For White Folks Who Want to Write Our Stories

Full Disclosure: This title is riffed on Dr. Christopher Emdin’s amazing book, For White Folks Who Teach In The Hood (and the Rest of Y’all Too), which you should read now. Like, right now.


“So, if I’m white, can I only write white characters?”

This is a paraphrased question I’ve seen and heard a lot over the past few weeks. “White” can be substituted for lots of different aspects of identity: men writing women, straight and/or cis people writing as members of the LGBTQ+ community, etc.

It’s not a new query– it’s a long-standing debate, but with the controversy surrounding American Dirt (which is discussed more here, here, and the pieces that best resonate with my feelings here and here), it has come up more and more. Should writers attempt to tell stories from characters that they do not share the background of?

And my gut reaction, to be frank, is noOf course, that’s not my whole answer, because the situation is actually much more nuanced than a simple “no” implies. There are, no doubt, authors who have written wonderful characters who had vastly different backgrounds than they did. There is no hard-and-fast rule with this.

The place my “no” comes from isn’t a desire to restrict who can write what, but rather a story of hurt, frustration, and sadness. It comes from my own experiences as a reader and writer. It comes from my perspective as a Mexicana-Filipina-American, with all the beauty and hardship that entails. It has to do with two important aspects all writers (and people) should consider: authenticity and power.

If someone is going to write about a community they don’t come from, it has to be authentic. It has to reflect the actual, powerful, and nuanced stories that comes from any place or people. A novel that feels like it combined and repackaged a number of the same hackneyed tropes of Latinx people and concepts of “The Border” does not ring as authentic. A novel about Mexicans in a border town that felt inauthentic to many Mexicans and Chicanx readers should be a sign that perhaps the author’s story didn’t actually represent the people she claimed she wanted to.

The thing is, it’s really difficult to be authentic about something that you haven’t actually experienced. You can try to research and listen as much as you want, but actually being from and living in a community or culture will lead to a perspective that is honestly difficult to capture with research. It’s not impossible, but it’s really hard to do authentically. It’s hard to fully capture all the shades, subtleties, and layers of a situation when you only see it from the outside. It’s difficult to grasp the full context and history of a world when you were not involved in the creation or experience of living in it.

Which leads to our second, bigger problem: power.

Someone could write a story that, while inauthentic, is still seen as a great read. While that may not seem problematic, we don’t live in a vacuum. Because we still live in a white dominant society, we are more likely to advance, market, and accept ideas from white voices instead of writers of color. The publishing world is still incredibly white and the books that are bought, packaged, and marketed are still overwhelmingly white.

If readers are more likely to accept white voices, it means that stories about historically disenfranchised and underrepresented communities are more likely to be received when they come from white names. Society often accepts a secondary source’s narrative instead of reaching for the primary source voices who have actually lived that story.

Frankly, an outsider perspective is more likely to be inauthentic, yet white outsiders stand a better chance to be published and praised. So, the rest of the world gets to read and then believe that inauthentic narrative– tropes, stereotypes and all– instead of the perhaps more complex reality a community may really face. Because the majority of our stories are told by people that lack the lived experience, there is nothing to counteract these clichés. Inauthenticities are not just annoying byproducts of shallow storytelling, but instead become the very problematic beliefs that we internalize about an entire people, culture, or place. 

Furthermore, most writers of color (myself included) can tell you a story where their name or identity automatically made their writing viewed as “niche” or “[Ethnicity] Lit.” Whether or not we want to admit it, the belief prevails that readers are more likely to see “Jeanine Cummins” as an author they think will speak to them instead of, say, “Reyna Grande.” We still live in a world where having a white name is more likely to get you an interview of any kind. What does it mean when the people at the top are mostly thinking about whether that name, splashed across covers and marketing materials, will “sell”? Power affects not just what stories are told about communities of color, but who is able to profit from telling them. Profit dictates trends, trends dictate public interest, public interest leads to profit– the cogs of the machine roll on and crushes the voices of people of color underneath it.

