This post has taken me several days to write. It's hard to find the words to sum up an entire relationship in only a few paragraphs.
I actually met him before we started working together. One of my dorm roommates befriended him, so he began coming by my room with some regularity. Typically, I only saw him in the late hours of the night while he smoked marijuana and blasted house music in my dorm with my roommate. He was usually laughing about something or initiating a discussion about the complexity of life.
There was one evening where I went with my roommate, some of his friends, and Griffin to the dining commons. They decided to organize a game of mafia; I opted to observe the game. They played one round and one person died. For the next two hours, Griffin and my roommate's friends debated among each other who the mafia could be and what motivations they might have. He analyzed the relationships that every single person had and why each person might choose to kill off that particular person. Because that's who he was--an incredibly intelligent man who sought to fully understand the world.
Near the end of my first semester, I saw his name on the list of recipients of the email that Patrick sent to the new hires. I was a bit surprised because my only exposure to Griffin up until that point was pot-smoking and loud-music-blaring Griffin. One day, I was walking with a friend of mine down Telegraph. I saw Griffin at CREAM. As we passed, I said hi to him and asked if he had been offered a job at Cal Performances. "Cool, I'll see you there!" he said after I told him that I had as well.
Griffin and I grew through Cal Performances together. We were hired together, we were promoted to Assistant House Manager together, we were promoted to House Manager together. During our junior year, Jackie began contracting the scheduling out to
us. For the next year and a half, Griffin and I worked together on the
schedule, covering each other when the other was too busy to do it. He
showed me how to be an effective student assistant. He continued to retain his pot-smoking and loud-music-blaring affinities, as well as his desire to deeply understand the complexity of the world, but I began to see an additional side to Griffin after working with him for some time. That was his dedication to community and to relationships. He showed up to almost every social event we had outside of work. On multiple occasions he opened up his apartment to host the crazy lot of us. He sent emails to the staff inviting us to his DJ shows. Through these actions, he gave so much to make Cal Performances front-of-house an inviting community for everyone we hired. We would not and could not have been as strong of a team if not for his magnetism pulling us in.
I never once saw Griffin stressed, angry, or upset. He brought so much light into any room he entered. His smile and his laugh were infectious. He never concealed his passion, his zest for life and for the people he loved. When he talked with you, he listened intently to every single word you said. Because he legitimately cared about you and what you had to say. There was no forced politeness or courtesy small talk. And when you said something funny, his mouth opened wide, his head tilted back, and he let out his high-pitched laugh to which it was impossible for you to maintain a straight face.
I take some comfort in knowing that he passed surrounded by things he loved. He had been at Zellerbach with his staff earlier in the night, and then he was at a music party.
Even though his physical presence was taken far too prematurely, his light and
his spirit have touched so many people that he will never really be
gone.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Drumpf
It's been almost a month since our country chose to legitimize fear and hatred for the next four years. The search to find any shred of hope or positivity hasn't gotten any easier, especially since hate crimes whose perpetrators use trump's victory as justification have been on the rise in media coverage.
Several years ago, my mom told me her story of the morning of 9/11. As she watched live footage of the towers engulfed in flames on our TV screen, she felt utterly helpless, desperate, and confused. She stepped outside our house for a few minutes. While outside, she hoped one of our neighbors would do the same thing and the two of them would lock eyes and share a look that encapsulated the sentiment of, "What do we do? What can we do?" All their feelings of despair, confusion, and fear could be understood by each other in a single glance without exchanging any words.
I will never know exactly what she felt that morning. But as I awoke the morning after election night, I think I have a good idea of what that felt like.
I fell asleep on election night before trump reached 270. I think I halfway woke up at about 12:30 AM, checked Google, and saw that 270 had been reached. I think sometime around then my friend called me to make sure I got home safely from the bar where we were watching the election. I awoke in the morning, unsure if those midnight occurrences were real or just a nightmare. I checked Google first thing, and I was suddenly forced to accept that I was indeed living in my nightmare. The unthinkable had occurred.
The same friend and I were texting sentiments of despair and helplessness that morning. Text conversations with other friends that day echoed those thoughts. I cried at work while preparing hot water for my tea.
It's moments like 9/11 and the 2016 election that remind us of our commonality as human beings. Somehow there is power in shared powerlessness.
In the wake of the election results, at least two people "shared their wisdom" with me saying that in their many years, they have seen both good and not-so-good Presidents come and go--and yet we survived. I get the sentiment, that maybe things will not turn out as bad as they seem, except this wisdom came from people who were white and straight. (They were both women, actually, but they're Christian women, so I have a suspicion that they accept unhealthy levels of patriarchy/sexism.) But I cannot afford to take the mindset that things will not end up as bad as I think they will. Because my recently-won right to get married has been questioned by the president-elect and VP-elect. The VP-elect defunded Planned Parenthood in his state, worsened the LGBT+ AIDS crisis in his state, and advocates for suicide-inducing gay conversion therapy. These concerns which I feel very acutely are things that these women will never understand.
What did I do to make the pro-trump crowd hate me so much?
I am privileged to not have to worry that my skin color or gender identity might compound on my concerns, but others in this country are not as fortunate as I. And yes, in four years, the administration will be gone. But the legislation passed and the ideologies perpetuated during the next four years will linger in the years that follow--these are not subject to a four-year term. This is why the trump presidency causes me despair. I have too much to lose.
Several years ago, my mom told me her story of the morning of 9/11. As she watched live footage of the towers engulfed in flames on our TV screen, she felt utterly helpless, desperate, and confused. She stepped outside our house for a few minutes. While outside, she hoped one of our neighbors would do the same thing and the two of them would lock eyes and share a look that encapsulated the sentiment of, "What do we do? What can we do?" All their feelings of despair, confusion, and fear could be understood by each other in a single glance without exchanging any words.
I will never know exactly what she felt that morning. But as I awoke the morning after election night, I think I have a good idea of what that felt like.
I fell asleep on election night before trump reached 270. I think I halfway woke up at about 12:30 AM, checked Google, and saw that 270 had been reached. I think sometime around then my friend called me to make sure I got home safely from the bar where we were watching the election. I awoke in the morning, unsure if those midnight occurrences were real or just a nightmare. I checked Google first thing, and I was suddenly forced to accept that I was indeed living in my nightmare. The unthinkable had occurred.
The same friend and I were texting sentiments of despair and helplessness that morning. Text conversations with other friends that day echoed those thoughts. I cried at work while preparing hot water for my tea.
It's moments like 9/11 and the 2016 election that remind us of our commonality as human beings. Somehow there is power in shared powerlessness.
In the wake of the election results, at least two people "shared their wisdom" with me saying that in their many years, they have seen both good and not-so-good Presidents come and go--and yet we survived. I get the sentiment, that maybe things will not turn out as bad as they seem, except this wisdom came from people who were white and straight. (They were both women, actually, but they're Christian women, so I have a suspicion that they accept unhealthy levels of patriarchy/sexism.) But I cannot afford to take the mindset that things will not end up as bad as I think they will. Because my recently-won right to get married has been questioned by the president-elect and VP-elect. The VP-elect defunded Planned Parenthood in his state, worsened the LGBT+ AIDS crisis in his state, and advocates for suicide-inducing gay conversion therapy. These concerns which I feel very acutely are things that these women will never understand.
What did I do to make the pro-trump crowd hate me so much?
I am privileged to not have to worry that my skin color or gender identity might compound on my concerns, but others in this country are not as fortunate as I. And yes, in four years, the administration will be gone. But the legislation passed and the ideologies perpetuated during the next four years will linger in the years that follow--these are not subject to a four-year term. This is why the trump presidency causes me despair. I have too much to lose.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Straight Bars
The Lyft dropped us off at the opposite corner. There appeared to be as many people outside the bar as there were inside. We crossed the street and tried to enter, but the doorman pointed to the back of the black stanchions with a disgusted look on his face.
The cover charge was $5. Cash only. That is, if you weren't a woman. Two of us had insufficient cash. One would think the doorman would direct us to an ATM, but he did not. The third one of us paid his cover, and the doorman reluctantly gave him in-out privileges to borrow some cash from his friends for our covers.
Once he went inside, a security guard roughly pulled us away from the door. We instantly lost sight of our third friend as he waded through the thick crowd inside. Momentarily, the doorman barked at us, "If your friend doesn't come back with the cash in 5 minutes, I won't let you in. My shift is over then." We could not say much more to him other than "Ok."
A guy attempted to enter after paying his cover. The doorman blocked him from entering because he was wearing a gray baseball hat.
Our friend made it back to the door. He paid our covers, we got our hands stamped, and we squeezed through the crowd to a far less crowded back room. The three girls we were meeting were very obviously buzzed--the bartender cut one of them off.
Within fifteen minutes of our entry, a few more people rushed into the back room. Rumor had it that a fight had broken out in the front portion of the bar. An unhealthy mix of testosterone, patriarchy, and alcohol must have gotten the best of two gentlemen.
At 1:50 AM, the lights snapped on in the bar. Four security guards waved their LED flashlights through the building, pushing tipsy patrons out of the building onto the sidewalk. There was no "Thank you for coming," no "Have a good night," no "Get home safe". Once the bar was clear, the security guards were not finished extending their lack of hospitality. They barked at patrons to move to the other side of the street, claiming that they were not allowed to stand on the sidewalk adjacent to the bar. Yes, urging intoxicated patrons to cross a busy street is excellent advice. They were even attempting to clear patrons from the bus stop. Apparently businesses somehow also own the public sidewalk in front of their buildings.
After the third time I was told to cross the street, I had grown tired of being treated like a child. "This is a public sidewalk. You can't force people to leave. People can stand here if they want. You don't own the sidewalk," I said to a security guard. In response, he made up some justification by saying that the police required the sidewalk to be clear. I went back and forth with him for a bit, but I eventually gave up arguing with him. I wanted to continue to stand on the sidewalk in defiance to make a point, but the other people I was with had already crossed the street. I walked away frustrated--I knew that I was right, but I wish that the security guard had admitted that I was right. My crossing the street simply reinforced the bar's wrongly earned victory on sidewalk ownership.
I guess I had taken for granted the way that gay bars treat their clientele. I had taken for granted the atmosphere that a gay bar generates. This night will forever remind me that I cannot stand straight bars.
The cover charge was $5. Cash only. That is, if you weren't a woman. Two of us had insufficient cash. One would think the doorman would direct us to an ATM, but he did not. The third one of us paid his cover, and the doorman reluctantly gave him in-out privileges to borrow some cash from his friends for our covers.
