Desperately Seeking Fun

Leave a comment

I’ll admit it: I have recently been regretting taking on a summer school position.

Don’t get me wrong: the pay is decent (I think?), the kids are generally well-behaved, I have a lot of leeway in what I do with students (hence: social justice Fridays). Still, I think that both myself and the program lead seemed to ignore the fact that at the end of the day, you still have 20+ pairs of eyes looking at you asking “What’s Next?” Sure, there’s no grading involved, and there is (or should theoretically be) a lot less pressure, but still the 20+ minds in the room are there to be taught, dammit, so I better come up with something good, ya know?

Now, I normally love that about teaching. It’s one of the reasons I came back— I need the energy and, frankly, that accountability. But it’s also really tiring and it has made me a little grumpy. <pityparty>With summer here, a lot of my friends and colleagues are (rightfully) resting, adventuring, doing other things that I want to be doing. I’d love to be on a hike or a long run at 9:45AM on a Tuesday. Sadly, I am normally telling my kids to work on their articles for the newsletter at that time.</pityparty>

OK, I got that out of my system, which is good. I still get summer (technically) off, and I will still get to do lots of those things, so it’s not all bad.

Plus, I seem to forget that I really like kids when I let myself. Even when I snap at them or get frustrated, they do things like this:

And that was after I got snippy with her. Even when I don’t want to do it, the kids are out there, having fun and being great and having fun.

At the end of the day, this is one of their greatest gifts, and one of the things I truly love about teaching: kids force you to seek joy, live in laughter, and see hope in everything, because that’s how they see the world. Even kids in dire circumstances are often the ones who ask the toughest questions and because of that, dream the biggest dreams. The biggest mistake I could make as a teacher would be to try and squash that sense of wonder, delight, and enjoyment of the world. 

So, I vow to join them. I have about 10 days left with them. I am desperately seeking fun, the bright side, and joy.

This is Rage. This is Joy. This is My Classroom.

7 Comments

I commented recently that I “have no chill and rage often,” about things, especially when it come to race, privilege, and especially when it comes to those things in education. I think it matters, a lot.

I’ve sometimes wondered if I should tone it down, but at the end I am surrounded by folks who remind me that I shouldn’t. That the work has to continue. W. Kamau Bell’s piece on This American Life only drove that home, when the father he interviewed said that he doesn’t let anything go, because, as Bell noted, “you can’t just keep letting your boundary get pushed.”

I’ve come to terms with the fact that some people don’t like that. That’s fair. I’m not a particularly aggressive person, but I am fairly persistent.

Still, “rage” isn’t normally a positive term applied to teachers, and I don’t want to give this perception that to be attuned to how racism plays out means that my classroom is filled with out-of-place anger or a place where my students don’t find joy.

So, just in case, here’s what Rage means for my classroom, and the educator I try to be.

Rage is asking tough questions, and refusing easy answers.

Rage is a refusal to shy away from “the controversial,” or “too tough” discussions.

Rage is refusing to assume their innocence to support my complicity. Rage is accepting that the tough topics and the controversial discussions might be my job.

Rage is making space for the texts overlooked, the activists ignored, the history erased. It is refusing to give up when there’s no pre-made curriculum for the texts kids should read. Rage insists we create the curriculum we never had.

Rage is refusing stagnant practice, it is the internal insistence to create for them, innovate for them, change the game for them, push my boundaries for them. Rage is also knowing that sometimes they need to do that instead.

Rage is honesty. Rage is letting them know as many sides as possible. Rage is baring the burden of their shock and hurt, and sharing yours. Rage is letting them have space to be angry, to grieve, to be frustrated. Rage teaches Ferguson even when it doesn’t “fit” the lesson plan. Rage pulls up the #CharlestonSyllabus to create the lesson, makes kids question where they get their food and why it matters. Rage explains “I Can’t Breathe” t-shirts during warm ups and sets aside “social justice Fridays.”

This is what Rage looks like in my room.

