Go Back To Your Country!

Earlier today a coworker asked me if I run with music. I told him it depends on my mood. Sometimes I like to hear, to feel my surroundings and be more focused on what’s going on in me. So when I began my run at Sam Smith Park this evening, slowly walking and stretching without my shirt on, I was able to clearly take in everything. “Look at him! He thinks he’s damn sexy!” “Put your shirt back on!” As I turned to look around, I made eye contact with one of the ladies yelling out of the car at me. Stopped at the intersection on my left, there were at least two ladies in that old white car that I could see and hear, the ones in the front, and maybe a third person in the back seat. The one I saw in the passenger side was an overweight Black lady. And although the eye contact was only for a brief second, the impact of the gaze made the following comment feel like a torturously long occasion. She slightly grinned; and as soon as the light turned green, speeding off, said, “Go back to your country!”

At that moment I felt my stomach sink and felt paralyzed. I stood there shocked. It was so quick and there was nothing I could do about it but receive what had happened. After I was finally able to gather myself together, I began putting one foot in front of the other. Picking up my pace, the dialogue in my head also picked up the pace…What just happened? Damn you! How can you be so racist with a comment like that?!? We’re both people of color who have experienced oppression! This IS my country! Maybe I should’ve kept my shirt on. No, I’ve been enjoying the sun and its okay for me to run without my damn shirt on if I want to. Am I really so cocky that I think I’m sexy without my shirt on? Sometimes I do think I’m pretty damn sexy. Sometimes sexy is the furthest thing from what I actually think and feel about body. What if this wasn’t my country and I just moved here recently? Does that make what she said right? If she only knew my story she wouldn’t have said those things. Maybe if I knew her story I wouldn’t take it so hard. The Chinese built the fucking railroads that revolutionized America! This IS my fucking country! Why is it that Asian males aren’t seen as sexy…and on and on. The ugliest parts of me had surfaced and were part of the conversation in my head as well, which I will leave out of this blog because those things don’t need to be repeated. Let’s just say that I was also reverting to entertaining prejudiced stereotypes that I knew were a result of my wounded pride rather than out of the truth that we are all different yet still God’s people.

By the end of my run across and back from the I-90 Bridge, I think I made my fastest time with inclines. Usually I’d feel a huge sense of satisfaction, but like a broken tape player, “Go back to your country!” continued to repeat itself in my head. It stuck to me like a throbbing sting on the cheek after a slap across the face. I needed something like ice to cool me down, to comfort me. Finding a bench, I thought that if I just sat down for a while I might feel a little better. I noticed by the end of the run, that I just ran past a man who looked like he was a Native American. I looked around and I saw Hispanic people. Looking around again I saw other Black people. Then a couple old ladies walked past me, speaking to each other in Mandarin about things they eat for health. About a minute behind them was another pair of old ladies, this time, speaking Cantonese. I’m not exactly sure what it was about that moment on the bench, but I felt comforted. Maybe it was because I was reminded that my neighborhood is full of diversity - people who may have experienced worse than what I just experienced and they are still walking the park. The old Chinese ladies, the Hispanic people, the Native American man, the Black people, myself – I’m sure we’ve all experienced one form or another of prejudice, as well as have perpetuated it in our lives – yet here we all are, being ourselves at the park…and mostly not having to be apologetic about it.

Later in the evening I was able to confide in and share these thoughts with my roommate, Zac. Zac, for those who don’t know is mixed – Black father, White mom – and has also been a target of racism throughout his life. Zac is also a good friend who has on many occasions brought light and encouragement to some of my darkest moments. Here’s a little of what Zac said… “That wasn’t about you. It could’ve been any of your Asian brothers; my Asian brothers…It was about their oppression and they wanted to pass that disease to you…In those moments pray for them…I’m sure how you felt wasn’t what God wanted for you or what God wanted for them…that was a drive by shitting on you…now you gotta do a drive by prayer.” There was a lot more to our conversation; but in short, I was reminded that evil seeks to smite out the glory of God in our uniqueness – racial and cultural uniqueness especially so. Being people of difference should affirm instead of negate the joy we take in how God has made us – so gloriously diverse. So when I run without my earphones on and am taking it all in, I know I will be taking in difficult things as well, and will sometimes (if not more so) have the challenge and reward of returning a blessing toward the paths I set on; affirming the Imago Dei in the some of the most unexpected ways.