Once he went inside, a security guard roughly pulled us away from the door. We instantly lost sight of our third friend as he waded through the thick crowd inside. Momentarily, the doorman barked at us, "If your friend doesn't come back with the cash in 5 minutes, I won't let you in. My shift is over then." We could not say much more to him other than "Ok."
A guy attempted to enter after paying his cover. The doorman blocked him from entering because he was wearing a gray baseball hat.
Our friend made it back to the door. He paid our covers, we got our hands stamped, and we squeezed through the crowd to a far less crowded back room. The three girls we were meeting were very obviously buzzed--the bartender cut one of them off.
Within fifteen minutes of our entry, a few more people rushed into the back room. Rumor had it that a fight had broken out in the front portion of the bar. An unhealthy mix of testosterone, patriarchy, and alcohol must have gotten the best of two gentlemen.
At 1:50 AM, the lights snapped on in the bar. Four security guards waved their LED flashlights through the building, pushing tipsy patrons out of the building onto the sidewalk. There was no "Thank you for coming," no "Have a good night," no "Get home safe". Once the bar was clear, the security guards were not finished extending their lack of hospitality. They barked at patrons to move to the other side of the street, claiming that they were not allowed to stand on the sidewalk adjacent to the bar. Yes, urging intoxicated patrons to cross a busy street is excellent advice. They were even attempting to clear patrons from the bus stop. Apparently businesses somehow also own the public sidewalk in front of their buildings.
After the third time I was told to cross the street, I had grown tired of being treated like a child. "This is a public sidewalk. You can't force people to leave. People can stand here if they want. You don't own the sidewalk," I said to a security guard. In response, he made up some justification by saying that the police required the sidewalk to be clear. I went back and forth with him for a bit, but I eventually gave up arguing with him. I wanted to continue to stand on the sidewalk in defiance to make a point, but the other people I was with had already crossed the street. I walked away frustrated--I knew that I was right, but I wish that the security guard had admitted that I was right. My crossing the street simply reinforced the bar's wrongly earned victory on sidewalk ownership.
I guess I had taken for granted the way that gay bars treat their clientele. I had taken for granted the atmosphere that a gay bar generates. This night will forever remind me that I cannot stand straight bars.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Beyoncé and Country Music
Earlier this week, Beyoncé performed "Daddy Lessons" at the Country Music Awards with the Dixie Chicks. It was an incredible performance. But something struck me as off when the Dixie Chicks, rather than the Queen, sang the entire second verse.
I think it was the realization that while "Daddy Lessons" is a country-style song, it belongs to an artist who is not a country artist. Having Beyoncé perform a song of hers at a country music awards show, regardless of the style of the song in question, is inappropriate. I was almost indignant. Why was Beyoncé given a position of authority in an awards ceremony for a genre that she has never been involved with until "Daddy Lessons"? Performers at an awards show should be icons that are relevant to the art being honored. So a country artist should have performed, and not Beyoncé. Granted, I hate country music, but it should be allowed to stand on its own. It does not need an "endorsement" from a totally different contemporary prominent artist.
This is the same flavor of indignation that I feel when Bob Dylan wins the Nobel Prize in Literature. Or when Macklemore releases "Same Love". (Hell, if Macklemore releases any "hip hop" music.) Or when Bono wins the "Woman of the Year" award. Or when a white artist performs at the BET Awards. What gives these people the right to claim authority in areas outside their field?
I think it was the realization that while "Daddy Lessons" is a country-style song, it belongs to an artist who is not a country artist. Having Beyoncé perform a song of hers at a country music awards show, regardless of the style of the song in question, is inappropriate. I was almost indignant. Why was Beyoncé given a position of authority in an awards ceremony for a genre that she has never been involved with until "Daddy Lessons"? Performers at an awards show should be icons that are relevant to the art being honored. So a country artist should have performed, and not Beyoncé. Granted, I hate country music, but it should be allowed to stand on its own. It does not need an "endorsement" from a totally different contemporary prominent artist.
This is the same flavor of indignation that I feel when Bob Dylan wins the Nobel Prize in Literature. Or when Macklemore releases "Same Love". (Hell, if Macklemore releases any "hip hop" music.) Or when Bono wins the "Woman of the Year" award. Or when a white artist performs at the BET Awards. What gives these people the right to claim authority in areas outside their field?
Monday, October 24, 2016
Singleness
“You’re still young.” “It’ll happen eventually.” “You’ll find one when you least expect it.”
I have heard these words of “sympathy” countless times when describing how painful it is for me to be single right now. I understand where the speakers are coming from; they’re trying to be helpful. But absolutely nothing about those comments is helpful at all. The only effect they have is to completely minimize the current pain I find myself in. Somehow my future happiness is supposed to improve my situation. Or my youth is supposed to console me. Or I need to be told that my efforts in trying to meet potential partners is useless.
How am I supposed to respond to those comments? “Thank you”? “You’re right, I haven’t thought about it like that”?
“I have a horrible headache.” “Oh don’t worry, you’ll feel better later.”
How about you meet me where I am and ask if I need some Ibuprofen?
But people do ask if you need Ibuprofen. When it comes to physical ailments, people are much more willing to provide practical help. Emotional desires, though? Forget it. You’re held at an arm’s length--just far enough away so that they don’t have to dive into the messy emotions.
These comments often come from guys who are already partnered or who have not been looking for a relationship for over a year. And so they have forgotten what it is like to want a relationship. They have forgotten what it is like to go home to an empty bed every night. They have forgotten what it is like to constantly feel inadequate because no one is verifying their value. They have forgotten what it is like to want to hold and be held but unable to scratch this itch. They have forgotten what it is like to feel enslaved to the apps or the bars on Friday nights. They have forgotten what it is like to be friendzoned by crushes...again...and again...and again...and again...and again…
Shut up and listen.
I have heard these words of “sympathy” countless times when describing how painful it is for me to be single right now. I understand where the speakers are coming from; they’re trying to be helpful. But absolutely nothing about those comments is helpful at all. The only effect they have is to completely minimize the current pain I find myself in. Somehow my future happiness is supposed to improve my situation. Or my youth is supposed to console me. Or I need to be told that my efforts in trying to meet potential partners is useless.
How am I supposed to respond to those comments? “Thank you”? “You’re right, I haven’t thought about it like that”?
“I have a horrible headache.” “Oh don’t worry, you’ll feel better later.”
How about you meet me where I am and ask if I need some Ibuprofen?
But people do ask if you need Ibuprofen. When it comes to physical ailments, people are much more willing to provide practical help. Emotional desires, though? Forget it. You’re held at an arm’s length--just far enough away so that they don’t have to dive into the messy emotions.
These comments often come from guys who are already partnered or who have not been looking for a relationship for over a year. And so they have forgotten what it is like to want a relationship. They have forgotten what it is like to go home to an empty bed every night. They have forgotten what it is like to constantly feel inadequate because no one is verifying their value. They have forgotten what it is like to want to hold and be held but unable to scratch this itch. They have forgotten what it is like to feel enslaved to the apps or the bars on Friday nights. They have forgotten what it is like to be friendzoned by crushes...again...and again...and again...and again...and again…
Shut up and listen.
National Coming Out Day
Today is National Coming Out Day. And to commemorate today, I am publicly coming out to the Facebook world. Many of you already know this, but those of you that I grew up with may not—I am gay. And I am so glad to be.
Soap box time now. You may skip the rest of this if you’re in a tl;dr mood.
“Coming out” is not a one-time event. For me, coming out has been and continues to be a gradual process from the age of 19 to now. With each passing day, I become more comfortable and certain in my identity than I was the previous day. 18-year-old me didn’t even know I was gay. 19-year-old me didn’t know how to make sense of the idea that I might be gay. 20-year-old me had accepted that I was gay, but wasn’t comfortable fully owning that identity or being part of that community. 21-year-old me wasn’t ready to tell his parents that he was gay and seeking a relationship. Even one year ago today, I was still a long way from being confident enough to come out publicly in this manner. But over the last four years, I have found people and communities that love me for who I am and have helped me arrive to my current level of security in my identity. (I won’t do shout-outs here because the list of individuals who have supported me would be so lengthy that it would merit a separate post altogether.) These people have helped me discover a love and acceptance for myself that 19-year-old me never would have imagined. And with each passing day, I continue to smash more of the pillars that support what remains of my own internalized homophobia.
My hope is that the world can become a place where I can hold my future partner’s hand in public without having to second guess it. If at the very least for my sake, I ask you all to (continue to) fight for LGBTQ+ equality. The battle didn’t stop on June 26, 2015, the day that my future romantic love was legitimated in this country. We still need help to overcome the toxic levels of heteronormativity that plague our society. We still need help to interrupt the homophobic rhetoric present in both audible discourse and personal thoughts. We still need help to alter the one-dimensional representations of LGBTQ+ people in popular culture (Hint: “gay best friend” is incredibly demeaning). We still need help to end the internalized homophobia that both closeted and out LGBTQ+ individuals carry. We still need help to communicate to LGBTQ+ individuals, “You are normal. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Off the soap box.
Not to confirm stereotypes, but I guess the obsession with Beyoncé now makes a lot of sense, huh?
Soap box time now. You may skip the rest of this if you’re in a tl;dr mood.
“Coming out” is not a one-time event. For me, coming out has been and continues to be a gradual process from the age of 19 to now. With each passing day, I become more comfortable and certain in my identity than I was the previous day. 18-year-old me didn’t even know I was gay. 19-year-old me didn’t know how to make sense of the idea that I might be gay. 20-year-old me had accepted that I was gay, but wasn’t comfortable fully owning that identity or being part of that community. 21-year-old me wasn’t ready to tell his parents that he was gay and seeking a relationship. Even one year ago today, I was still a long way from being confident enough to come out publicly in this manner. But over the last four years, I have found people and communities that love me for who I am and have helped me arrive to my current level of security in my identity. (I won’t do shout-outs here because the list of individuals who have supported me would be so lengthy that it would merit a separate post altogether.) These people have helped me discover a love and acceptance for myself that 19-year-old me never would have imagined. And with each passing day, I continue to smash more of the pillars that support what remains of my own internalized homophobia.
