Perspective on Racism

Long rant below. Scroll past this post if you don’t want to be annoyed by my opinions
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Turn away now
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Last chance
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If you are at all interested in Civil War American history, take a looky-see at this awesome half-hour documentary about statues honoring the Confederate States and the context of how these statues are memorialized.

Two things about it:

  1. Listen closely to how Mr. Cotton describes his name, and
  2. I will *never* forget being in Charleston for work-related training.

Let me just tell you the story of my Clinical Instructor. She grew up close to Charleston and was part of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. During that week of training, we somehow got on the topic of the Civil War. That instructor pointedly stated, “It wasn’t a war about slavery” and “We don’t call it the Civil War. We call it The War of Northern Aggression.” Now imagine this person saying it in a southern drawl.” I was left speechless.

I get honoring your ancestors to remember your past, but you should also see it in the eyes of someone whose family were destroyed because of it. So yes, burn them down! But … I believe that art is art and these statues should be appreciated for what they are: An important part of our country’s history. But provide context as to why it was built and the part of *American* History it honors, for Pete’s sake!

With that said, please ALSO watch the this other video before reading the rest of this rant. It’s a great lecture about “heritage.” I’ve learned something new in the wee hours of the morning (Thanks A LOT, Kurt! 😏)

And now the rest of my rant.

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What a GREAT video that outlines what use those statues / monuments served during that time in history. It recognizes that – when they were built, they serviced that town or city’s need to feel “superior” to others. It celebrates their “Heritage,” so to speak, at a time when these cities and towns felt threatened by someone else that didn’t look like them or sound like them.

THAT’S the narrative and context I was talking about up above. This is why I believe that, rather than defacing a monument / statue, they should be “displayed” somewhere else where it can be observed and discussed of American History.

That said, I truly believe that statues of “Southern Pride” (including that d*mn Confederate flag) do NOT belong in ANY public space. Because yes, they are a symbol of White Supremacy. Rather than destroy or deface these statues or monuments, some of them (not all) should be displayed in a place where people WANT to learn about why many of the other statues / monuments were torn down during our period in time.

Clearly I am a #BlackLivesMatter person. I’m just saying that those “symbols” are part of our history, whether we like it or not. Seeing them on display (at a history or art museum) could serve as a talking point to discuss racism both now and then. It could serve as an explanation of how we got to where we are right now; the Tipping point, as is mentioned in that second video.

This person is spot on in saying that at this moment in time, there has been more support and understanding of racism. And more of an understanding of what it’s like to be judged by the color of your skin, or what you look like from the outside.

Take me, for example. I can name *several* instances growing up in a relatively blue collar neighborhood of experiencing little micro-aggression because I was Asian:

How the manager of my first job called me Connie Chung, implying that because I’m Asian, I was smart like “All Asians” are. (Psst …Not true. I came very close to failing chemistry and microbiology at Oakland University.)

Or how I’ve been called an “Oriental Doll” or, better yet – a “Shogun Princess. ” By a classmate’s dad, nonetheless.

I’m ashamed of myself for not being brave enough to correct them, but I was only a kid. How do you tell a grown adult that you are NOT Chinese OR Japanese when you’re 9 or 10?

Then there was the time when I was 16, I was referred to (by a teacher, nonetheless, as “Oriental.” It’s as if I were just an object on display or a particular design style (Oriental rug, vase, painting, etc). To me, that term is one of the most, if not the number one thing that gets to this 1st generation Filipino-American.

I now tell people that I hate the term “Oriental” because it sounds like I’m being lumped into ALL Asian ethnicities, as if we were all one in the same.

Now that I’m assertive enough to say something, it’s surprising how people react: angry for being called out, remorse for not realizing how “Oriental” is considered offensive by most Asian-Americans.

I use my experiences as a talking point for those who might not realize that there’s more to being Asian than the “Model Minority” we’ve been labeled as.

  • No, we’re NOT automatically smart.
  • No, not all of us become doctors, nurses, engineers, or accountants.
  • No, we’re NOT automatically smart. No, not all of us become doctors, nurses, or accountants.
  • Yes, I can speak perfectly clear English, so stop telling me you don’t understand what I’m saying because of my “accent.”

My point is that we shouldn’t forget how we got here. And having CLEAR examples of racism can help more people to understand why it’s horrible and sickening.

Okay. Off soapbox for now.