Tumbling

Tumbling down the town of my heart
I noticed the landscape has changed and buildings are missing
Windswept and sun scorched memories thirst for a rain to settle and soothe
Like a dream where familiar images are flooded with the essence of strange
A pang upon my heart resonates throughout my body
It is the feeling of homesickness
But what is home?
Images of violent force and silent cruelty suffocate recollections of gentle care
The infant cries in an empty room
And finally running out of tears, he sets out
Tumbling out of the town

Plowshare

A few have asked that I share the poem I read at graduation. I feel so honored being asked to share...




Plowshare

You’d think you’d’ve figured out by now how to unravel the knots of life that sit uneasily in your stomach or throat
That the moments that paralyze you into cloistered patterns of interaction would’ve faded away by now
You know, those ruts you’ve been stuck into, forever
As though a large field of hardened soil lies before you
And you feel only enough strength to plow into the land that is soft and familiar
You’d think that by now, the intimate moments that you long for, don’t scare you when the opportunity presents itself
So that when you pray, with eyes open…
You can look deeply into the eyes of the one you are praying with
Intimate and without shame in that deep gaze
And know that God is there, in that minute and profound moment…
Just as much as when you gaze deeply into the eyes of your lover while making love
Feeling fully known, accepted, and loved…
You are not repelled by fear
But how often does that happen?
O love that wilt not let me go

And of course gazing deeply into the eyes of anyone is unsettling
That lump in your throat returns…
You’d think you’d’ve got used to social interactions
That by now, you’d be fluent in the language of communal contact
And all it takes is the push of the autopilot button and you are cruising at interviews, dates, parties, on the dance floor, riding the bus, family gatherings, and those awkward moments in the elevator
Don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve learned to navigate these moments to some degree
Sometimes it looks like the three wise monkeys
"Non vedo, non sento, non parlo"
I see nothing, I hear nothing, I say nothing
But to fly face first uninhibited by doubts of who we are into the face of the other and operate from a complete sense of security and a sense of complete security
Fully delighting and being delighted in
Well, I think that’s the hard part
The unyielding, dry, and cracked soil
But will it ever be easy?
O love that wilt not let me go

Who can guarantee that the look I give to another across from me, like that valentine, clumsily put together with Elmers glue oozing out of its sides like my uneasy affection, and sent out in first grade will, be returned to me with grace?
That my voice as awkward, shrill, unconfident, overconfident, compensating, and true will be received, heard, and reciprocated?
So that when I risk touching and being touched, the surface of my skin will feel the warmth of safety as much as intimacy?
Or that when I timidly step forward onto untried territory that I will not be shamed but seen and rejoiced over?
What promises do I have in this world aside from my heart scarred experiences of having been dropped as a baby…
As a baby and son
As a kindergartener, junior high schooler, high schooler, collegiate
As the pimply teenager who awkwardly navigates attraction for the first time
As a clumsy lover
As a worker that is trying to find that ever elusive niche
As a boy and man
As a Chinese American
As a Chinese
As an American
As a believer and doubter
As a married man and divorcee
As a learner who forgets
Healer and hurter
As a baby…
I have been dropped so so many times
What promises do I have that the unplowed soil will be soft and yielding?
It looks so hard…
O love that wilt not let me go

And like the tortoise returning to its scarred and battle worn shell, I can be found present but not
Or like the furious bear, my violent attacks are truly my fears in bold colors splashed across the canvas of our interactions
The unspoken promises set themselves deeply into my bones and I walk the path supported with limbs saturated…
By fears and failed expectations
They weigh heavily over me like wet clothes over a frail self
Exorcize this paralyzing force that drives me into these ruts that I have plowed forever
Been stuck in
Ruts
That I have plowed
Forever…
Especially, when I know there are new acres to set upon and a harvest yet to be reaped!
O love that wilt not let me go

It’s so easy to till the familiar and soft soil time and again
It’s difficult to break up the soil that has been hardened by the dryness and fear of life
So, as the seasons come and go
And the knots resurface in the stomach and throat
And it is time to either retreat into the shell or wrathfully rage
I remember I have much more growing to do
O love that wilt not let me go…

I set my hands on the plow...