My hope is that the world can become a place where I can hold my future partner’s hand in public without having to second guess it. If at the very least for my sake, I ask you all to (continue to) fight for LGBTQ+ equality. The battle didn’t stop on June 26, 2015, the day that my future romantic love was legitimated in this country. We still need help to overcome the toxic levels of heteronormativity that plague our society. We still need help to interrupt the homophobic rhetoric present in both audible discourse and personal thoughts. We still need help to alter the one-dimensional representations of LGBTQ+ people in popular culture (Hint: “gay best friend” is incredibly demeaning). We still need help to end the internalized homophobia that both closeted and out LGBTQ+ individuals carry. We still need help to communicate to LGBTQ+ individuals, “You are normal. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Off the soap box.
Not to confirm stereotypes, but I guess the obsession with Beyoncé now makes a lot of sense, huh?
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Taking trips
I thought that 2 weeks in Europe wouldn’t be enough. I
thought that at the end of the trip, I would want to stay for another 2 weeks
or more. But I find myself satiated halfway through the second week. I’m
totally good to go home now.
Perhaps I just want to get away from my dad and sister, who periodically drive me insane. Perhaps it’s the language insecurity. Or perhaps, and I think this is the biggest reason, I’m just perfectly content to stay at home.
In high school, I seemed to be very outdoorsy. I went camping several times per year. I took a lot of mini-hikes when I could. All that changed when I started college. I suddenly became too busy to make these kinds of outings. I was also poorly equipped—I had a sleeping bag, but no tent, ground mat, backpacking pack, heavy camping clothes, etc. So these outings drastically decreased in frequency. And the surprising thing, now that I look back, is that I didn’t really miss it all that much. There wasn’t necessarily a void in my life that I needed to fill by going on a big trip or being out in nature. Anything beyond a day trip meant to me a lot of mental preparation to separate myself from my safe space.
When I was with my ex, he talked about hiking often or taking multi-day trips to Yosemite. The idea of those things for some reason just did not appeal to me—I would rather have stayed in with him, perhaps went and got some food, and cuddled on the couch while watching TV or a movie. I was perfectly ok with staying at home rather than taking a trip anywhere far.
I recently began wondering if I had just been so busy that taking trips was just not on my mind. But now, while in Europe, I’m realizing that maybe I’ve just lost that desire to go on longer trips. That hypothesis would explain a lot of things. It explains why it’s taken me until now to go to Europe. It explains why while I was in DC, I was counting down the weeks until I could return home. It explains why I haven’t bought a ground pad or a tent yet. It explains my desperate desire to live in San Francisco. It explains why I can spend every night of the week at home and be content with it. And it explains why on this trip, I have had the goal of travelling to and staying in cities rather than the countryside.
Perhaps I just want to get away from my dad and sister, who periodically drive me insane. Perhaps it’s the language insecurity. Or perhaps, and I think this is the biggest reason, I’m just perfectly content to stay at home.
In high school, I seemed to be very outdoorsy. I went camping several times per year. I took a lot of mini-hikes when I could. All that changed when I started college. I suddenly became too busy to make these kinds of outings. I was also poorly equipped—I had a sleeping bag, but no tent, ground mat, backpacking pack, heavy camping clothes, etc. So these outings drastically decreased in frequency. And the surprising thing, now that I look back, is that I didn’t really miss it all that much. There wasn’t necessarily a void in my life that I needed to fill by going on a big trip or being out in nature. Anything beyond a day trip meant to me a lot of mental preparation to separate myself from my safe space.
When I was with my ex, he talked about hiking often or taking multi-day trips to Yosemite. The idea of those things for some reason just did not appeal to me—I would rather have stayed in with him, perhaps went and got some food, and cuddled on the couch while watching TV or a movie. I was perfectly ok with staying at home rather than taking a trip anywhere far.
I recently began wondering if I had just been so busy that taking trips was just not on my mind. But now, while in Europe, I’m realizing that maybe I’ve just lost that desire to go on longer trips. That hypothesis would explain a lot of things. It explains why it’s taken me until now to go to Europe. It explains why while I was in DC, I was counting down the weeks until I could return home. It explains why I haven’t bought a ground pad or a tent yet. It explains my desperate desire to live in San Francisco. It explains why I can spend every night of the week at home and be content with it. And it explains why on this trip, I have had the goal of travelling to and staying in cities rather than the countryside.
Thoughts at the Berlin Wall
I visited the one remaining segment of the Berlin Wall in
Germany. At the base of it is an exhibit, a series of images and text
chronicling life in Berlin and Germany from the late 1920’s through 1989.
Perhaps the most stunning thing for me about this exhibit was how truly
unbiased the history was. I thought that because I had had a college-level
history course, I understood the Cold War fairly well—not so. While viewing
this exhibit, I realized a huge bias in my schooling that I had been completely
unaware of before.
The bias comes from the following premise: the Western World
and capitalism are inherently good, while the Eastern World and
totalitarianism/communism are inherently evil. The history books always paint
East Berlin as dark and devoid of life, and West Berlin as the noble hero
striving to unify the city again. West Berlin was another protagonist alongside
Washington, London, and Paris. Not much is said about East Berlin other than
the stories of people attempting to cross the wall from the East side to the
West side and getting shot. If these are the only stories shared, then of
course students like me will get the impression that East Berlin was a place
where residents were trapped and were desperately trying to escape because it
was so horrible. The pictures of families being reunited after the wall came
down further amplify this perception.
But the exhibit at the Wall does not speak ill of East
Berlin. It presents it in a totally neutral light. The exhibit gives an equal
voice to the lives of West Berliners as well as East Berliners—and no, East
Berliners were neither starving nor fearing for their lives. It even shows the dark
side of West Berlin, namely the corruption of the elected judges in West
Berlin. This is conveniently glossed over in American history classes (I
honestly had no idea that that happened). The exhibit’s attitude toward the
wall is more or less, “Yes, this happened. Your point is?”
The point here is that any history comes with a bias.
Different players in history will have differing stories to tell. And it is
wrong to think that American history books will give us an accurate history,
especially when it comes to foreign players.
Language Imperialism
I think the first thing I began to think about while on this
Europe trip was language. This is the first time in my life where I’m in a
place where my language is not the primary language. (Okay, Israel falls into
that category, but I travelled with a group, so I was very insulated from the
experience of not knowing the dominant language(s).) My first realization was
how alienating it is to be in a place where you can’t communicate freely with
anyone. Even my Airbnb hosts, who “speak English,” speak a different language
than I—there are so many colloquialisms that I have to adjust in order to
communicate. It opened my eyes to how hostile it is when Americans say, “Learn
English before you come here!” If we want to uphold that mantra, should we in
turn not be allowed to travel to places unless we know the official tongue?
Perhaps that should be another airport screening measure.
I learned on this trip that buried inside me, I had what I
will now call “language imperialism.” As mentioned, my hosts “spoke English,”
but a different English than mine. But is their English wrong? They, as well as
millions or billions of others around the world, learned English in school,
likely from instructors who have the same accents and idioms that their form of
English has. These accents and idioms were therefore inherited in their version
of English, just as my accent and idioms were inherited in my version of
English. Therefore, who is to say that my American English is the gold standard
of what the English language is? And why, by having this implicit bias, did I
not apply the same standard to British English? British English is just as
varied from my American English as German English, or Swiss English, or Danish
English, or Indian English. So I give the title “language imperialism” to the
ideology that assumes that my home language is the “correct” form of the
language.
There were several times on the trip where I considered
filtering my English through a European accent so that I would not be so easily
identifiable as an American. I can’t tell if that’s offensive or not.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Misleading commercials
When I was a kid, I watched Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune regularly. There was one commercial that repeatedly aired, and it sticks out in my memory.
Scene: a white husband/wife couple in their house.
Husband: I'm going to go check the mail.
Wife: No! There's an unexpected bill out there!
Husband: [looks out window, sees man standing next to mailbox wearing a t-shirt that says "BILL"] Let's hide; maybe he'll go away!
Wife: I don't think so.
Narrator: When an unexpected bill shows up, come to Advance America Cash Advance. [Couple enters Advance America facility. Shown talking to agent at counter. Narrator says some more stuff that I can't remember.] So come to Advance America and say, "Bye-bye, bill." [Couple turns around and waves good-bye to Bill who is standing right outside the building. Bill looks sad.] Call 1-888-68-CASH-NOW.
This commercial is quite misleading because it shows Advance America customers as white, middle-class, home-owning, "normal" people. This is usually not the case, as evidenced by the fact that you will almost never see an Advance America location in places like Marin County, Montclair, Pacific Heights, Westwood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, etc. You will find them in places with a noticeable presence of lower-class residents. Because that's how places like Advance America make money--they profit off exploiting the vulnerable. They advance your next paycheck, and then you must make the repayment on time or else you get charged an insane interest rate (Try 456.25% per year). Places like Advance America know that loaning money to financially insecure customers is a risky investment. But they end up profiting from interest on these loans, because they know these customers will probably not be able to repay on time.
Customers in this vulnerable situation are rarely homeowners. You will see a lot of low-income people of color who are struggling to make the rent payments each month asking for these cash advances. They can't afford to make a down-payment on a house. Those are the people that companies like Advance America profit from.
I'm not calling for a different course of action. I'm just calling out bullshit where I see it. The commercials were deliberately unrepresentative of the market served. ("White home-owners go to Advance America too!")
Scene: a white husband/wife couple in their house.
Husband: I'm going to go check the mail.
Wife: No! There's an unexpected bill out there!
Husband: [looks out window, sees man standing next to mailbox wearing a t-shirt that says "BILL"] Let's hide; maybe he'll go away!
Wife: I don't think so.
Narrator: When an unexpected bill shows up, come to Advance America Cash Advance. [Couple enters Advance America facility. Shown talking to agent at counter. Narrator says some more stuff that I can't remember.] So come to Advance America and say, "Bye-bye, bill." [Couple turns around and waves good-bye to Bill who is standing right outside the building. Bill looks sad.] Call 1-888-68-CASH-NOW.
This commercial is quite misleading because it shows Advance America customers as white, middle-class, home-owning, "normal" people. This is usually not the case, as evidenced by the fact that you will almost never see an Advance America location in places like Marin County, Montclair, Pacific Heights, Westwood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, etc. You will find them in places with a noticeable presence of lower-class residents. Because that's how places like Advance America make money--they profit off exploiting the vulnerable. They advance your next paycheck, and then you must make the repayment on time or else you get charged an insane interest rate (Try 456.25% per year). Places like Advance America know that loaning money to financially insecure customers is a risky investment. But they end up profiting from interest on these loans, because they know these customers will probably not be able to repay on time.