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

The irony doesn’t escape me. It’s 5:15 am and –thanks to our dog — who refuses to sleep, I’m wide awake.

It’s not as if I’ve had a difficult time falling asleep … it’s more that I can’t seem to stay asleep. If anything, all I want to do is climb under the covers and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Depression can obviously do that.

And with me, depression can cause waves and waves of anxiety, which only add fuel to the insomnia-fire.

Recently Hubby and I had one of our long discussions (one of many we’ve been having lately). This one happened to start off with an innocent comment our 15-year old nephew had said last Sunday when we met them for lunch.

“Auntie,” he told me, “you look sad” . And I couldn’t tell him any differently, other than to say that I’d been tired a lot lately.

My husband brought that up during our discussion as a means to show me how even a 15-year old could see my depression. And if he could see it, how many other people would see it as well?

All I know is that over the years, I have changed. Oh … I think the heart of me — my center — will never change, but the way I’ve looked at things or approach things have definitely been altered from my life experiences.

I know these thoughts are no different than any other person in their late 30’s/early 40’s. After all, isn’t this when we begin to look back at our lives to where we were and compare them to where we are now? Isn’t this where we reflect back on those dreams we had in our early 20’s and think about whether we’ve achieved them or not?

You see, as I approach 40 this year, this is one of the anxiety-ridden things I think about frequently. I think about our early post-college years where then-fiance and I would dream about our future together. We’d dream about our married life together; of kids and the large house in the suburbs. We’d talk about how our kids would be into sports or some sort of activities where we would be the proud parents who’d show up with video cams in hand to record such moments. We talked about vacations as families.

And, of course, I also had my dream of wanting to be a Stay-At-Home-Mom for a spell, while waiting for our four (yes, four) kids to all be old enough to go to school. I also dreamt about making friends with other Mom’s; friends of our kids, where we could hang out and commiserate about daily life with kids. I dreamed of arranging playdates and birthday parties and all these wonderful things I could do when I became a mother.

But we all know where those dreams went. Our best laid plans … right down the potty.

While making the decision to live child-free has lessened the “blow” to my need to maternalize (is that even a word?), it hasn’t taken away the fact that I have had to face the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” when coming to terms with my infertility.

In other words, in order to figure out what our next step in child-rearing would be … Hubby & I had to walk that “boulevard” alone. Together, yes definitely … but alone.

So now that the we’ve passed that boulevard … and even though it’s been almost two years now … what do we do now? What’s our next step? What’s our goal? I know that children aren’t in our future, but so what is our new future?

It’s all of those worries that keep me from having a full night’s sleep. It’s what causes me anxiety in the middle of the night.

Which direction in life do we need to be heading? What we can do with our lives now that we’re closing in on 40 … the decade where we should feel more “settled” in our lives?

It has all the makings of a dreamless night. A night where I’m not sure what our new dream is going to be.

Which, again. The irony doesn’t escape me.

How Winter Kills

Like the snow in Metro Detroit, I’ve been in and out of everyday life. And like the snow, my mind should be ever present during this particular month, since it’s supposed to be the month of new beginnings; of making resolutions to change things.

But like the snow, I’ve only surfaced in bits in pieces whenever life seems to be most inconvenient.

This depression sucks.

No. I mean literally. It sucks the life and energy out of me. And throw in a (un)healthy dose of anxiety with it … well it just makes life all the more interesting.

I’m trying my best to move past this depression; doing all that I can physically and clinically do, but the weight of this sadness seems to be omnipresent.

Thank God for an understanding Husband; one who has stood by me through thick and thin. He’s been there through the low-hanging, non-anxiety moments and all the way through the high-octane drama-fueled moments. Sometimes I wonder – scratch that – I always wonder how I’ve managed to find my soulmate and my best friend who still loves me despite all the baggage I carry.

If anything, Hubby (and the furkids – although the fur-dog has been on my last nerve lately … ) is the reason why I keep getting out of bed every morning.

Even though I’ve written the occasional post about the grief I’ve been experiencing, I know I’m not usually so outright with my depression. But it has been suggested to me that I start writing more about it, because this seems to be the only outlet where I can openly talk about my struggles.