So, when I am asked, “Can white writers write non-white characters?”, my negative gut reaction comes from growing up in a world where I was given a cheesy narrative like Puerto Vallarta Squeeze long before I actually saw myself in a piece of writing at age 16. My reaction comes from understanding the pain my friends, who also failed to see themselves in the stories they were given, felt.

My reaction isn’t about restriction, it’s about pushing the person asking to consider their place in the scope of authenticity and power. What does it mean when a white person is more likely to get the chance to tell a person of color’s story? What doors opened for them because of their whiteness? If they walk through that door, whose space might they take and thus profit from once they enter?

For white folks who want to write our stories (and the rest of us too), I hope you ask yourself if your work will fully center and share the complex voices coming from the communities you claim to represent. If not, it is merely taking the easy-to-digest sound bytes and packaging them as truths that will unfortunately play on an overpowering loop that drowns out the real people living in the world you stole.

“Talking White”: Letting Students Express Themselves

“So, what? You want us to talk white?”

My heart stopped for a moment. I was 21, teaching in my first high school classroom, and I had corrected yet another student’s grammar when she spoke to me. She looked at me, eyes blazing, frustration on her face as yet another adult told her what she was doing, how she existed, was wrong. I told myself and my students that this was so they could sound “professional,” and “educated.” I was convinced that this is for their own good, because success sounded nothing like the communities they lived in.

As the years rolled on, I began learning about “culturally responsive teaching,” and eventually tried to be culturally responsive in my classroom. I wrestled with this topic, wondering how I could be “culturally responsive” to students but also teach them how to write or speak “properly”?

And here’s the honest truth: I can’t. I cannot claim to be culturally responsive if I proclaim to my students that their cultural ways of communicating are somehow inferior to “standard English.” I realized that, despite good intentions, what I actually did as a new teacher was perpetuate problematic ideas that were prevalent in my own upbringing: the belief that there is only one way of communicating that sounds “smart,” that no one who is accomplished or intelligent could speak the way my students did.

Slowly, I realized that I could seek a more balanced view of language. I didn’t throw out the rules of “standard English, ” but rather had a paradigm shift in how I viewed cultural forms of communication such as Hawaiian Pidgin, Spanglish (or U.S. Spanish), and African-American Vernacular English (AAVE). Too often, I looked at cultural languages as “broken English.” This is a misconception, as many have their own structures and rules– whether officially recognized or not. Viewing them as “broken” negates the validity not just of the language, but of the surrounding culture and history that created that language.

Now, I provide as many opportunities as I can that allow students to engage in “translanguaging,” a process defined by scholars Sara Vogel and Ofelia Garcia as using “a speaker’s full linguistic repertoire without regard for watchful adherence to the socially and politically defined boundaries of named… languages.” Instead of consistently worrying about “proper English,” I create spaces where students are empowered to communicate and express themselves in multiple ways, including using multiple languages in the same interaction or activity.

So, as students respond to the trial in To Kill a Mockingbird, it’s not uncommon for a few to describe Bob Ewell as not just “mean” but “lolo” as well, Pidgin for “stupid.” My students who do speak Pidgin are encouraged to incorporate that into discussion, written, and creative assignments, knowing that they won’t be chastised for using it, but asked to help educate the rest of us. Not only has this led to some (often funny) relationship-building experiences, as my students try to teach me a new language, but also provides the opportunity to understand the power they have in speaking multiple languages and sharing their knowledge with the entire class.

I also teach that being multilingual is a tactical skill my students can use. We discuss code-switching, when a speaker switches from one distinct way of speaking to another in a particular circumstance or depending on the audience. Instead of distinguishing standard English as “educated” and their cultural language as “improper,” students and I explore the concept that they are actually articulate in multiple languages. Being multilingual serves as a powerful tool for writers to manipulate language and create different experiences for the reader. I use examples of work by authors like Lee Tonouchi to highlight how authors can use cultural vernacular to build a world, connect to people who share their experience and create a richer encounter with their story for all their readers.