Customers in this vulnerable situation are rarely homeowners. You will see a lot of low-income people of color who are struggling to make the rent payments each month asking for these cash advances. They can't afford to make a down-payment on a house. Those are the people that companies like Advance America profit from.
I'm not calling for a different course of action. I'm just calling out bullshit where I see it. The commercials were deliberately unrepresentative of the market served. ("White home-owners go to Advance America too!")
Friday, June 17, 2016
PrEP
There's this drug that people can take called PrEP (Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis; pill name Truvada). The drug reduces the likelihood of an HIV-negative person catching HIV. This drug is heavily marketed to gay men since they have a higher risk of contracting HIV than other groups (for a variety of reasons).
"I'm on PrEP; you should be too."
This all too common online profile statement captures the smugness that comes along with a lot of PrEP users. Most of the guys that I have met that are on PrEP talk about it regularly, which is kind of weird when you think about it. And a lot of guys who are on PrEP either covertly or overtly judge those who are not on PrEP. This more or less comes from the mindset that those on PrEP take better care of their sexual health than those not on PrEP.
If PrEP were freely distributed, then perhaps this judgment would be warranted. But it's not. It's covered by some form of insurance, as all drugs are. Judging people for not being on PrEP does not take into account those who do not have health insurance; those who cannot afford the co-pay for the drug; those who are on their parents' insurance and do not want their parents to know about their sexual habits; etc. Those who can be on PrEP often fail to see the privilege that they have allowing them to take this drug. So simply saying "you should be on PrEP too" is an extremely short-sighted and dismissive.
A Kaiser Permanente study shows that a large fraction of men who are on PrEP have decreased their condom usage. From personal experience, I have met so many guys who are willing and want to abandon condom usage because they are on PrEP. So who are the ones taking better care of their sexual health? If PrEP usage makes patients think they are invincible, then who's having safer sex?
All that being said, I would like to go on PrEP. But I am currently in the situation where I am still on my parents' health insurance, and they don't need to know about this. Once I get on my own health insurance plan, I do intend to go on PrEP.
"I'm on PrEP; you should be too."
This all too common online profile statement captures the smugness that comes along with a lot of PrEP users. Most of the guys that I have met that are on PrEP talk about it regularly, which is kind of weird when you think about it. And a lot of guys who are on PrEP either covertly or overtly judge those who are not on PrEP. This more or less comes from the mindset that those on PrEP take better care of their sexual health than those not on PrEP.
If PrEP were freely distributed, then perhaps this judgment would be warranted. But it's not. It's covered by some form of insurance, as all drugs are. Judging people for not being on PrEP does not take into account those who do not have health insurance; those who cannot afford the co-pay for the drug; those who are on their parents' insurance and do not want their parents to know about their sexual habits; etc. Those who can be on PrEP often fail to see the privilege that they have allowing them to take this drug. So simply saying "you should be on PrEP too" is an extremely short-sighted and dismissive.
A Kaiser Permanente study shows that a large fraction of men who are on PrEP have decreased their condom usage. From personal experience, I have met so many guys who are willing and want to abandon condom usage because they are on PrEP. So who are the ones taking better care of their sexual health? If PrEP usage makes patients think they are invincible, then who's having safer sex?
All that being said, I would like to go on PrEP. But I am currently in the situation where I am still on my parents' health insurance, and they don't need to know about this. Once I get on my own health insurance plan, I do intend to go on PrEP.
I'm not pretty enough. And it's probably not my fault.
It's no secret that the gay world has ridiculously warped body image standards. Unless you look like Channing Tatum, Chris Hemsworth, Ryan Gosling, and the like, you're not pretty enough. Just look at any ad targeted toward gay men--instead of skinny blond women in bikinis, you have white, lean, toned men, usually with smooth chests. Even a gay men's health clinic in San Francisco has a wall of erotic male artwork featuring only white penises and white, toned men. And this is in San Francisco, supposedly one of the most accepting places on the planet.
It's also no secret that fat-shaming is a thing everywhere in society, not just in gay world. This is one of those times when I'm glad that no one reads this blog, because I'm about to make the claim that skinny-shaming is a thing too.
Skinny-shaming is a thing too.
I've experienced it firsthand. Granted, it's much more subdued and subtle than fat-shaming, but it still exists. I'm not super toned, and I don't go to the gym regularly. And I've received so many comments implying that I should go to the gym. The number of guys who say they are "only interested in (other) athletic or muscular guys" is obscene. These two examples, among other examples of skinny-shaming, have cost me so many hours of my life which were spent on guilt or self-loathing.
There is evidence supporting the notion of obesity as a heritable/genetic trait. Google it. So just because someone is larger does not necessarily mean that they are unhealthy. But the genetic basis for skinniness is rarely talked about in mainstream society. I need to recognize that I am privileged; I will always be perceived as prettier than heavier men because I was born to parents who were also pre-disposed to skinniness. And this means that judging an overweight person for not being fit enough is a denial of the genetic privilege that some possess.
But, on the flip side, I can't build muscle. I've tried. When I lived in DC for a summer, I went to the gym 5 days each week for 8 weeks. I never saw a change in my body. I never grew any bigger. This too is surely attributable to my genetic-baseline skinny body.
So I'm not pretty enough for the gay world. "I tried to change...tried to be...prettier." But I can't be. I've done all the right things, but it doesn't work for me.
Haters back off.
It's also no secret that fat-shaming is a thing everywhere in society, not just in gay world. This is one of those times when I'm glad that no one reads this blog, because I'm about to make the claim that skinny-shaming is a thing too.
Skinny-shaming is a thing too.
I've experienced it firsthand. Granted, it's much more subdued and subtle than fat-shaming, but it still exists. I'm not super toned, and I don't go to the gym regularly. And I've received so many comments implying that I should go to the gym. The number of guys who say they are "only interested in (other) athletic or muscular guys" is obscene. These two examples, among other examples of skinny-shaming, have cost me so many hours of my life which were spent on guilt or self-loathing.
There is evidence supporting the notion of obesity as a heritable/genetic trait. Google it. So just because someone is larger does not necessarily mean that they are unhealthy. But the genetic basis for skinniness is rarely talked about in mainstream society. I need to recognize that I am privileged; I will always be perceived as prettier than heavier men because I was born to parents who were also pre-disposed to skinniness. And this means that judging an overweight person for not being fit enough is a denial of the genetic privilege that some possess.
But, on the flip side, I can't build muscle. I've tried. When I lived in DC for a summer, I went to the gym 5 days each week for 8 weeks. I never saw a change in my body. I never grew any bigger. This too is surely attributable to my genetic-baseline skinny body.
So I'm not pretty enough for the gay world. "I tried to change...tried to be...prettier." But I can't be. I've done all the right things, but it doesn't work for me.
Haters back off.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Dear Dan Turner
Let’s break this down chunk by chunk.
“As it stands now, Brock’s life has been deeply altered forever by the events of Jan 17th and 18th. He will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile.”
If Brock has any conscience and morality at all, then I should hope that his life has been deeply altered by the events. If his “self” is a person who commits sexual assault and digital rape, then maybe it is good that he will never be himself again.
“His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear, depression. You can see this in his face, the way he walks, his weakened voice, his lack of appetite.”
And how do you think she feels?
“Brock always enjoyed certain types of food and is a very good cook himself. I was always excited to buy him a big ribeye steak to grill or to get his favorite snack for him. I had to make sure to hide some of my favorite pretzels or chips because I knew they wouldn’t be around long after Brock walked in from a long swim practice. Now he barely consumes any food and eats only to exist.”
How is this relevant? Are we supposed to feel sympathy for Brock because he snacks less? Are these statements a pathetic attempt to lessen the sentence, as if Brock has suffered enough because he doesn’t eat snacks and ribeye steaks anymore? This isn’t an eating disorder, because he is clearly eating enough. And, as one Twitter user pointed out in regards to stealing the snacks, he obviously has a history of taking what he wants.
“These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve.”
Take a minute to stop and think about her and her family. Think of all the times she has had to recount her story for legal purposes. Every time she brings it up, imagine the pain that she feels. And yes, he may have worked hard to achieve his dream, but that does not excuse him from being held accountable for his actions. Do you think that Brock is exempt from the law because he had a dream and he worked hard? Actions have consequences—this is how the world works.
“That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.”
A lot of the internet has misinterpreted this “action” as the sexual colloquialism “action.” Given the nature of the crime, it really was a poor word choice; but it seems to just mean “20 minutes of an event.” Regardless, however, the length of time of the offense is irrelevant. Mass shooters may engage in their “action” for 5 minutes, but they still face serious consequences. And yes, crimes such as sexual assault and digital rape do indeed merit harsh consequences with a steep price to pay.
“The fact that he now has to register as a sexual offender for the rest of this life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact with people and organizations.”
Yes, it does. That’s how it works. Brock made a choice, and now he must live with the consequences of this choice.
“What I know as his father is that incarceration is not the appropriate punishment for Brock. He has no prior criminal history and has never been violent to anyone including his actions on the night of Jan 17th 2015.”
Since you are his father, you somehow understand justice better than any jury or judge. Seems legit. It doesn’t matter whether this was Brock’s first, second, third, or sixteenth crime; Brock broke the law, and the victim is forced to cope with what Brock did to her. Also, his actions on January 17th, 2015 were not violent?? What the actual fuck? What were they, then?
“Brock can do so many positive things as a contributor to society and is totally committed to educating other college age students about the dangers of alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity. By having people like Brock educate others on college campuses is how society can begin to break the cycle of binge drinking and its unfortunate results.”
What about this case makes Brock at all qualified to educate others about binge drinking and sexual promiscuity? Besides, this case is not about binge drinking and sexual promiscuity; it is about rape. Yes, alcohol was indeed a factor, but millions of people get drunk every weekend and are able to not rape others. Also, who are you claiming the sexually promiscuous one is? Your son, or his victim? How about we change it to say, “By having people like Brock’s father educate their children in the home is how society can begin to break the cycle of rape culture and its devastating results.”
“Probation is the best answer for Brock in this situation and allows him to give back to society in a net positive way.”
“Net positive,” as if the positive actions that Brock may take in the future will somehow neutralize and undo what he did to the victim. You know, Brock can still give back to society after serving a term in prison, too.
“Very Respectfully,
Dan A. Turner”
Shut up.
“As it stands now, Brock’s life has been deeply altered forever by the events of Jan 17th and 18th. He will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile.”
If Brock has any conscience and morality at all, then I should hope that his life has been deeply altered by the events. If his “self” is a person who commits sexual assault and digital rape, then maybe it is good that he will never be himself again.
