Don’t F*ck with My Womyn’s History Month 2015

March marks Womyn’s History Month in the US, and has International Womyn’s day on the 8th. On cue, there are tons of articles popping up to help raise awareness on gender justice and women’s empowerment. As I finally get my fingers tapping and writing for myself on this blog, I want to take a more personal slant with this month’s entry.

Lately, I have been experiencing absurdly high amounts of microaggressions from men. Although this is nothing new, I should mention that I have drastically down-sized my exposure to social spheres. I go to work, and go home. On weekends, I go for walks, maybe go to a community function to see some friends, then go home. For the past several months, I’ve tried to spend as little time as possible being out and about in society because depression and anxiety hit me pretty hard this winter. Given that I’ve limited the amount of opportunities to make myself vulnerable to harassment, it still happens. Such as (and these are just a few):

1. Not being clear with intentions
   
2. Using my front-line position at work as an ego boost
   
3. …Or mistaking my general personality for attraction
   

These are minor and not threatening by any means, but it explains just how normalized we have been made to just deal. Although I exaggerate that stuff like this happens to me ERRDAY, it is damn close to it. Just this morning, there was an elementary school class taking a field trip that I passed on my way to work. I heard one of the boys from behind me try to holler, and I cringed as I imagined him a few years later growing into manhood doing the same cat-call to another sister on the street.

So, what is my point? My point is I’m pretty fucking ticked off. Enduring stuff like this every single day or multiple times in one day, no matter what city, context or space – we put up with it all. I’m also pissed that even other women take the “I don’t know why you’re still so surprised” attitude when I bring this stuff up. They mishear me because I am not surprised, but I am indeed angry. So please, don’t fuck with my Womyn’s History Month. Or in other words, my own history month as a womyn. Because really, we should celebrate ourselves.

Last month, I payed attention to the #surivorloveletter that went around on Valentine’s day. If you haven’t done so yet, I encourage you to look it up now. Through all the ugliness and pain and suffering, survivors truly are beautiful souls to cherish and learn from. What breaks my heart most – because this has happened to me – is that survivors of any form of sexual abuse are often left or blamed in relationships for being “crazy.” Even more heart wrenching is that so many men out there are most likely going to attempt a relationship with another survivor (unbeknownst to them) down the road and then flee for the same reason, tearing yet another sister apart. Many don’t understand what it is like to have to heal from traumatic pasts, and in my experience, most don’t have the patience. So, during my exploration of “survivors” and “lovers,” I really intended to question WHY THE FUCK men expect to find a non-crazy, strong as hell womyn when 1 in 6 of us have survived sexual abuse? To add context:

While there are many things we can do to heal ourselves, having extra support from loved ones and dear friends always helps. Here were some of the links that were posted on that thread:

• Supporting Your Partner in Their Healing From Sexual Trauma
• 5 Reasons Why Shaming Survivors into Reporting Rape is Counter Productive
• A Primer on the Neurobiology of Trauma
• Building Supportive Communities: How We Can Make Every Space Safe for Survivors

And other related links:

• Photographer Captures What Male Entitlement Feels Like to Women Who Experience It
• What Video Games Can Teach Us About Consent and Intimacy
• “To the Indigenous Woman,” Poem by the 1941s
• Baby Girl – Brotha Ali

So this month, I’m turning inwards and reflecting on my own experience as being womyn as well as explore how I can heal more deeply than I have already. But don’t worry – I’ll emerge soon enough, because I know I have fierce sisters who are looking out.

In the meantime, you can catch me upholding the legacy and power of women’s resistance here and abroad at the 105th International Working Women’s Day March at Lake Merritt Amphitheater this weekend. Hope to see you there!

Gave Thanks to the Ancestors & Elders

Because I am still grappling with how certain cultural practices and spiritual systems are being misappropriated and/or further colonized, for Dia de Los Muertos this year, I decided to leave an atang offering instead. In the Filipino tradition, an atang is a food offering to the ancestors to ward off evil by keeping their spirits cared for and happy. This post is backdated. 

I visited the ancestors today.

Lemons for my Loleng/Jimenez lolo’t lola sa tuhod because of the calamansi tree that sprouted in my grandmas front yard, after she saved money to bring her parents over. (I didn’t have any calamansi, so I improvised with lemons from my own yard).
     A rose for my Benetua lolo’t lola, because I remember stories of how fragrant and alive my Lolo’s rose bushes were. And Lola used rose twigs to keep her ears gauged. (This single rose was the last we had in our garden for the season. Yes it is
thorny, and yes it’s rose scent is strong).
          A donut for my dad because he always took us for donuts, and now it’s my own tradition to bring him one when I visit. I also brought him a lemon from our backyard.
               Extra citrus for everyone, because it’s in season, and
                    A sprig of bay leaves – from the fallen branch I found – to remind them of adobo, the best comfort food there is.