What Just Happened?

What just happened?

This last week a friend of mine passed away; I feel sad but don’t feel weighed down…that’s a confusing feeling. Then I went square dancing and unwittingly became the wingman of a friend’s friend; being asked to dance by girls we’d never seen before, and watching him get the number of a girl while I danced with her uninterested/ing friend on the side…it felt like adolescence again. Then I picked up the last of my belongings from my ex-wife (one of them being the barbeque grill I got for my bachelor party), seeing the house I used to live in but feeling so distant from it. Then I realized there’s a strong possibility that I will have no blood relatives at my graduation commencement; hoping that the dreadful sense of aloneness I have in my family will be proven wrong. Then I saw my therapist and dumped on him, feeling that a bi-weekly fifty minute session is not enough. Then I worked a lot at the hospital, spending hours upon hours with a super depressed and suicidal patient, learning his story; I wanted to cry for him…and I did.

When I got home from working a twelve hour shift today, I sank into the couch while my roommate was thirty minutes into watching the Hong Kong movie, “The Warlords” starring Jet Li, Andy Lau, and Takeshi Kaneshiro. I sat through the rest of the movie; simmering in its drama. It’s a movie about three brothers’ struggle amidst war, romance, and political upheaval in the Qing Dynasty. It didn’t really help me unwind. I probably needed a comedy or some other feel good movie.

Afterwards, I retreated to my room, plopped into my office chair, and began the ritual of turning on the computer to veg out on YouTube and Facebook. Soon I heard a few knocks on my door. My roommate was checking in on me. He noticed I was looking "a little irritated" or "disturbed" earlier. Good eye, Zac. Yes, I was worn out and I hadn’t realized how worn out I was until he checked in on me…saying, “You had an intense week…first ___ happened, then ___...” Wow, sometimes you just need to hear it from another person before you get it. Then, he said we need a vacation…

Practically speaking, I don’t think I can afford a vacation. But I’m glad I can always take a little vacation in writing. I think that sounds a little counterintuitive…I mean, a vacation by writing about your stress? But really, now that I’m typing, I already feel better. Going back to one of my favorite texts – Attachment In Psychotherapy – Wallin (2007) writes, “Studies show further that bringing language to bear on distressing experience—an essential feature of explicit mentalizing—can reduce its neural impact: Subjects shown upsetting images and instructed to describe them showed much less activation of the amygdala than subjects who were exposed to the images without the instruction to verbalize (Hariri, Bookheimer, & Mazziotta, 2000; Hariri, Mattay, Tessitore, Fera, & Weinberger, 2003)…For it appears that emotion regulation can indeed be strengthened when left-brain/cortical resources (language, interpretation) are enlisted in the real-time processing of right-brain/subcortical experience (bodily based feelings)” (p. 82) (side note, I think I have developed an affinity for the APA format). In other words, it helps to write shit down when you’re feeling shitty because our brains are wired that way.

Sometimes the world may feel like a morose haze around you; but when you can put it into words, the clouds lift a little. I guess that’s why I’ve come to love and devour poetry, blogging, creative writing, and other forms of literature much more so lately…I’ve learned to turn it into my little emotion regulation vacation.

That just happened.

Spider In My Brain

Sometimes I feel like I must have a conclusion. Kind of like when writing a research paper, one must have a thesis statement that acts as a hypothesis which formulates a concluding argument by the end of the paper. When life becomes confusing and messy, I feel like it is hypothesis time. I want an explanation for all the crazy shit that is going on…out and around me, as well as inside my heart and mind.