“His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear, depression. You can see this in his face, the way he walks, his weakened voice, his lack of appetite.”
And how do you think she feels?
“Brock always enjoyed certain types of food and is a very good cook himself. I was always excited to buy him a big ribeye steak to grill or to get his favorite snack for him. I had to make sure to hide some of my favorite pretzels or chips because I knew they wouldn’t be around long after Brock walked in from a long swim practice. Now he barely consumes any food and eats only to exist.”
How is this relevant? Are we supposed to feel sympathy for Brock because he snacks less? Are these statements a pathetic attempt to lessen the sentence, as if Brock has suffered enough because he doesn’t eat snacks and ribeye steaks anymore? This isn’t an eating disorder, because he is clearly eating enough. And, as one Twitter user pointed out in regards to stealing the snacks, he obviously has a history of taking what he wants.
“These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve.”
Take a minute to stop and think about her and her family. Think of all the times she has had to recount her story for legal purposes. Every time she brings it up, imagine the pain that she feels. And yes, he may have worked hard to achieve his dream, but that does not excuse him from being held accountable for his actions. Do you think that Brock is exempt from the law because he had a dream and he worked hard? Actions have consequences—this is how the world works.
“That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.”
A lot of the internet has misinterpreted this “action” as the sexual colloquialism “action.” Given the nature of the crime, it really was a poor word choice; but it seems to just mean “20 minutes of an event.” Regardless, however, the length of time of the offense is irrelevant. Mass shooters may engage in their “action” for 5 minutes, but they still face serious consequences. And yes, crimes such as sexual assault and digital rape do indeed merit harsh consequences with a steep price to pay.
“The fact that he now has to register as a sexual offender for the rest of this life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact with people and organizations.”
Yes, it does. That’s how it works. Brock made a choice, and now he must live with the consequences of this choice.
“What I know as his father is that incarceration is not the appropriate punishment for Brock. He has no prior criminal history and has never been violent to anyone including his actions on the night of Jan 17th 2015.”
Since you are his father, you somehow understand justice better than any jury or judge. Seems legit. It doesn’t matter whether this was Brock’s first, second, third, or sixteenth crime; Brock broke the law, and the victim is forced to cope with what Brock did to her. Also, his actions on January 17th, 2015 were not violent?? What the actual fuck? What were they, then?
“Brock can do so many positive things as a contributor to society and is totally committed to educating other college age students about the dangers of alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity. By having people like Brock educate others on college campuses is how society can begin to break the cycle of binge drinking and its unfortunate results.”
What about this case makes Brock at all qualified to educate others about binge drinking and sexual promiscuity? Besides, this case is not about binge drinking and sexual promiscuity; it is about rape. Yes, alcohol was indeed a factor, but millions of people get drunk every weekend and are able to not rape others. Also, who are you claiming the sexually promiscuous one is? Your son, or his victim? How about we change it to say, “By having people like Brock’s father educate their children in the home is how society can begin to break the cycle of rape culture and its devastating results.”
“Probation is the best answer for Brock in this situation and allows him to give back to society in a net positive way.”
“Net positive,” as if the positive actions that Brock may take in the future will somehow neutralize and undo what he did to the victim. You know, Brock can still give back to society after serving a term in prison, too.
“Very Respectfully,
Dan A. Turner”
Shut up.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
"You chose to abide by these rules."
There are many Christian circles where members are required to adhere to a certain code of conduct. One such example was my high school, which had rules such as no dancing, men cannot have long hair, women's skirts must be of a certain length, etc. Evangelical colleges also have their own set of rules; most notably is the common rule that practicing same-sex attraction is prohibited. The degree to which this is deemed unacceptable varies from school to school, but the bottom line is that anti-LGBT rules are in place.
One time in high school, an extremely demeaning assembly took place. The administration gathered a group of men whose hair had been deemed "out of dress code" and evaluated them one at a time in front of the other attendees. I was one of those students, and I spoke out about the injustice of it by publishing a Note about it on Facebook. I got a lot of positive feedback; but I also got a lot of feedback defending my school. The defenses largely came from current faculty. A common theme in the defending feedback was, "Remember that you signed a contract saying that you would abide by the rules. If you don't like the rules, you can leave."
Evangelical colleges defend their anti-LGBT rules by saying something similar. "Attending this school is tacit agreement to abide by the rules. If you don't like it, you can leave." More or less.
There are a few problems with this perspective.
1) It encourages people to leave the community for non-faith related reasons. The institutions, which are supposed to be "Christian," are willing to drop someone from their community over something completely non-essential. Not only that, but it also treats the victim as dispensable. There is no effort made to try to convince the student to stay in the community; it's a "take-it-or-leave-it" perspective.
2) It denies the fact that there is a reason other than the rules that these students chose to attend these institutions. If the rules were all that mattered to the student, then s/he would have left already. But s/he sees value in remaining a part of that particular community in spite of the flawed regulations. Saying, "you can leave" trivializes and devalues the student's connection to the community.
3) It discourages any self-reflection. There is a reason this rule became an issue for a student. This instance would be a perfect opportunity to take time and examine the health of the community, and if the rules are causing more harm or good. Communities should not be satisfied with the status quo; they should be seeking to improve.
Besides, if someone is "living in sin" or whatever, wouldn't it make the most sense to hold that person even more closely in an attempt to "restore" him/her to "holiness"? Instead, the student in violation is presented with the option to leave the safe community. Are they supposed to return to "holiness" on their own? How will they if they're already "living in sin" according to your perspective? Pushing a person away is the last thing you should want to do if you sincerely care about a person.
I was inspired to write this after reading this article today.
One time in high school, an extremely demeaning assembly took place. The administration gathered a group of men whose hair had been deemed "out of dress code" and evaluated them one at a time in front of the other attendees. I was one of those students, and I spoke out about the injustice of it by publishing a Note about it on Facebook. I got a lot of positive feedback; but I also got a lot of feedback defending my school. The defenses largely came from current faculty. A common theme in the defending feedback was, "Remember that you signed a contract saying that you would abide by the rules. If you don't like the rules, you can leave."
Evangelical colleges defend their anti-LGBT rules by saying something similar. "Attending this school is tacit agreement to abide by the rules. If you don't like it, you can leave." More or less.
There are a few problems with this perspective.
1) It encourages people to leave the community for non-faith related reasons. The institutions, which are supposed to be "Christian," are willing to drop someone from their community over something completely non-essential. Not only that, but it also treats the victim as dispensable. There is no effort made to try to convince the student to stay in the community; it's a "take-it-or-leave-it" perspective.
2) It denies the fact that there is a reason other than the rules that these students chose to attend these institutions. If the rules were all that mattered to the student, then s/he would have left already. But s/he sees value in remaining a part of that particular community in spite of the flawed regulations. Saying, "you can leave" trivializes and devalues the student's connection to the community.
3) It discourages any self-reflection. There is a reason this rule became an issue for a student. This instance would be a perfect opportunity to take time and examine the health of the community, and if the rules are causing more harm or good. Communities should not be satisfied with the status quo; they should be seeking to improve.
Besides, if someone is "living in sin" or whatever, wouldn't it make the most sense to hold that person even more closely in an attempt to "restore" him/her to "holiness"? Instead, the student in violation is presented with the option to leave the safe community. Are they supposed to return to "holiness" on their own? How will they if they're already "living in sin" according to your perspective? Pushing a person away is the last thing you should want to do if you sincerely care about a person.
I was inspired to write this after reading this article today.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
What suicidal thoughts look like to me
Unfortunately, I'm no stranger to suicidal thoughts.
That's the end of my introduction.
When I have experienced suicidal thoughts, here is what has happened in my head. I will attempt to describe it using imagery.
My mind is personified as me. I am standing somewhere, and then some amorphous object enters into my right periphery. It is flowing past me from right to left. This is the suicidal thought. Notice that it is not a thought or an idea that I manufactured; it entered on its own. It arrived in response to some triggering situation that caused me extreme emotional distress, and it presents itself as an option for me to escape my current mental and emotional state. If I want, I can reach out, grab it, latch onto it, and allow it to carry me.
How I choose to respond to this thought is critical. I can choose to remain where I am, watch it pass in front of me, and then watch it exit my left periphery. I do not give it any power over me. Sometimes only one of these thoughts floats by; other times, it is many of them with headways of a couple minutes. Each time a new one drifts past, I need to make a choice not to reach out, grab it, and latch onto it.
In at least one instance, I have turned the direction that I am facing so that I cannot see the thought pass by and be tempted by it. In this instance, what happened was the thoughts kept coming, but their direction of approach changed each time I changed the direction I was looking. No matter which way I turned, I was surrounded by these thoughts. This was an instance where I felt completely helpless, like there was no way to escape them. But I still did not reach out and grab.
And there have been a couple instances where I have chosen to grab. I see the thought approaching, and then I pull myself onto it as it crosses in front of me. In these instances, I voluntarily give up my footing, and I allow this suicidal thought to take me wherever it pleases. I give the thought complete control over my mental state. Very rarely am I able to hurl myself from the ride on my own; it is someone else who makes the thought halt by blocking its trajectory. The other person usually cannot get me off the thought, but they can stop it from moving. It takes me a long time to off-board the thought on my own, because the surrounding atmosphere is dark. I cannot see a stable place for me to stand, and I do not trust that one is there.
When I do get off in the darkness, I slowly start making my way back to the light. It takes time. On my way back, sometimes I wander in circles in the dark; sometimes another suicidal thought floats by and I reach out to touch it; sometimes I step onto an uneven surface in the dark. It might take days, it might take weeks, it might take months; but I do eventually return to a more illuminated area.
That is how I visualize what happens in my head. Other people may experience it differently.
That's the end of my introduction.
When I have experienced suicidal thoughts, here is what has happened in my head. I will attempt to describe it using imagery.
My mind is personified as me. I am standing somewhere, and then some amorphous object enters into my right periphery. It is flowing past me from right to left. This is the suicidal thought. Notice that it is not a thought or an idea that I manufactured; it entered on its own. It arrived in response to some triggering situation that caused me extreme emotional distress, and it presents itself as an option for me to escape my current mental and emotional state. If I want, I can reach out, grab it, latch onto it, and allow it to carry me.
How I choose to respond to this thought is critical. I can choose to remain where I am, watch it pass in front of me, and then watch it exit my left periphery. I do not give it any power over me. Sometimes only one of these thoughts floats by; other times, it is many of them with headways of a couple minutes. Each time a new one drifts past, I need to make a choice not to reach out, grab it, and latch onto it.