Part of my job is to prepare students for the real world—one that still unfortunately values some ways of speaking over others. When characters have discussions around “talking proper,” they make connections to the conversations around Pidgin that still happen on our islands. I explain that while their language is valuable, it’s regrettably still not seen as “academic” by some and they may be better served tailoring their work for that audience. The most important aspect of that discussion, though, is that I’m honest. I don’t sugarcoat the reason why my student may want to code-switch to “standard English.” They should question why certain ways of speaking are considered “standard” and understand that gatekeepers may refuse to see them as smart because of the way they speak. By teaching them the historical context of these issues and giving them skills to get past those gates, I also show students that they can and should question power structures that have tried to keep them out.

At the end of the day, I can’t go back and fix the mistakes I made as a 21-year-old teacher. I can grow my understanding of my role as an educator: I don’t just prepare students but should also show them how powerful they are. If we want to be truly responsive and caring to our students’ cultures, we must encourage them to share all their linguistic capabilities that are important parts of their identities. In doing so, we can provide new ways for them to communicate with an audience and demonstrate that their identities are not only seen but valued as well.

Thanks to Dorie Conlon Perugini for her help with this article.

iv: The Tattoo

I’m currently working on a longer piece (meaning I started it on my birthday, wrote 3000 words, then haven’t touched it until now) on my body at 32. This is part of that piece.


I was 19 when I got my first and only tattoo. My best friend in college, Carolina, had gotten a few around her waist— all in places that would be hidden by a bikini, but still visible to her, an internal rebellion of our Catholic, conservative, Latino families. She had adventured from rosaries to balloons. I had never, ever thought about getting a tattoo in my whole life. But, my whole world had shifted, and I needed to do something drastic.

It was six months after the assault, when I woke up and realized that I had lost my virginity but didn’t remember any of it because I had been given Asahis and maybe something else. My “boyfriend” (a tough word to use, when he wouldn’t acknowledge me anywhere, wouldn’t meet my parents, and would really only be affectionate when we were in private), was 10-years older and a microbiology grad student and TA at the university I attended. He held me when I cried, and when I told him I was sad I didn’t remember what happened, he tried to tell me a version of the story, as if that made it okay. Years later, I would seeing him walking by the campus while I got ice cream on a break from teaching, and have a panic attack in the middle of the street, a fellow teacher crouching down next to me and asking me what was wrong. Continue reading

Out of the Cave

Last Summer, I set myself up in the basement of a professor’s house in Montana with the intention to write. What, I wasn’t sure, but I was so set on it that spent much of the following days feverishly following threads of writing, many of which never panned out.

Then, I had this dream. It was dark, creepy, sci-fi– nothing like what I usually dream or write. I decided to try and get it down. After some very helpful feedback from lots of amazing folks (including Chris Kluwe who, after being tagged on Twitter, was kind enough to spend some real time giving me feedback), I called it a wrap and sent it to some magazines. It wasn’t published, which at the time I thought a failure, but I thought of it today and was proud that I’d pushed myself as a writer. So, here it is.


 

It’s the whoosh of the elevator that wakes her.

She hasn’t overslept like this in months, the sound of the elevator a rude awakening to an uneasy night of sleep. She blinks groggily, knowing that if they’ve already started the tours she’s likely missed her chance at breakfast. Normally, she’s up with the sun, and finds the government-issued tray filled with the same tasteless eggs, toast, apple, and cup of coffee (as if they looked up “human breakfast” when planning) outside the Cave. Most days she even manages a few push-ups and a lap around the room to stay limber. It leaves her with enough time to put the panel back in place just as they begin to walk the halls.

Not today, though.