I am thankful for their strength and struggles, and for providing me with the lessons necessary to be who and where I am today.

To the ancestors:

it is my hope we remember your stories and pass them to the generations to come so that they might know more than just your/our chronology, but your personalities as well. Y’all were wise, warm, maybe batshit cray because of the war… And loved and missed. I hope I’m making you proud. 

Love,
Your lil’ descendent. ‪

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This Thanksgiving (Thanks-taking / Thangs-taken) I will be spending time with friends and family. I am thankful to have parents and elders who had strength when they immigrated to this country, and I’m thankful that I haven’t had to face much struggle because of them.

I just want to take a moment to recognize that we are all settlers in this country unless you are indigenous. However many generations, whatever number, I don’t care – I just ask on this holiday at least admit to the fact that this day celebrates and perpetuates colonization, genocide, and continued oppression of the native people of this land. 

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Wearing my ‘Redskins = Racist’ Tee in a Bourgeois Area

Last month I picked up this delightful tee and have been giddy to wear it everywhere I go. I decided that the first time I would wear it, it would have to be in a place with high ignoramuses who bleed privilege. Yeah yeah yeah…call me out for being an attention-whore who seeks shock value, whatever. Anyway–

Where did I go? Santana Row, of course! I get this gag reflex every time I go there. Although I’m overly generalizing, it seems to me that everyone wants to be like Kim Kardashian and Kanye West out there. People who hang out there on any given day means they 1) aren’t at work or busy hustling, and 2) display their wealth in disgusting excess. The interesting thing is – San Jose is so ethnically diverse. It attracts folks from all over the world because of it’s association with Silicon Valley on top of being considered the biggest (wannabe) metropolitan city in the South Bay. Although many groups of people who reside in San Jose are minorities, many of them are very unaware of internalized oppression and the reality that they (we) are largely marginalized. They ‘pass,’ so they don’t think any more of it. Sounded to me like a perfect opportunity to give people a little dose of history, a bit of a challenge, and also kick their consciousness in gear.

So, you bet your bottom dollar I’m going to traipse myself around in this t-shirt!

The Results:

• Lots of double-takes. Most people’s gaze went to my shirt, up to my face, and down to my shirt again.
• Blinking eyes and raised brows. A lot of these also came in the form of pointed stares as if it were somehow offensive to them. No surprise there, but wearing a t-shirt is passive – not active, nor confrontational. (Ok, maybe visually confrontational).
• One conversation. One guy said that he agreed with my shirt. He seemed nervous and made it a point to keep our chat very short, but overall he relayed that after learning more in-depth treatment of Native Americans in the US at school, he couldn’t believe people still use such terms.

That sole conversation was more than I expected. But as I could see the wheels in people’s heads turn, I knew that the visibility – and more importantly, readability – were a good point to my wardrobe choice. I know I’m not going to change the world by wearing the shirt, but I can challenge wearer-perceiver relationships and stereotypes that keeps people from talking about it. At the very least, I can say I’ve got them thinking about it. We all start somewhere.

To read more about how the term “redskins” is racist and offensive, I’ll point you to one of my favorite bloggers and scholars, Adrienne K.’s Native Appropriations. As for the shirt, I got mine here  from Bambu DePistola – be sure to check his music.

Retellin’ Oceania & Sensing the Self in the Other

This past Friday, I listened to storytelling and poem readings from Pasifika* and First Nations peoples at Heyday Books in Berkeley. It made me remember that passing on stories through oration and singing at gatherings is so important and needs to become more prominent in the way we relate to one another. It also made me realize how much of it is lacking in my present reality. Listening to these stories from our perspectives – perspectives from the margin and not from Western-centric  versions in history books – is humbling and enlightening.

We heard stories of life, of death, of forgiveness, of family and lineage, of travel and journey, and of loss – from people, to land, to language.  With each reading, we were transported into a space where the past and present intersected. The voices and lives of the ancestors washed over us in a warm embrace. Afterwards, we continued talking and sharing stories in a more casual way. We sang, we danced, we drank some kava and ate some food.

– – –

When I was saying my goodbyes at the end of the night, I thanked the owner of Heyday, Malcolm Margolin, for hosting this event. We got to talking about his friend, Darryl Babe Wilson of the Achumawi and Atusgewi tribes (northeastern California), who recently passed away. I expressed my condolences, but I could tell he still thought the world was a slight shade darker without Darryl’s presence.  Sensing his mourning and grief, I related to him by saying I never really appreciated hearing “he’s in a better place now,”  when my father passed away. It seemed either a cop-out or an implication that his living moments were full of suffering only. Either way, I used to think it was lame.