Rage lets them question the “why” and the “how” and pushes them to question more. Rage affirms their emotions. Rage lets them be angry, sad, and empowered. Rage loves them in their youth, their growth, their malleable opinions, and doesn’t necessarily create more Rage, just more questions.

Rage creates space for them to glow. It insists on lifting them up. It insists on creating spaces for them to shine. Rage insists that they create their own holidays, celebrate their culture, tell their stories. It is a joyous Rage that giggles when they begin to subvert the norm, just be being their marvelous selves.

Rage cheers them on, laughs with them, grows more with them, delights in them. Rage sees their light and begs them to “rage, rage against the dying light.”

Joy comes too. Joy is the deep heaving sigh at the end of a sprint. Joy is the letter full of fifteen photos from a student. She hopes your summer is “a hit,” and she wanted to let you know she got her aunt to go 50 miles to the farm we read about and she met the farmer and she talked all about the book you read in class.

Joy is seeing the fruits of Rage. It’s not always more Rage. Sometimes, it’s just light. It’s the strength to keep raging.

Screen Shot 2015-07-29 at 5.31.39 PM

Week 2 – Wrap Up

Leave a comment

My little journalists had an action-packed week last week!

ctorrescrdg's avatarCRDG Summer Journalists

This past week, we did all sorts of exciting things!

We had a visit from Mr. Cliff Hahn, of Honolulu Civil Beat, who shared stories of youth journalism around the world.

IMG_8591

Then, we went to PBS Hawaii and learned how they put up their news program, and about their Hiki Nō program.

IMG_8613

We also put together our Week 2 newsletter! (Download full version here)

View original post

We Are Complete Within Ourselves: Stories and Spaces

2 Comments

“Do you and your boyfriend tweet at each other a lot? I see some couples do that and I can’t help but laugh.” I am at a wedding, and making small talk with dozens of people, the only attendees I know being the bride and my boyfriend. I have just shared my love of all things “new media” with someone.

“I do too!” I share a laugh, “but no. He’s not really into social media. He’s more private than me.”

“Oh…” she trails off, nodding. “Well, it’s a good fit then, you two together?”

I think, and nod as I say, “Yes, yes it is.”

When I was a young, like most moon-eyed teenagers, I assumed that whoever I ended up with would be just like me. We would like all the same movies, we would have the same hobbies. We would agree on everything, and love would be easy. It shouldn’t be too much work, right? When you loved someone enough? “Love is all you need,” yes?

Most of us who have been in a serious relationship now laugh at those starry-eyed dreams. We know now that love takes hard work, effort, tough choices, a deep commitment to stand by someone, even when they are at their lowest.

Still sometimes, in those low points, I used to try and measure my relationships based on those initial affections and mutual interests, worried they would somehow be “not enough.” Did it matter that we didn’t share all our hobbies? Did we “fit” right?

And sometimes, things aren’t enough, and they end. I used to think of all my breakups, in aggregate, as all cases of “all the things he would never be able to give me, or me to him.” I used to see my failed relationships as these long tapestries filled with rips and patches that just showed how we never quite fit into each other correctly, the fabrics and thread never really working out. Eventually, the piece was so threadbare, the thing unraveled.

I realize, now, that deficit thinking of not only myself, but others, has been more hurtful than helpful.

Now, I know that it isn’t about fitting INTO each other so much as BEING with each other. I never needed someone to complete me, nor did my exes, nor do any of us.

Instead, what we need is the ability to navigate the world in similar spaces alongside each other, even when it is hard. We need someone who sees us as our complete selves, and shares space with that identity, instead of trying to fill in false notions of “gaps.” In the end, no matter how many spools of thread you try and wrap around each other, you cannot force very different people to share very different spaces.

I see this now so clearly.

Other men have treated me well, but what I have now is more than just mutual respect and caring. What I needed is someone who stands right next to me in those difficult spaces. There is a deep, cultural, gut understanding of who I am not just in likes or dislikes, but as a person.

Yes, I could probably find someone who treats me well and/or likes all the things I do, but how many people in the world are going to see every part of you– marvelous and terrible in its humanity– hold your hand, and say, “I’m here. I got you. I love you,”? How often do you find the person who not only sees who you are, but can see past it to all the other stories that created the space you now inhabit? How rare is it to find the person that can read and understand those past stories as well as you do?