She looks up at the faux-wood grain on the underside of a long table; the ceiling for the makeshift shelter she calls “the Cave” (to herself, of course) for two years now. She stares at it every morning, knows every swirl and crack in it, has lost herself in its lines as she tries to draft plans and figure out her next move. Now, she uses it as a compass to realign herself diagonally from point to point, the only way to stretch completely in the cramped space. She pulls herself long, her muscles thin and lean from shoddy food and a necessity to skulk. 

Suddenly, she freezes, thinking for a moment that she hears footsteps. What time is it? Footsteps will mean the tour has reached her on the 45th floor, and that will mean it’s already 10:45. Half her morning will be gone– unless she slept through the first round of gawking visitors.

She knows she must get her bearings and calculates the risk in her head. After a moment, she  thinks the footsteps are a trick of her imagination, a consequence of disrupting her routine, but there’s no real way to be sure. She quietly creeps over to a corner of the Cave, not wanting to make her presence obvious. She knows it puts her even more at risk.

In one corner, a small crack of light glistens between the panels. She puts her ear to the opening, seeing if she can catch a snippet of the tour, or the soft shuffle all Wreakers move with. She hears nothing. She pulls away from the corner and stares  at the slice of light. Her stomach knots, but her desire to know and the hopeful shining outside outweigh her sense of fear.  Continue reading

Down the Rabbit Hole

CW: Anxiety and images of death.


I never know when it’s going to hit.

I am sitting in an airplane as it begins to speed towards the end of the runway and take off. It’s a normal flight— one of the the hundreds you take when you live on an island, getting either to the mainland or island-hopping. It’s routine, at this point, to find myself on a plane.

Then, there’s a slight bump as the jet soars higher. The plane pitches forward for an instant, and I hear the metal begin to rip off and break. The bolts are popping off, loud and violent, and I look up to see a fireball shooting down the aisle of the plane, straight for me. In that moment, I realize I am going to die. My eyes engulf the flames coming towards me, the silver second I have left on earth quickly flashing away. My mouth turns to ash as I whisper, “No,” thinking of all the things I do not want to lose.

Then, I blink, and it’s gone.

The aisle is clear, the plane is steadily taking off, safe as any other flight I have been on.

I blink again, and the sequence starts all over, a movie playing behind my eyes on repeat. Over and over I watch myself die— which is not necessarily the worst part. The worst part is imagining what comes after. I see my family, devastated and in mourning, all the things I left unsaid, everything I will not get to do. My heart breaks. My chest clutches and I feel like I cannot breathe.

I blink, and it’s gone. Then again, in an instant, the movie starts all over.

I take a deep breath, and close my eyes, trying to stop the anxiety that is not the monster looming on my shoulder or the storm cloud passing through my day, but torture in the worst way. It is my own mind, forcing me down the rabbit whole of my worst nightmares over and over and over.

May is Mental health Awareness month. My anxiety is something I’ve written about often— in regards to my teaching, my running, and just my day-to-day existence. I can easily share many of the ways it will manifest: crying jags, a temporary inability to breathe, insomnia.

I’ve been quiet about it, though, because I’ve been in the throes of some of the worst manifestations of my anxiety that I deal with.

Which is difficult, because it’s something that’s hard to talk or write about. It’s not the anxiety that my body unwillingly throws at me when I least expect it, a physical mutiny of panic as my rational brain scrambles to try and calm me down. It’s a descent deeper and deeper into the own, darkest parts of my psyche and, if I’m not careful, I can spiral may way down into a pretty terrible place.

My most intense trigger, in truth, is death— more specifically, death or pain happening to my loved ones. Since childhood, I have been occasionally overcome with the deep fear that someone I love is going to die and I won’t be there to do anything about it. As a kid, I would follow my family around because I’d feel certain that if I didn’t, something bad would happen and I wouldn’t be there to try and help them or simply be around for their last moments. My stomach will fill with hot lead, I’ll get nauseous and light headed— not just anxious or scared, but unable to stop seeing the horrifying movie in my head. It plays my worst fears back to me in vivid detail— seeing my family brutally murdered, discovering their bodies strewn on the street after a car crash, the anguish of discovering they’d been killed in a fire.