And although this blog is (and always will be) about living child-free after infertility, I thought that this was my little corner of the universe where I can tell you about my life, both good and bad. So here’s where I lay it out on the line:

  • I’m still grieving over the death of my father. Between my two parents, it’s become apparent to me over the past year and a half that I truly was a “Daddy’s Girl.” I thrived in the moments when my Dad would play around with me and tease me. And there were the silly jokes the two of us would play on each other that only the two of us would get. And I miss those things horribly.

 

  • In the same aspect, I realize how much different my relationship with my Mom has always been; particularly now that my Dad had passed. I’ve always known that we never had that “Mother-Daughter” bond that is constantly seen in movies and TV shows; we’re just two very different people. And without Dad being there as a buffer, this relationship has only intensified … and not always in a positive way.

 

  • Even though it’s been over a year since deciding to move back to Detroit, not a day goes by that I don’t miss living in Chicago. I miss the city and the atmosphere. I miss the late night trips to Dim Sum or Korean BBQ with my cousins. I miss walking.

 

  • But what I miss the most is that Chicago represented a new life for me. A life where Hubby & I carved out a place for ourselves; where the two of us really started focusing on us as a “Family of Two.” And while I love my hometown and take pride in telling people that I’m from Detroit, I miss that part of our lives where we were just far enough from “home” where Hubby & I could be our own family.

 

  • And finally … even though Hubby & I have decided that child-free living after infertility is our life, there are still those days where I worry about our future and what other things in our lives we can contribute to the greater good of our world. Will all I have to show at the end of my life is that I’ve worked hard for a living? That I loved my family and friends to the best capacity that I could? What about my legacy? What will I leave behind? And will I have made a difference in someone’s life? I know now that having kids won’t necessarily “satisfy” or provide answers to all of those questions, but having lost my Dad … and knowing the person he was … this is something that weighs heavily on mind.

 

I could probably go on with more “issues” that seem to run endlessly through my anxiety-ridden head, but these are the ones that are constantly in my stream of consciousness. These are the things that keep me from doing the things I would normally enjoy doing.

Like reading.

Or knitting.

Or taking pictures.

Or writing.

Or simply watching TV.

But I’m trying … at least I’ll try to work on the writing bit.

And maybe Mother Nature will be kind enough to work on a mild winter for the rest of us.

Too Pieces

The day stretched on as if it were the longest day of summer; yet it was the middle of winter. It was only 4:30 pm, but dusk was around the corner; the clouds in the wintery sky making it seem darker than it should be.

She should be doing something to keep her mind busy; anything to take her thoughts off the shades of grief that lay inside the pit of her stomach. Instead, she sat at her local bookstore’s cafe mindlessly flipping through the latest gossip rags and fashion magazines.

Normally reading such things would entertain her; would make her laugh at such ridiculousness. Or at the very least, inspire her to change her wardrobe to something other than jeans and a t-shirt. But today, she neither felt nor heard nothing but the silent hum inside her head that told her that something about her was defective.

That silent hum had always lived inside of her for as long as she could remember. She never felt pretty enough or smart enough to accomplish anything significant in her life. And although she had a good career and an incredible husband, she never thought she could deserve to be happy.

At times in her life, the silent hum would surface outwardly. When she and her husband found it difficult to start their family, that hum became a silent roar. When she lost her job, the silent roar returned. However, eventually that roar would once again return to a hum.

She knew that her antsy-ness today was because that hum was slowly turning into a roar. She even knew her actions over Christmas was its root cause. But just like those other times, she had no idea how to silence the roar. She had no way of stopping such negative, self-defeating feelings that lay rooted inside of her.

Although she knew she had the support of her husband, her best friend in life … her family … she also knew she would ultimately be the one responsible for taming the beast inside herself.

She also knew that in order to tame the beast, she had to get rid of the hum all together. She had to stop depreciating herself and start to build up that self-esteem.

This will prove to be a difficult task for her; especially since she never particularly had consistent, ongoing self-confidence. Her entire life had been rooted in self-doubt with only fleeting moments of confidence. It would take a lot to rid her life of that silent hum.

What could she do? What *would* she do? She had already sought the help of professionals; she already had the support of her loving husband. The only thing she could do is uproot those thoughts of self-doubt and self-deprecation and replant confidence and self-esteem in its place.

It sounded simple enough; replace the negative with the positive. Believe that the glass is half-full rather than half-empty. Begin to believe in herself.

But why then, did it seem so much more complicated than that? Why does the silent hum persist?