In at least one instance, I have turned the direction that I am facing so that I cannot see the thought pass by and be tempted by it. In this instance, what happened was the thoughts kept coming, but their direction of approach changed each time I changed the direction I was looking. No matter which way I turned, I was surrounded by these thoughts. This was an instance where I felt completely helpless, like there was no way to escape them. But I still did not reach out and grab.
And there have been a couple instances where I have chosen to grab. I see the thought approaching, and then I pull myself onto it as it crosses in front of me. In these instances, I voluntarily give up my footing, and I allow this suicidal thought to take me wherever it pleases. I give the thought complete control over my mental state. Very rarely am I able to hurl myself from the ride on my own; it is someone else who makes the thought halt by blocking its trajectory. The other person usually cannot get me off the thought, but they can stop it from moving. It takes me a long time to off-board the thought on my own, because the surrounding atmosphere is dark. I cannot see a stable place for me to stand, and I do not trust that one is there.
When I do get off in the darkness, I slowly start making my way back to the light. It takes time. On my way back, sometimes I wander in circles in the dark; sometimes another suicidal thought floats by and I reach out to touch it; sometimes I step onto an uneven surface in the dark. It might take days, it might take weeks, it might take months; but I do eventually return to a more illuminated area.
That is how I visualize what happens in my head. Other people may experience it differently.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
A racist scene in a high school musical
The following scene was performed by my Christian high school when we put on The Music Man my sophomore year:
Four actors danced in a circle while wearing costuming that looked like an imitation of the natives scene from Disney's 1953 Peter Pan. The pianist played a pattern of fifths in the key of C minor an octave below middle C (because, according to our music director, that "sounded Indian"). As they were dancing, the actors repeatedly chanted, "Wa tan ye!" Then they stopped dancing, and one of them said, "I will now count to twenty in the Indian tongue. Een! Teen! Tuther! Feather! Fip!" At that point, the scene was interrupted.
I don't know how much of that scene was scripted and how much was artistic license**, but the fact remains that that scene was extremely racist, and my high school chose not to edit it out.
By contrast, in the opening chorus number for the same musical, "Iowa Stubborn," one line goes, "And we're so by God stubborn, we could stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye." Our music director thought that this would be offensive by taking God's name in vain, so we changed the line to "And we're so by George stubborn..."
The following year, we performed "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd." One of the lines in this piece is, "He served a dark and a hungry god." There was talk of changing this line too, even though it was referring to "a god" rather than "God." This change was never realized.
This phenomenon of selective editing was such a double standard. I am shocked that we allowed such a racist scene to be portrayed, yet we took offense at saying "God" in a song. The worst part is that I'm sure the scene mocking Native Americans was not entirely scripted and we added some of our own flair**, which we deemed acceptable, but singing a pre-scripted "God" was questionable.
"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."
God forgive us.
**UPDATE 4/15/16: I found the script for The Music Man online. It turns out that that scene is indeed scripted, and we performed it exactly as scripted. But the issue still remains that we chose not to edit that particular scene, but we readily edited any reference to "God".
Four actors danced in a circle while wearing costuming that looked like an imitation of the natives scene from Disney's 1953 Peter Pan. The pianist played a pattern of fifths in the key of C minor an octave below middle C (because, according to our music director, that "sounded Indian"). As they were dancing, the actors repeatedly chanted, "Wa tan ye!" Then they stopped dancing, and one of them said, "I will now count to twenty in the Indian tongue. Een! Teen! Tuther! Feather! Fip!" At that point, the scene was interrupted.
I don't know how much of that scene was scripted and how much was artistic license**, but the fact remains that that scene was extremely racist, and my high school chose not to edit it out.
By contrast, in the opening chorus number for the same musical, "Iowa Stubborn," one line goes, "And we're so by God stubborn, we could stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye." Our music director thought that this would be offensive by taking God's name in vain, so we changed the line to "And we're so by George stubborn..."
The following year, we performed "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd." One of the lines in this piece is, "He served a dark and a hungry god." There was talk of changing this line too, even though it was referring to "a god" rather than "God." This change was never realized.
This phenomenon of selective editing was such a double standard. I am shocked that we allowed such a racist scene to be portrayed, yet we took offense at saying "God" in a song. The worst part is that I'm sure the scene mocking Native Americans was not entirely scripted and we added some of our own flair**, which we deemed acceptable, but singing a pre-scripted "God" was questionable.
"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."
God forgive us.
**UPDATE 4/15/16: I found the script for The Music Man online. It turns out that that scene is indeed scripted, and we performed it exactly as scripted. But the issue still remains that we chose not to edit that particular scene, but we readily edited any reference to "God".
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
The MacArthur Maze
"The MacArthur Maze" is the colloquial term given to the interchange of I-880, I-580, and I-80 in West Oakland at the Bay Bridge approach. (I guess CA-24/I-980 can also be included in this system, since the interchange of this freeway with I-580 occurs only a mile east of the Bay Bridge approach.) As its name suggests, it is known for its confusing layout, and overpasses are seen going every which way.
For years, trying to understand the MacArthur Maze perplexed me. Eventually, I decided that the interchange was so complex because three freeways (I-80, I-880, I-580) were intersecting at one point. I tried to draw out my own freeway interchange with three intersecting freeways, and it was really hard and complex. But I kept wondering if there was a more efficient way to design an interchange with three freeways coming together.
Some time later, I suddenly realized that yes, three named freeways are coming together. However, northeast of the Bay Bridge toll plaza, I-580 and I-80 share a route (in opposing directions, might I add; that is, I-80 east runs on the same path as I-580 west...in a generally northbound direction). So, actually, this could be viewed as two freeways coming together in a + formation. The "south" portion of the + is I-880; the "west" portion is I-80/the Bay Bridge; the "east" portion is I-580; and the "north" portion is I-80/I-580.
But why was it so complex? I still wondered. One ramp is elevated about 100 feet in the air for a mile and a half or so--is this necessary? The nearby I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange is also a + formation, and it is a beautiful four-level interchange which is easy to follow--why couldn't the MacArthur Maze be the same way?
Then I realized that it probably was at one point, prior to 1989. In 1989, the Loma Prieta Earthquake occurred, causing a section of I-880 in West Oakland just west of the toll plaza to collapse. Mandela Parkway now stands in its place, and I-880 has been rerouted around the outskirts of West Oakland. Following Mandela Parkway, it is clear that I-880 used to terminate right in the center of the + with I-80 and I-580. In fact, the remaining upside-down T at that point resembles the structure of the I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange. This indicates that the interchange used to have a familiar structure. Now that I-880 has been moved, its ramps to the Bay Bridge and to I-80/I-580 lie farther south from the upside-down T. But all the necessary ramps are present, and no extra ramps are there. In fact, a couple ramps are missing, such as a ramp from I-580 to I-880, and vice versa. (Traffic needing to take these routes is rerouted to take I-980.)
So the conclusion is that structurally, the MacArthur Maze is no more complex than the nearby I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange. There is not really a need to simplify the interchange, because it actually isn't all that complex.
So where does the apparent complexity come from?
My guess is that the biggest source of complexity is the fact that I-80 E/W and I-580 W/E are the same road. That is so hard to wrap one's head around. Related to this is that in order to continue on the freeway you are on, you usually must take an exit. For example, if you are on I-80 W/I-580 E in Berkeley heading to San Francisco, you are actually going south, and you must take a westward ramp to stay on I-80 W. If you continue going south, you will end up on I-880 S. A third source is the fact that the interchange is an odd shape. Instead of forming a nice +, I-880's off-ramps are further south.
So: why is the MacArthur Maze so complex/complicated? Mostly because of the involved freeways' names.
For years, trying to understand the MacArthur Maze perplexed me. Eventually, I decided that the interchange was so complex because three freeways (I-80, I-880, I-580) were intersecting at one point. I tried to draw out my own freeway interchange with three intersecting freeways, and it was really hard and complex. But I kept wondering if there was a more efficient way to design an interchange with three freeways coming together.
Some time later, I suddenly realized that yes, three named freeways are coming together. However, northeast of the Bay Bridge toll plaza, I-580 and I-80 share a route (in opposing directions, might I add; that is, I-80 east runs on the same path as I-580 west...in a generally northbound direction). So, actually, this could be viewed as two freeways coming together in a + formation. The "south" portion of the + is I-880; the "west" portion is I-80/the Bay Bridge; the "east" portion is I-580; and the "north" portion is I-80/I-580.
But why was it so complex? I still wondered. One ramp is elevated about 100 feet in the air for a mile and a half or so--is this necessary? The nearby I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange is also a + formation, and it is a beautiful four-level interchange which is easy to follow--why couldn't the MacArthur Maze be the same way?
Then I realized that it probably was at one point, prior to 1989. In 1989, the Loma Prieta Earthquake occurred, causing a section of I-880 in West Oakland just west of the toll plaza to collapse. Mandela Parkway now stands in its place, and I-880 has been rerouted around the outskirts of West Oakland. Following Mandela Parkway, it is clear that I-880 used to terminate right in the center of the + with I-80 and I-580. In fact, the remaining upside-down T at that point resembles the structure of the I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange. This indicates that the interchange used to have a familiar structure. Now that I-880 has been moved, its ramps to the Bay Bridge and to I-80/I-580 lie farther south from the upside-down T. But all the necessary ramps are present, and no extra ramps are there. In fact, a couple ramps are missing, such as a ramp from I-580 to I-880, and vice versa. (Traffic needing to take these routes is rerouted to take I-980.)
So the conclusion is that structurally, the MacArthur Maze is no more complex than the nearby I-580/I-980/CA-24 interchange. There is not really a need to simplify the interchange, because it actually isn't all that complex.
So where does the apparent complexity come from?
My guess is that the biggest source of complexity is the fact that I-80 E/W and I-580 W/E are the same road. That is so hard to wrap one's head around. Related to this is that in order to continue on the freeway you are on, you usually must take an exit. For example, if you are on I-80 W/I-580 E in Berkeley heading to San Francisco, you are actually going south, and you must take a westward ramp to stay on I-80 W. If you continue going south, you will end up on I-880 S. A third source is the fact that the interchange is an odd shape. Instead of forming a nice +, I-880's off-ramps are further south.