I am a firm believer that I better understand my present by reflecting on my past. I have long forgiven and forgotten frustrations I had with past relationships. I don’t regret most things; they don’t hurt. They read like old chapters building to the next part of the story.

I understand I don’t know the future, but what I do know is how learning from this past makes me feel so lucky to have the present. I see how much the universe has worked to push me to this place where the only person I am asking to complete me is me. Where the question I ask my partner (who, yes, is the bees’ knees) every day is not ‘am I enough?’ but one that I feel confident gets me the answers I need:

Will you share this space this me, even when it’s hard? Can we share our stories? Do they matter to you?

That sounds like a good place to begin.

  

Models of Allyship: A Father’s Day Thank You

Leave a comment

I wrote recently about trying to de-center myself from spaces of power. However, with recently I’ve done the exact opposite and thought about the men in my life.

I mentioned the other day on Twitter that the most recent episode of Another Round featured Tiq Milan, and commented on the frailty of masculinity. When most men feel that the concept of their masculinity is challenged, it can have frustrating ramifications. Just looking at gendered products shows us that.

This hit home for a lot of men I’ve interacted with. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized this understanding of men didn’t really fit for one important one: my dad.

I spend Father’s Day reflecting on not just my father, but how my relationship with him affects all my other relationships. The more I thought about it, my dad has actually been an excellent role model of allyship in my life. Beyond being a great dad, he made it a point to be a great male ally to me. He listened hard when I desperately needed him to hear my voice. Growing up, he made it clear that he was not only going to stand up for me when I needed him too, but that he was going to stand beside me when I stood up for myself. He always encouraged me to not stay silent, share my opinions, and just accept my own identity.

My dad’s masculinity was anything but fragile. My dad has always asserted himself as our father, but it wasn’t oppressive. For him, being a father didn’t mean telling us what to do, but rather making sure we had everything we needed to grow into the best versions of ourselves. My father often showed us that true strength was found in being honest and vulnerable. When pride and power never mean hiding who you are, it makes it a lot easier to figure out who you are and love yourself.

I know that my relationship with my father has bled into the relationships I have with men now (well, at least the good ones). At the end of the day, it is easy to demand the best of the men in my life because I know I am complete without them. That’s what my father’s love and allyship did for me: it ensured and validated my own identity as a strong, worthwhile individual. 

Ultimately, I think that’s what good allies need to do. They stand next to you when you struggle, they do their best to listen, they encourage you to share your own voice, they love and value you as you are, to help validate the love you should have for yourself.

So, in a world that often notices the fragility of men or the silence of fathers, I’m grateful to have grown up around someone who always shouted his love and support for me from the rooftops. I’m immensely lucky to have known, always, that I was beloved by the most important man in my life. I have always had such a strong example of a great man, a great ally, and most importantly, a really awesome Dad.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you.

IMG_8583

An Astronomical Pull – Re-Centering the Work

2 Comments

I haven’t known what to write.

After the Charleston Shooting, I was at a loss for what to say, and while the conversation has improved from some folks, the amount of hate, frustration, and sheer ridiculousness of what’s out there hurts. There’s nothing I can say that hasn’t been said by some people I respect a lot, like Mr. Chase, Mr. Lehmann, and the EduColor Newsletter.

Then, I saw this tweet:

https://twitter.com/polyhansen/status/611573714086445056

that led me to have this reaction:

https://twitter.com/biblio_phile/status/611697685167345664

And here’s the thing that people, especially those with power, especially white people forget: power has an incredibly strong pull. Its center of gravity takes anything thrown in its orbit and makes it revolve around Power. Power always wants to focus on itself. Power consistently takes whatever is happening and asks, but what about ME?!

Sometimes, that manifests ourselves obviously: I don’t want to talk about it. I am uncomfortable. I don’t feel that way/haven’t experienced it that, so someone else’s feelings don’t matter.