Like Hamilton in Hamilton says, “I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory.” I am no Lin-Manuel Miranda, but I understand what it’s like to imagine something so vividly over and over that you relive a memory that hasn’t happened at all. The sequences will repeat itself over, and over, and over again. It can paralyze me. I have lived with the specter of death since childhood, and there are times its presences looms so large that it overshadows anything else. Instead of living my story, I can find myself caught up in the horror movie my brain insists on writing and rewriting.

Now, we live in an increasingly scary world, where our ability to stay safe feels even more out of our control. There are only more images of people mourning lost loved ones that feed my own ability to feel like I am living that trauma myself, over and over again. While I can manage some of the physical aspects of panic, it’s hard to control my vivid imagination when our current climate only adds more ammunition into the gun that shoots off rounds of “what if, what if, what if” over and over through my mind.

The world is scary for many of us, and I think there’s a natural anxiety that comes with a lot of what’s in the news today. I’m not saying I’m special or that my anxiety is any more unique or interesting than anyone else’s. I am just admitting that my panic is not only the out-of-my-control physical reaction I often write it as. My anxiety is just as much mental as it is physical; it takes the horror of events and overlays them onto my own life.

Which is not only painful but, frankly, inconvenient and annoying. While there are many real fears that can upset me, my anxiety also makes it hard for me to function rationally at times where, truly, there is no need to panic. It’d be nice, for example, to not have a panic attack after watching Avengers: Infinity War, because, in watching the end of that film, it triggers the film in my mind that forces me witness my family or partner disintegrate before my eyes over, and over, and over again.

Do I rationally know that this is ridiculous, because this is a fictional movie and, while there are many scary things in the world, the possibility of Thanos snapping his fingers and removing half of us is not one of them? Of course. But that doesn’t make the feeling any less real in the moment. Even though, in my head, I know that it’s ridiculous, it doesn’t take away the overwhelming heartbreak, the tears burning in my eyes, my chest caving in so I cannot breathe, as I see the fear, sadness, and horror in their eyes over and over again.

There are things that help, of course, but anyone who’s ever had anxiety, depression or running thoughts will tell you that saying, “Well, then don’t think about it,” is like giving me a box of tissues to try and stop a flood. Even while well-intentioned, it not only will not work, but also leave a soggy mess in the process.

My therapist has also tried some other tactics, like asking me to play the movie to the end. What would happen if any of those tragic events did occur? And this is what’s also difficult— my mind knows that, rationally, I’d be okay. I would be heartbroken and devastated, but I would live. I’m strong enough, now, to believe that. I trust in the love and support my loved ones have given me to know they would want me to be happy, and that they have given me the tools to move towards happiness again.

But it doesn’t make the moments where I am living those very real things feel any better. Knowing that, eventually, I’ll stop falling down this well of darkness, doesn’t change the fact that I am currently falling and it’s really terrifying. The hardest part with being told that “it will pass,” or “it will be okay,” is that I know those things are true, but it doesn’t fix the feeling I am having right now. Knowing that this will pass doesn’t un-cave my chest or bring back my breath. 

Unfortunately, the best option I have found when I find myself going down this spiral is to try and distract myself so that I don’t fall too far down. I claw my way out towards the light and attempt to move forward by focusing on something else.

Of course, though, that means that it’s really hard to talk or write about, because in doing so, I have to think about it, which makes it really hard to not trigger a downward descent into the darkness. Even in writing this post, I have had to take multiple breaks so that I don’t let myself go to far.