It’s as if there was a spider in my brain that spends frantic energy weaving an intricate web, hoping to capture some truth in it. And sometimes it takes a very long time before my web is complete. But am I really trying to capture truth? Maybe it’s because I believe if the truth lands in my web I can rush to it and sink my fangs deeply into it, and extract its life-giving nutrients to satiate me. Perhaps if I only knew what she really thought about me I would feel satisfied. If I knew why she didn’t say this or do that I would be less anxious. Or if I could understand what next steps to take, I can avoid more heartache. Maybe that’s why I spin so laboriously. But of course, sometimes the web gets broken, there is no guarantee a fly will land, I’ll eventually get hungry again, and I am not always satisfied with the type of flies do I catch.

Well, tonight feels like one of those nights. It seems like this last week has just brought up a lot for me. I am spinning extra hard and I don’t know why. I am wondering about this and that person, coming up with stories and hypotheses that are weighing me down, and I want relief. And there is a part of me that believes relief will look like just knowing what is “really” going on…because then things would make sense. Or would they? By now I feel like I just have a lot of cobwebs in my mind and heart, while I am left wanting.

I’m trying to acknowledge that even if I did understand the reasons of why my divorce happened the way it did – all the reasons for it, including the psychology behind choices made, what went wrong, what could have been done differently, etc. – I will not be satisfied. That if I only understood – why certain relationships unraveled the way they did, then I could do something about it in the future or maybe even attempt to repair the past – is just an attempt to change the unchangeable. I’m beginning to realize I would only have another small fly to sink my fangs into and eventually become hungry again.

Formulating these hypotheses is leaving me worn out. Why do I even have to try attempting explanations? Life doesn’t always make sense. I think its okay that life doesn’t always makes sense. I just wish that when things didn’t make sense, I had a strong sense of self and security in the midst of turmoil. That way I wouldn’t be frantically spinning my hypothesis webs.

So right now, I am writing as a way to process the idea that I need more than just a convincing story for my mind to chew on. I think I need a deep and rooted sense of security. And at this point I return to all the things I learned about in my “Human Growth and Development” class at MHGS (side note: the new name, SSTP, still doesn’t roll of the tongue as smoothly). That when a child has a parent that acts as a truly secure attachment figure (a consistent person who helps the child make sense of emotions while allowing for the child to move through important developmental phases) the child experiences security that allows for the formulation and organization of a self-identity. In other words, good parents help the child feel secure when life is confusing, scary, and disorganized. When this sense of security is internalized, the child grows and takes that security with him, even into relational shit-storms; and when the storm is over, the security is still intact.

Then what happens for someone like me who didn’t have parents that were committed to developing a strong sense of security in me? Well, we develop particular ways to cope…not all healthy. And one of my particular coping mechanisms looks like an overactive hypotheses generator. The remedy? According to many psychodynamic object-relationalists, I must continue developing my self-identity by connecting with people who are healthy. By this, I mean healthy in that I can live out mistakes with them, understand what I really think and feel, express my truest thoughts and emotions, and all in a way that does not diminish the awareness of self and other and our connectedness. There are a lot more fancy schmancy psychological terms for what I just said, but I find my colloquial terms help me make sense of developmental psychology. Anyway, that’s what I think my human growth and development class kinda taught me. Then, according to many Christians, I must continue to be rooted in God and community. And by community, I believe a truly God-oriented community will be one that embodies a healthy relationship as exemplified in a healthy self-identity developing attachment relationship. The answer it seems, in both cases, is in relationships.

I am still left wanting…but now I’m trying to convince the spider in my brain to catch healthy relationships instead of little fly nuggets of “truth” that will only add to my impulse to spin more and more.

Dear God, I realize the answers you give are not just in intellectual understandings, hypothesis, and explanations; some of the best answers exist in merely being in the presence of good people. Please, let me know what it means to continually experience relationships of true security and growth. I’m tired of spinning.

Waves Of Memory

On a whim I decided to flip through my calendar and gloss over what my last few years have been like…then the memories, vivid, and saturated with emotions came. It was as if the tide that had receded far back decided it was finally time to come back to wet the shore…

My mother passed away on the New Year’s Day of 2009. That same year, I was separated in October, moving out of my house after being the best man at one of my best friend’s wedding. She kept the house and dog while I packed my bags. I moved into a living room of a one bedroom apartment in lower Queen Anne. To cope, I put my nose to the grindstone like never before. Only letting sorrow take up partial residence, I took four classes that semester while trying to work more shifts at the Spaghetti Factory.