So: why is the MacArthur Maze so complex/complicated? Mostly because of the involved freeways' names.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Perspectives on "Resistor"
During the summer following my high school graduation, I listened to "Resistor" by Brave Saint Saturn a lot. At the time, I had super low self-esteem and was suffering from depression (unbeknownst to me). So I thought the song was about comforting someone who thought she was worthless. But I listened to the song again last night for the first time in who knows how long--and this time, I thought the song was about a stubborn person with the sub-text that this person was struggling and refusing to ask for help. I think I have become much more rigid and stubborn in what I believe, especially in relation to the church, so this time, the song's character's stubbornness stuck out to me.
The interesting thing is that both motifs are indeed present in the song. I completely missed the stubbornness motif when I was 18, but that was the first thing I picked up on last night. It's odd to see that the context of my life has framed which lines of the song stuck out to me.
The interesting thing is that both motifs are indeed present in the song. I completely missed the stubbornness motif when I was 18, but that was the first thing I picked up on last night. It's odd to see that the context of my life has framed which lines of the song stuck out to me.
It doesn't go away
"Well, you can never get rid of your anxiety; but the trick is learning skills to cope with it," Dr. Ono told me. My heart sank.
This was August 2012, a month and a half after I had been diagnosed with OCD and depression, and four months after my last serious suicide incident. Since pursuing treatment, I had acquired a new hope that I would be able to be free of my crippling anxiety. But Dr. Ono's statement was hard for me to hear. I heard that I would have to keep fighting off my crushing thoughts for the rest of my life, and I was not prepared for that.
Since then, I've experienced what learning to cope with it looks like. But what I did not expect was how long it takes to process certain experiences.
To this day, almost four years after the fact, I am still processing the events that happened when I was pledging. I am still processing what happened my first active semester. Triggering memories resurface at random times, and every time, I have to convince myself that these memories really happened to me. This is no different from weeks or months after the actual events; the events seemed surreal then too. I still have not claimed these memories as part of my history. On the one hand, that is good, because that means that these incredulously negative events do not define me. But on the other hand, not owning these memories cuts out a chunk of my existence and denies what has shaped me into who I am. When I think of positive experiences that happened around the same time, it becomes a challenge to contextualize them and to remember that they coexisted with the negative experiences.
Maybe Dr. Ono's statement "You can never get rid of your anxiety" also means that you cannot escape the negative feelings that come with memories tied to anxiety. Maybe certain experiences are so traumatic that they can never be fully processed and internalized.
This was August 2012, a month and a half after I had been diagnosed with OCD and depression, and four months after my last serious suicide incident. Since pursuing treatment, I had acquired a new hope that I would be able to be free of my crippling anxiety. But Dr. Ono's statement was hard for me to hear. I heard that I would have to keep fighting off my crushing thoughts for the rest of my life, and I was not prepared for that.
Since then, I've experienced what learning to cope with it looks like. But what I did not expect was how long it takes to process certain experiences.
To this day, almost four years after the fact, I am still processing the events that happened when I was pledging. I am still processing what happened my first active semester. Triggering memories resurface at random times, and every time, I have to convince myself that these memories really happened to me. This is no different from weeks or months after the actual events; the events seemed surreal then too. I still have not claimed these memories as part of my history. On the one hand, that is good, because that means that these incredulously negative events do not define me. But on the other hand, not owning these memories cuts out a chunk of my existence and denies what has shaped me into who I am. When I think of positive experiences that happened around the same time, it becomes a challenge to contextualize them and to remember that they coexisted with the negative experiences.
Maybe Dr. Ono's statement "You can never get rid of your anxiety" also means that you cannot escape the negative feelings that come with memories tied to anxiety. Maybe certain experiences are so traumatic that they can never be fully processed and internalized.
Doing Christian ministry right
My involvement with First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley opened my eyes to the way that ministry should be done. During my freshman year of college, the church had an intern named CJ; and for my first three years of college, Nick was the college pastor for the church. These two nailed it.
What did CJ do right? He made an effort to build and maintain a relationship. He regularly contacted me (every two weeks or so) to schedule a time to meet up and chat. At first, I came from the cynical perspective that "this is just his job; he has to hang out with me," but he could have met with me as infrequently as once a month. Instead, he chose to meet with me every two weeks or so. He legitimately cared.
CJ also was available in times of crisis. He heard me out and acknowledged me when I described my horrid pledging experiences. In one particularly overwhelming week, he picked me up at about 10 PM, we drove to the Jack in the Box drive through, and he just let me talk about what was going on while driving around and snacking. He let me sit in his parked car with him and weep as the rain fell against the car roof. He didn't try to offer me advice or comfort; his mere presence was all that was needed, and he knew that.
But CJ also set up personal boundaries. His life was not just this internship; he did a lot outside of his job. I had another crisis moment once while he was tied up at a social gathering. He was unable to help me in that moment, but he asked me to write down and send him what I was thinking. He cared, but he still took time for himself.
What did Nick do right? He did not shy away from uncomfortable situations. He allowed his students space to think and believe freely, and he coached and guided us along the way. He never pressured us into any particular set of beliefs, and regularly admitted when he was conflicted about something. I remember him explicitly telling me that he didn't know what he believed about same-sex relationships, so there was no pressure for me to conform to any ideology. He was great at asking questions that worked toward getting students to think and to come to their own conclusions.
Nick too, like CJ, was available in times of crisis. After FoCUS one evening, I was conflicted about pursuing a relationship. I asked to talk to him; as the rest of FoCUS was hanging out, he and I sat on a pew as I came out to him. He sat, listened, and offered positive feedback. A month later or so, when I wanted to kill myself at 2 AM, I called him. He was not awake, of course, but he followed up the next day. And the next day. And throughout the week. He encouraged me to tell my parents about the issue; he set me up with the church counselor; and he followed up weeks afterward.
These are prime examples of how Christian ministry should be done. My involvement with these two people was much more fulfilling and beneficial for my faith than any other church authority figures I had encountered in the previous 18 years of my life.
What did CJ do right? He made an effort to build and maintain a relationship. He regularly contacted me (every two weeks or so) to schedule a time to meet up and chat. At first, I came from the cynical perspective that "this is just his job; he has to hang out with me," but he could have met with me as infrequently as once a month. Instead, he chose to meet with me every two weeks or so. He legitimately cared.
CJ also was available in times of crisis. He heard me out and acknowledged me when I described my horrid pledging experiences. In one particularly overwhelming week, he picked me up at about 10 PM, we drove to the Jack in the Box drive through, and he just let me talk about what was going on while driving around and snacking. He let me sit in his parked car with him and weep as the rain fell against the car roof. He didn't try to offer me advice or comfort; his mere presence was all that was needed, and he knew that.
But CJ also set up personal boundaries. His life was not just this internship; he did a lot outside of his job. I had another crisis moment once while he was tied up at a social gathering. He was unable to help me in that moment, but he asked me to write down and send him what I was thinking. He cared, but he still took time for himself.
What did Nick do right? He did not shy away from uncomfortable situations. He allowed his students space to think and believe freely, and he coached and guided us along the way. He never pressured us into any particular set of beliefs, and regularly admitted when he was conflicted about something. I remember him explicitly telling me that he didn't know what he believed about same-sex relationships, so there was no pressure for me to conform to any ideology. He was great at asking questions that worked toward getting students to think and to come to their own conclusions.
Nick too, like CJ, was available in times of crisis. After FoCUS one evening, I was conflicted about pursuing a relationship. I asked to talk to him; as the rest of FoCUS was hanging out, he and I sat on a pew as I came out to him. He sat, listened, and offered positive feedback. A month later or so, when I wanted to kill myself at 2 AM, I called him. He was not awake, of course, but he followed up the next day. And the next day. And throughout the week. He encouraged me to tell my parents about the issue; he set me up with the church counselor; and he followed up weeks afterward.
These are prime examples of how Christian ministry should be done. My involvement with these two people was much more fulfilling and beneficial for my faith than any other church authority figures I had encountered in the previous 18 years of my life.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
The remnants of a truss bridge
Today I biked 13.1 miles, the distance of a half marathon. I went from my apartment to the end of the Bay Bridge Trail--the trail that borders the new eastern span of the Bay Bridge and is expected to be extended all the way to Yerba Buena Island by this summer.
To the south of the Bay Bridge Trail are the remnants of the old Bay Bridge. The steel double-decker truss bridge that was built in the 1930's. The bridge that had a portion collapse during the 1989 Loma Prieta Quake, prompting discussions of constructing a new eastern span. As soon as the new eastern span opened up, the old span suddenly looked so shoddy and lifeless. The harsh steel-and-bolt exterior illuminated with orange lamps could not aesthetically compare to the white, LED-lit, wide-lane, sleek new span.
Work quickly began to take down the old span, which was not only an eyesore, but also a possible seismic hazard. A couple months ago, stories circulated in the news that the remaining portions of the old bridge structure would be imploded all at once. And yet, it is still here as an incompletely dismantled piece of infrastructure.
Rumor has it that demolition stopped because an endangered species of bird was found nesting in the bridge. Environmentalist groups shut down the bridge demolition to preserve these birds.
We successfully lobby for endangered species to remain in dangerous public structures. Yet we have no problem proposing or passing legislation that prevents people from sitting or laying down on sidewalks (purposely designed to implicitly target the homeless). We have no problem kicking people out of vacant lots where they have been living to make way for new buildings of $2,000/month apartments. [I had originally written "kicking the homeless out," but then I realized that calling them "the homeless" pejoratively presents them as "others"--similar to when pastors call them "the gays." They are people just like us.] We allow the most vulnerable animal species to continue living in spaces that halt development, yet we force our most vulnerable neighbors out of whatever place they have made their home.
This practice of evicting the homeless could maybe be acceptable if alternate living locations were provided, but this is not the case. We force them out, and they are on their own.
Somehow I feel like the priorities are messed up. If we can protect endangered species, why can we not also protect our own most vulnerable?
To the south of the Bay Bridge Trail are the remnants of the old Bay Bridge. The steel double-decker truss bridge that was built in the 1930's. The bridge that had a portion collapse during the 1989 Loma Prieta Quake, prompting discussions of constructing a new eastern span. As soon as the new eastern span opened up, the old span suddenly looked so shoddy and lifeless. The harsh steel-and-bolt exterior illuminated with orange lamps could not aesthetically compare to the white, LED-lit, wide-lane, sleek new span.
Work quickly began to take down the old span, which was not only an eyesore, but also a possible seismic hazard. A couple months ago, stories circulated in the news that the remaining portions of the old bridge structure would be imploded all at once. And yet, it is still here as an incompletely dismantled piece of infrastructure.