Recently, though, my anxiety has gotten worse, because it’s started attaching to my partner, Michael, as well. Before, it would only be my family I worried about. Once Michael’s departure got close (he is surfing and adventuring for a month), my anxiety went into full affect. I have been terrified that now that I am so incredibly happy and feel stable in my life, that it will suddenly be ripped away from me.

In the weeks before he left, I was a mess. I will be honest: there are time now that he is gone that I am still a mess, because I can’t stop myself from watching his death in my mind over and over again.

Which is a pretty shitty way to live. Michael has been really supportive, but I feel bad dampening his deserved excitement with my morbid fears of his death. It also means that there have been times where, instead of enjoying the time I did have with him, or the time that I have now with my friends, I am very close to being paralyzed in terror on my couch.

But… that hasn’t happened. At least, not yet. There have been a few close calls, but after crying for a few minutes, I have been able to breathe through it, remind myself to let it go, and call a loved one or put on MTV’s Catfish because it is the perfect kind of TV distraction that helps me stop seeing this morbid movie in my head.

I can’t help but wonder, though, if this is a sustainable plan. As vulnerable and thoughtful as I have tried to be with my anxiety, this Mental Health Awareness month I find myself at the end wondering if I’m actually as aware with myself as I could be. Yes, Catfish is a fun distraction, but running from this trigger for the rest of life (one that I imagine will be worse when I have kids) doesn’t seem to be the most enduring response.

For now, I am trying to breathe through it. I am sitting in these feelings taking each day as it comes, and thinking through what comes next while still trying to be kind to myself and figure out my next course of action on my terms. The rabbit hole can be dark, but I know I can claw my way out, and I feel lucky that the light at the top I’m reaching for is full of joy and strength and, most importantly, love.


Hi there,

I know sometimes with posts about mental illness, we want to share our own experiences as a way to validate and connect, and I really appreciate that. But if this is a trigger for you, too, hearing your vivid imaginings of death or tragedy is kind of upsetting and hard for me, so I’m gonna ask that you hold off. Also, I’m not looking for feedback or ideas on how to handle this at the moment, since I’m dealing with a lot and don’t have the capacity to focus on that right now. I’m just sitting in and sharing these feelings. Thank you!

The Seeker of Stories

“So… what are you? Like, where are you from?”

Like many mixed-race and/or “ethnically ambiguous” people, I’ve spent quite a bit of time explaining myself. I grew up in a mostly white suburb in Southern California, I’ve spent a lot of my time (and writing) trying to explain who I am (my dad is Chicano and my mom is Filipina. My brother and I call it “Mexipino/a”).

Being mixed-race in the U.S. was and is confusing at times. In a society desperately trying to slip an easily-read label, we struggle to fit that narrative. We get told we’re “not-_______ enough,” or not really _______ , as if our mixed status means there’s a quantifiable amount of culture we’ll never be able to maintain.

And, like it did for a lot of mixed race folks, those words hurt. A lot. They made me question myself and my identity, they made me feel less than to my community in a world that already looked at Brown people as less than. Yes, my parents helped me try to navigate these waters and helped me be proud of both cultures, but it was hard when people I thought would get me still made me feel alone. It made me feel as if I had nowhere to go.

I grew up, though, and began finding power in being mixed race, and learning to claim both my AAPI upbringing (most of my friends were Asian-American) with the truth of both cultures. I learned Spanish and danced Tinikling. While I still got the looks and the questions, knowing that I wasn’t alone in my responses and frustrations made it more bearable.

Instead of feeling alone, I learned the stories of others who shared my struggles, or struggled so that I could have more. I learned how to ask my family for their stories: Why did we eat the food we did? How did we end up in America? Where did my hair come from? I was surrounded by people who had so many amazing stories to help make sense of my own– I just needed to listen.

Through the magic of the universe, I found even more stories last night, when I discovered this NPR LatinoUSA piece on being Asian and Latino.

When I shared this online, Darren Naruse showed how this affects the next generation as well.