Malcolm Margolin of Heyday Books

I quickly added that I truly believe our loved ones go to better places.  Malcolm made some noncommittal noises and shook his head. The extremely long pause that followed was both confusing and uncomfortable. He frowned and curled his hand underneath his chin in thought, clicking his teeth. He sighed and scoffed and pulled on his ears in discomfort. Then he furrowed his brow, shook his head again, and said through closed eyes, “I don’t think there is another side. I don’t think there’s anything left for us after death.” He smiled apologetically, knowing that after the night of readings, our beliefs are in contradiction to one another’s.

The Morning The Sun Went Down – Darryl Babe Wilson

It was my turn to take a pause. I blinked a few times and told him, “Well maybe so. We all believe what we do. If there is nothing for us after we pass on, I think there are ways our spirit continues its journey. Our ancestors are invoked so long as our stories are told.” It was a no-brainer really, but Malcolm finally cracked a smile from behind his glasses and beard. Waving his finger at me in agreement, chuckling slightly, he pushed himself off the bench and walked away. I started to wonder about his off-kilter mannerisms, but before giving it another thought, he returned saying, “let me give you Darryl’s book,” and shoved a copy of The Morning the Sun Went Down into my hands with a smile. I was touched by this gesture. I’m glad I could remind him that we live on past our years through the stories our upcoming generations can tell. He certainly found Darryl’s story important enough to live and pass to me.

– – –

Backtrack a couple hours and here’s where I’m coming from.

The reading delivered by scholar and activist, Fuifuilupe Niumeitolu, opened my eyes. She told of a story that depicted a dispute that occurred between Samoans and Tongans at a gathering, and her father was made to speak on the matter. Instead of giving authority to any one family group, her father recited the genealogies of the clans that brought them together in unity, across the moana and from different islands. During her reading, she iterated that the ancestors her father mentioned were beyond any of their memories’ reach, yet they were familiar and present because they were repeated so often in stories.

There was another performer and young scholar, Makaiwa Tong, who shared two songs from Hawai’i. Before she sang, she emphasized that stories also live inside songs, and perhaps the greatest thing about their power is that it must come from memory. Nobody walks around with printed songbooks at these gatherings – they are known by heart. It’s simple – if you sing, you know it. If you don’t know it, you don’t sing. During her two songs, she sat amongst us in the crowd and faced the front of the room so as not to “sing at” or “perform for,” but rather “share with.” The mana pouring from her voice was so strong; you could sense the ancestors emanating from her breath as she sang, traveling into our ears and hearts – the voices of the ancestors.

As I sat there, happy to be present and honoring the brothers and sisters in the room and their histories, I felt a little vulnerable without my kapwa.* In this case, I was truly sensing the self in the other. I was saddened that thus far, I haven’t been able to enjoy an epic telling of genealogies uniting Filipino peoples. I don’t know any songs by heart. While I feel in touch with my roots, I realized there is so much more work for me – us – to do. So much to find.

– – –

I left that night with a few things to reflect on. Knowing one’s own ancestry and passing on that knowledge is something that hasn’t always been available to me. I know a lot about my immediate family, and a substantial amount of the preceding generations…but beyond that, I can’t recall much. When I go to our Filipino community events, sometimes I feel as though the narratives aren’t mine. Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m a part of the story, because from an archipelago with 7100-some-odd islands and 170-ish languages, our clans weren’t really united (and then what about the diaspora?). There may be stories out there, but I haven’t been acquainted with any yet. It’s got me questioning: am I this family, or am I that family? Am I allowed in? Can I write myself into this narrative? This history? Who’s ancestors am I invoking if I’m singing along to a chant from a tribe I don’t belong to?

I know I can run my mouth on decolonization and indigeneity like a blabbering fool and can debate about cultural appropriation or diasporic/first world transnational communities re-colonizing or re-appropriating till I’m blue in the face. But this night of story telling has really got me thinking on ways I’ve felt both included and excluded even within Filipino communities. For a while I got lost and fortunately our Pasifik cousins helped steer my canoe back in the right direction, until I finally found some fellow kapwatids. While I have a better grasp on cultural displacement, I now have a new filter to observe it from. This story telling session taught me how I can get closer to my ancestors, yet also keep me at a distance. It also reinforced my belief that oration and storytelling are efficient ways of learning, teaching and socializing one into a community.

My head might remain spinning for another few days, but I’m just glad that I will be going to see my kapwa this week and fill up on all the good energy. I really could have used an ancestor hug at Retellin’ Oceania.

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*PASIFIKA refers to people of Pacific Islander ancestry or heritage living in the islands, or in diasporic communities, away from their mother islands.

*KAPWA has become a Filipino term that defines togetherness & community as well as a shared inner self amongst others. Read more about it here via Rem Tanauan // Pathfinders Commune. Or check out fellow kapwatids’ definiton over at Kapwa Collective in Toronto.