this interests me so much is because I'm searching for how to heal my own chronic pain. I've had persistent stomach problems since coming back from Peru, and I know it's not really about diet or bacteria. Something deep in my human organism is crying out and my gut enflames. I understand that if I am to be a force of healing, I must heal myself.
I don't know how to heal myself, but I'm learning. I know I have everything I need to heal. I know healing comes from within, that I actually have to want to heal. Or at least be willing to be willing. To release the need for this in my life. I know I belong here, now. I know we belong to each other. I know I need to relax. I know it is okay to feel. I know that the longer I try to hide from pain, the longer it festers in me. I'm noticing my defense mechanisms. I know my body has knowledge beyond me. Something lately has been really shifting for me. I can't and won't explain it, at least not yet. But I am observing the sensations of my body, whatever comes, whenever it comes.
I pray. I meditate. I move. I notice.
I'm going to create more space at the CCDM clinic to connect to people. To hear stories, to listen. I think its that connection that helps us heal, not just manage.
We belong to each other.
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