This made me realize how, even when it was hard, I felt extremely happy to be mixed-race. As one of the participants noted that being Asian-Latino helped him to essentially code-switch between cultures, finding the similarities between the two that helped him navigate both well.

In reminiscing on my own experiences, I realized the blessing, in some ways, of being “othered.” Having others frequently question my identity forced me to dig deep to actually figure out who I am and what my cultures mean to me. It meant learning how to be “fully me,” as Darren put it.

Being mixed race is a sometimes-confusing but ultimately beautiful journey. The additional challenges are rooted in a journey of deep, powerful self-discovery that have made me who I am now. It pushed me to learn the stories of both my cultures to find pride build strong connections with them. The questions and push back I got ultimately led me to learn and develop those cultural understandings even more as I got older.

Then, I moved to Hawai‘i.

Hawai‘i is unique in that there is no ethnic majority, and if there were, it wouldn’t be white people. Many residents are AAPI, and its the home of the largest mixed-race population in the United States. The cognitive dissonance I’d had on the mainland growing up began to melt away. I do get asked what my ethnicities are, a common practice here rooted in discovering common ground–the people asking are often mixed themselves. As Darren points out, living in Hawai‘i means that it’s easy to not think about race, at least in terms of “belonging and not” on a daily basis.That sounds impossible to non-white folks, but it’s true.

There’s a blessing and a curse to this, though. Of course, not feeling othered where I live is a huge blessing. However, I’m now largely removed from Latinx culture, since the Latinx population is about 10%. This can feel hard, since it feels like half of my story no longer had anyone to connect with. I wrote about in 2016 for Honolulu Civil Beat:

[The tamale woman] was there every Saturday, yelling with a sense of tired, joyful urgency. It was like a breakfast-and-supper song: “Tamales, tamales ! Tamales de POL-lo, tamales de QUE-so, tamales tamales !” My housemates hated her, and I wasn’t always a fan, but now, in Hawaii, I miss her voice.

I miss her singing, her call, and her food that makes us special. I miss the small, daily reminders I am not just American — even if the United States is a place I feel lucky to call home — but that there is another language, culture and history waiting there for me whenever I want.

In moving to Hawaii, I now walk a weird line. I’m an outsider, but not really. My dark skin and mixed roots make it easy for people to assume I’m from here. It took a 3,000-mile journey, but I found a place where I can walk nearly anywhere and feel like, at least at a glance, I belong.

But in another way, I am a minority again. Half of my culture is completely visible here, but another half feels like it has been lost. I search for that half, seeing her curly hair, the poetic words she knows, and the palate of memories that include my mom’s mole and my grandmother’s noodles.

I know my mother is in me, forever entwined with an Asian culture that is just as beloved, just as precious. But I worry that, being here, the blossoming of one half of me is threatening to overtake less cultivated roots on the other side. I fear that if I am far from the consistent reminders of one culture for long enough, it will slip away into silence.

Is there a place where both of my cultures can live and thrive side by side? Is there ever a stable, fertile ground to place both feet firmly and grow roots, instead of the balancing act I live each day? Is there some way, some place where I can feel whole?

I don’t have the answers. I wonder if anyone does.

As I revisited this piece, and with three more years under my belt, I’ve realized that I have to create the place where I feel whole. It’s up to me to look ahead and create a spaces and connections.

Being connected to my cultures is active work that I have to initiate, instead of waiting for the world to push me there. It means practicing my Spanish when I can, making it a point to make, find, and eat Mexican food. It means finding Filipinx groups to connect and organize with. I am no longer seeking connections in response to being othered, I must actively seek these stories because I know they are important not just for me, but for the next generation as well.

When my children who, of course, will be mixed themselves ask me those questions, I can no longer rely on others to share those stories. It is my kuleana– privilege and responsibility– to share the stories and pride of both cultures with them. This means that I have to keep learning, connecting, and developing my understanding of them, even when it feels easier forget.