Rumor has it that demolition stopped because an endangered species of bird was found nesting in the bridge. Environmentalist groups shut down the bridge demolition to preserve these birds.
We successfully lobby for endangered species to remain in dangerous public structures. Yet we have no problem proposing or passing legislation that prevents people from sitting or laying down on sidewalks (purposely designed to implicitly target the homeless). We have no problem kicking people out of vacant lots where they have been living to make way for new buildings of $2,000/month apartments. [I had originally written "kicking the homeless out," but then I realized that calling them "the homeless" pejoratively presents them as "others"--similar to when pastors call them "the gays." They are people just like us.] We allow the most vulnerable animal species to continue living in spaces that halt development, yet we force our most vulnerable neighbors out of whatever place they have made their home.
This practice of evicting the homeless could maybe be acceptable if alternate living locations were provided, but this is not the case. We force them out, and they are on their own.
Somehow I feel like the priorities are messed up. If we can protect endangered species, why can we not also protect our own most vulnerable?
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
A very limited revisiting of SBC
I spent all four of my high school summers volunteering at Sequoia Brigade Camp, the camping spin-off of Christian Service Brigade, with which I had been heavily involved since first grade. I volunteered as a junior counselor, giving up 3 1/2 weeks of my summer each year. It was a great experience. I made great friends, great memories, and great laughs; and SBC, probably more than anything else, was where I learned patience, teamwork, and peer leadership through trial by fire.
We had campfire each night, which always followed a very strict formula (Warm-up, then Fun Songs, then Skit, then Transition Songs, then Testimony, then Slow Songs, then Story, then Closing, and ending with "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus"). The next morning at Leader's Huddle (which started at 6:15 in the morning every day--yikes!), we would always go through a campfire evaluation of the night before. And damn, we ripped on each other. I got critiqued one time for slipping my hands into my pockets during Transition Songs. People got critiqued for not starting on a good pitch. People got critiqued for not having prominent enough hand motions. People got critiqued for being too energetic, or not energetic enough. People got critiqued for not announcing songs exactly as "Song Number, Song Name, Song Number again." People got critiqued for calling a section "Fun Songs," "Transition Songs," or "Slow Songs" (as if those titles were supposed to be kept secret from the campers). If you think you gave a flawless campfire song leading performance, you were wrong--someone could always find something wrong with it. And the standard was never consistent--I saw some errors get repeated that would not get critiqued (e.g. the hands in the pockets thing), or Bob, the camp director, would praise someone's performance even though they had made the same errors as someone else that had been pointed out a previous night. The absolute nit-pickiness, combined with the inconsistency of standards, drove me mad.
I have a memory during either my third or fourth year where I was being evaluated after leading transition songs the night before. Someone commented, "I seem to recall Max not being very good at song-leading his first year, so watching your improvement has been really cool to see." Indignantly, I responded with, "No, I was good my first year," at which almost everyone laughed. That upset me. Because I was good my first year! I was not going to allow my past to be disparaged like that. And apparently, no one else seemed to believe me.
My fourth year, I was a senior counselor. So for one of the weeks, I led my own post. It was a great experience being entrusted with that kind of leadership and the creative freedom to choose how I wanted to run my post. This also meant that I led Bible Exploration with my campers. If I could go back and do it differently, I absolutely would. Bible Ex was for about 90 minutes each morning after breakfast, and I was determined to get through every question, even if my campers were obviously bored and had lost interest. Six months later or so, I watched my older brother lead Bible Ex at Junior Leadership Conference, a CSB event. As a squad, we typically only answered a couple of questions before calling it quits, because my brother thought that we had had a good discussion up until that point. If I could go back and approach Bible Ex in this manner, I absolutely would. I would stop when it was clear that interest had died down, and I would allow tangents if it promoted good discussion. Instead, I forced my campers to answer all the questions in the Bible Ex booklet, which usually ended up filling the 90 minute time slot. This probably left a sour taste in their mouths about studying the Bible, which was totally contrary to what the camp's goal is.
As a counselor, the campfire revolved around the skit. We all pined to be included in more skits, and we spent a ridiculously high portion of the day preparing for the skit (especially the Director's Cut), often leaving our campers to help with preparation.
The positions of "The Craft Guy," "Bob's Assistant," and "Campfire Coordinator" were all highly coveted, because honestly, they involved the least amount of work and did not require direct interaction with the campers. They also had the most time to do skit preparation, so the counselors in those positions were inevitably in the skits more often than other counselors. Also, they were able to hang out with the female counselors (who tended to be super cool) more than any other counselors.
The counselors had an after-hours hang out called S&B (Scarf and Barf), which was supposed to be totally secret from the campers. It lasted from 10-11, and Bob was crazy strict about the 11 PM end time, often unleashing his wrath if we were out past 11. The counselors were not subtle about attending S&B. It was supposed to be kept secret from the campers, but it can't be a secret if two of your post's three counselors suddenly leave as soon as "Taps" was played at 10 PM. During my second year, I believe, Bob used part of S&B time to read to us from a book "50 Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die." That was really weird--S&B was supposed to be a time for everyone just to chill, hang out, and eat food.
It was run very oddly like the military. We awoke and went to sleep every night to a bugle playing "Reveille" and "Taps," respectively. We had to raise the American flag every morning before breakfast and sing one or two verses of "The Star-Spangled Banner" while saluting the flag (and let me tell you, that is not an easy song to sing, much less first thing in the morning, much much less when the camp director always chose a horribly high key). We had to lower the American flag every evening before campfire and sing "God Bless America" while saluting the flag. Our gatherings consisted of formal line-ups, complete with "Alert" and "At Ease" commands. The conflation of Christianity with military practices, in hindsight, is kind of scary.
And, oddly enough, even though I spent so much of my adolescent years revolved around SBC, and it surely shaped me into the person that I am to at least some degree, it's not what comes to mind when I think of influential times in my life. When I was joining AGO and sharing my life story with the actives, SBC never came up.
Meh. This barely counts as analysis. Just a revisiting.
We had campfire each night, which always followed a very strict formula (Warm-up, then Fun Songs, then Skit, then Transition Songs, then Testimony, then Slow Songs, then Story, then Closing, and ending with "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus"). The next morning at Leader's Huddle (which started at 6:15 in the morning every day--yikes!), we would always go through a campfire evaluation of the night before. And damn, we ripped on each other. I got critiqued one time for slipping my hands into my pockets during Transition Songs. People got critiqued for not starting on a good pitch. People got critiqued for not having prominent enough hand motions. People got critiqued for being too energetic, or not energetic enough. People got critiqued for not announcing songs exactly as "Song Number, Song Name, Song Number again." People got critiqued for calling a section "Fun Songs," "Transition Songs," or "Slow Songs" (as if those titles were supposed to be kept secret from the campers). If you think you gave a flawless campfire song leading performance, you were wrong--someone could always find something wrong with it. And the standard was never consistent--I saw some errors get repeated that would not get critiqued (e.g. the hands in the pockets thing), or Bob, the camp director, would praise someone's performance even though they had made the same errors as someone else that had been pointed out a previous night. The absolute nit-pickiness, combined with the inconsistency of standards, drove me mad.
I have a memory during either my third or fourth year where I was being evaluated after leading transition songs the night before. Someone commented, "I seem to recall Max not being very good at song-leading his first year, so watching your improvement has been really cool to see." Indignantly, I responded with, "No, I was good my first year," at which almost everyone laughed. That upset me. Because I was good my first year! I was not going to allow my past to be disparaged like that. And apparently, no one else seemed to believe me.
My fourth year, I was a senior counselor. So for one of the weeks, I led my own post. It was a great experience being entrusted with that kind of leadership and the creative freedom to choose how I wanted to run my post. This also meant that I led Bible Exploration with my campers. If I could go back and do it differently, I absolutely would. Bible Ex was for about 90 minutes each morning after breakfast, and I was determined to get through every question, even if my campers were obviously bored and had lost interest. Six months later or so, I watched my older brother lead Bible Ex at Junior Leadership Conference, a CSB event. As a squad, we typically only answered a couple of questions before calling it quits, because my brother thought that we had had a good discussion up until that point. If I could go back and approach Bible Ex in this manner, I absolutely would. I would stop when it was clear that interest had died down, and I would allow tangents if it promoted good discussion. Instead, I forced my campers to answer all the questions in the Bible Ex booklet, which usually ended up filling the 90 minute time slot. This probably left a sour taste in their mouths about studying the Bible, which was totally contrary to what the camp's goal is.
As a counselor, the campfire revolved around the skit. We all pined to be included in more skits, and we spent a ridiculously high portion of the day preparing for the skit (especially the Director's Cut), often leaving our campers to help with preparation.
The positions of "The Craft Guy," "Bob's Assistant," and "Campfire Coordinator" were all highly coveted, because honestly, they involved the least amount of work and did not require direct interaction with the campers. They also had the most time to do skit preparation, so the counselors in those positions were inevitably in the skits more often than other counselors. Also, they were able to hang out with the female counselors (who tended to be super cool) more than any other counselors.
The counselors had an after-hours hang out called S&B (Scarf and Barf), which was supposed to be totally secret from the campers. It lasted from 10-11, and Bob was crazy strict about the 11 PM end time, often unleashing his wrath if we were out past 11. The counselors were not subtle about attending S&B. It was supposed to be kept secret from the campers, but it can't be a secret if two of your post's three counselors suddenly leave as soon as "Taps" was played at 10 PM. During my second year, I believe, Bob used part of S&B time to read to us from a book "50 Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die." That was really weird--S&B was supposed to be a time for everyone just to chill, hang out, and eat food.
It was run very oddly like the military. We awoke and went to sleep every night to a bugle playing "Reveille" and "Taps," respectively. We had to raise the American flag every morning before breakfast and sing one or two verses of "The Star-Spangled Banner" while saluting the flag (and let me tell you, that is not an easy song to sing, much less first thing in the morning, much much less when the camp director always chose a horribly high key). We had to lower the American flag every evening before campfire and sing "God Bless America" while saluting the flag. Our gatherings consisted of formal line-ups, complete with "Alert" and "At Ease" commands. The conflation of Christianity with military practices, in hindsight, is kind of scary.
And, oddly enough, even though I spent so much of my adolescent years revolved around SBC, and it surely shaped me into the person that I am to at least some degree, it's not what comes to mind when I think of influential times in my life. When I was joining AGO and sharing my life story with the actives, SBC never came up.
Meh. This barely counts as analysis. Just a revisiting.
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