The shower in my new place was whacko. If the shower could have a psychological disorder, it would have a dual diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder and bipolar 1. There were days where I‘d be stuck in the shower because the water decided on a whim that it wanted to stay either ice cold or scalding hot for about 5-20ish minutes. The water pressure was never really consistent either, vacillating between a decent ppi and the equivalent of what would come from a dollar store squirt gun.

Oh, and we had a rat problem. The trap finally got it one day; and many hours later, after finding out it wasn’t dead, I removed the barely alive rat from the bloody mess behind our old rickety fridge. I took it outside and put it out if its misery. Never before, would I have considered stomping on a rat the compassionate thing to do.

The week of Christmas I was fired from my job as a waiter. He fired me because I was 20 minutes late to call to ask if they needed me to come in later that evening. It was the first and only time I had ever been tardy for a phone confirmation. Bittersweet, I say. I needed the job but was glad I didn’t have to work with that manager anymore...it was, as they say, redonkulous.

I worked hard to find a job. But with the spare time there was also space to mourn. The Christmas season was quiet. The anniversary of my mother’s passing was quiet. It was quiet as I laid in the futon alone. I had a lot of time for solitude. So I was quiet, and I worked hard.

Since February of 2010 I’ve been working at the psych hospital. So now, the people I work with at least have some idea they need mental help.

A month before my divorce papers were finalized, I had to find a new place to live since my roommate was moving out by June and I couldn’t afford to stay. June was also the month my divorce papers would be finalized by the State of Washington, by some judge in some court I didn’t care to know more about. I felt like I needed to slow down to get a grip and hurry up to take care of myself at the same time. Contradictions. So I hurried and found a new place to live in, in a short amount of time; and by the beginning of June I was living near my old neighborhood, where my middle and high school days were spent.

On June 16th the divorce papers were finalized. I also had an assignment due for Therapy 1 that day…two papers were finalized that day. When I got home I was sad, angry, and kind of numb since it felt like we had already been divorced for even longer than that. My roommate consoled me as we walked through our neighborhood and I tried to flush the grief out of my body through words. We walked miles and miles for hours and hours.

It’s almost been a year now since the divorce papers were finalized, longer since the separation, and a lot longer from when I first felt the weight and finality of the relational rift set in. I think the pressure and weight of it has considerably been lifted.

In January and February of 2011 I actually went on a few dates. The dates felt clumsy, on my part, since I felt like damaged goods. But as unexpected as they were, those nights turned out to be salve for the dry skin of my soul. Maybe I didn’t have to feel like damaged goods.

This last semester I took five classes, saw clients at my internship, and worked at the psych hospital. I worked my ass off, and it’s been about two weeks since I graduated. It feels surreal. And sometimes I question how intact, sane, and healthy I am because I was able to keep my momentum going these last few years. Sometimes I feel like maybe I should've had a psychic break and ended up in the hospital, fall to pieces and not be able to function, slip into some sort of drunken stupor, etc. Isn’t that what happens when people with warm blood flowing through their veins have their hearts broken? Instead, my executive functioning excelled and I read books, wrote papers, and ran a half-marathon. I coped like my life depended on it…and somehow I feel like my heart was preserved. Maybe it was because amidst all the craziness, I’ve had quiet moments like this to reflect and write, friends to walk with, and work that actually feels meaningful to me.

Looking at my calendar, I feel like God is very strange; strange because the terrain has been so strange. But God has also been faithful...as faithful as is strange.

The tide has washed over me.

Even God Dies

Silence.






Silence shouts.





Decomposition sinks its teeth into your cold flesh.



Hero
no
more.


Hope dissipates.


Who knows what will come of our hopes?
For even God dies.


Death.


Gone.


Worn out yesterday.
Like the mist dried up today.
Used up.
Not here.



Silence.
Mortality.
Torn.
Even God dies.
Even here you are Emmanuel.








Silence.







Even in death you are here.