I can no longer just keep the stories handed to me by others, I must be the one seeking and sharing those stories too. In doing so, I am able to help the next generation write theirs, as I continue to write my own.


This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Challenge, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Julia Torres (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog circle).

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Cinched

The first thing I notice is the color– a deep, almost Crayola blue, cooling the warm undertones of my skin. The flowers wrap around my neck and across my chest. I love this dress, and have been complimented on it all morning. Yet, as the fluorescent lights bounce off my skin, I am struggling to like the image I see. I am looking in a middle school bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself that I don’t look ugly.

For most of the middle school girls that I teach, this, sadly, isn’t a new experience. I am not, however, in middle school, nor writing about feelings I had at 13. I am 31, standing in the bathroom at the school I teach in, trying to be okay with how I look.

It’s such a subtle change, I chastise myself a bit. All I did was remove the belt I’d had on earlier that day. It had been a nice tie of the outfit together, sure. But, this day, it had mostly been uncomfortable. I’m sitting much of the day (my students are watching a film), and belt sort of sits uncomfortably across my stomach. I also, at this point, just ate a big (and delicious) lunch. I’m done teaching for the day. I sit in my discomfort for a moment, then ask Why am I doing this to myself? Finally, I decide to take the belt off.

It’s fifteen minutes later when I look in the mirror and struggle with the person staring back at me. As I sit in the feelings, I try and ask why wearing a loose dress with no cinched waist feels so hard and makes me feel so insecure.

I could name a handful of things, I’m sure. Being a chubby kid and young woman, I still struggle to find the balance between celebrating the way my athletic body now feels without feeling the need to wear everything tight. I’ll put on a snug shirt and slim pencil skirt, look in the mirror, and have to remind myself that you don’t need to keep proving to people that you’re skinny now. It doesn’t actually matter, before changing into a more comfortable outfit I actually want to wear.

Now, at 31, I am working at being more comfortable in my skin. It’s still a challenge, though, every. single. morning. After running a 3:30 marathon a little more than a month ago, I haven’t run more than 7 miles at a time since. I just… haven’t wanted to.

So, because I’m not running 40 miles weeks, I catch myself still thinking I’m not “good enough” or fit enough. Like with the belt, I know that the change is small and barely noticeable. I have been working out every day (and having my wonderful partner join me!), and am arguably better shape now that I’ve incorporated weight training back into my fitness regimen. Though I know it has no real barometer on fitness, I’m the same size I was when I was marathoning. I know because I am, unfortunately, back to measuring myself nearly every day.

Which is, to be fair, another reason why the lack of belt is such a ridiculous thing to worry about. Why does everything I wear have to be cinched in, as if I need to prove that some part of me is small and, therefore, worthy? Why am I letting that decide whether or not I feel pretty?

I close my eyes, take a breathe, and relax my stomach. My belly goes soft, filled with the food I made it. Soft because it’s Friday at the end of a long week, and my body is in desperate need of some relaxation. Soft because I am, after a week with my partner, my friends, my therapist, finally relearning how to breathe again. Soft as my body goes through its ritual changes and prepares for the children I do not yet have, but hope some day to. Soft as a woman’s body is, sometimes. Soft as my mother’s body, my abuela’s body, the bodies of the women before me and like me who looked like me and who wore and wear dresses like this one.

The dress moves only slightly. With the belt, it would pull and tug at the fabric while pushing in my stomach. Now, without the belt, it flows over my belly, pushing out a little, caressing it, then flowing back down when I release the air and let my body relax. I do it again– watch my stomach move against the dress, try and love the sensation, and then watch as my body moves away from the dress.

It is not perfect. I am still working to like the image in the mirror. But, for the rest of the day, I will try not to put the belt back on, and instead revel in the feeling of loose comfort and bright colors that I know, deep down, are just as worthwhile as I have the power of being small be in my mind.