Sometimes, though, that manifests much more subtly. Even if you want to be helpful, making everything focus on your needs and trying to help YOU help others doesn’t always feel helpful, especially when it’s about race. In fact, it can be immensely tiring.

I think,when you decide to teach, or when you decide to work in public to service, we must decenter ourselves from whiteness– the strongest power in these discussions– but always myself from the center of the spaces we inhabit. As the teacher, a classroom shouldn’t center around my needs, but the students. We have to realize that it’s not always about us. 

That seems hypocritical, of course, to say on a blog with my name in the URL. So, I am trying figure out my space in the middle— sometimes as a Woman of Color who is working to figure these things out and take up space, and also as attempting to ally to communities that I want to serve. Right now, that means amplifying as many voices, especially Black voices, as I can, and in the words of my friend Bill, “just shutting up and listening hard.”

I hope that my “ally” friends will do the same. We have to learn when to stop trying to “fix” things and just ask “how can I help?” Sometimes that means just amplifying voices instead of barging in with all of your needs and wants.

As teachers, it means making sure our students have spaces to process if they are the ones in marginalized spaces, or that we are pushing them to discuss difficult things, even when it feels scary. It is totally doable. Today, I was able to start the discussion using an easy and effective Teaching Tolerance lesson. Get there.

I fear what happens if we don’t. I worry that we will just continuous be pulled and re-centered around what is most powerful, until everything else is burned off in its wake, left to drift out alone.

Waiting for Approval: Bodies in Swimsuits

1 Comment

[I’ve been on a bit of a body-image/fitness kick lately. Maybe because it’s summer. Not sure.]

I am waiting for a man to approve of my body. How did I get here?

That’s what kept running through my mind a few days ago. I was laying on my couch feeling a weird mixture of rejected, angry, and confused. I had submitted for a job, and knew my ability to do it would be based on whether “the client” approved of my “look.”

For context: I occassionally am a promo girl. Nothing crazy, but sometimes I dress in cute outfits, put on make up and hand out fliers and samples. I also get paid $15/hr to do it, which is comparable to what I made as a tutor for a large test-prep company. Plus, student loans.

For the most part, I like my body. It’s not perfect, but (especially after the last post) frankly, I am generally feeling myself. I put hard work into it, and beyond aesthetics, I just like what it is capable of doing. So, when I submitted to work a job for a large sun screen company, I wasn’t concerned. I had worked for them before and it had been a shorts-and-tshirt deal. Easy.

Then, I discovered it was actually a bikini job.

I’m not particularly conservative (I live in Hawai‘i, and swimwear is pretty common around here), so I don’t have qualms about being seen in a swimsuit, but I also don’t have a “typical swimsuit model body.” My stomach is toned, but not always tight. I have short legs. I have smaller boobs for my frame.

The marketing company that I work for asked me to send photos of me in a bikini to send to the client (standard practice). Oomph. It was mid-afternoon on a day where I felt bloated and gross. Still, I changed, took the photos, and was waiting for someone to approve of my body for work.

A part of me wanted to be full of indignation: how dare these people get to pass judgement on me? How dare they feel as though they can decide if I’m “good enough” for the job?

Here’s the thing, though: I had agency and choice throughout this entire process. I submitted for the job initially. When I found out it was a bikini job, I could have said no, or that I wasn’t comfortable, and my employer would’ve been totally fine with that. If, when they asked for photos, I had said no, no one would’ve been salty.

So what do you do when the agent forcing you to validate to your body is no one but yourself? How do you battle all the voices screaming at you to look a certain way when their only yours? If “no one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” as Elanor Roosevelt is quoted on millions of magnets and tshirts around the world, what do I do when I’m not just giving consent, but I’m the one with the megaphone to my ear yelling, “Stop eating that caramel corn!”?

I spent much of the rest of the day waiting around feeling sorry for myself. Finally, my boyfriend surprised me with a rose and banana lumpia, my favorites. He lovingly listened to me rant all the way home, as I tried to figure out who I was angry at. Then, he said something enlightening:

“The thing is,” after he heard me rant about parts of my body (like my thighs) that I knew wouldn’t change, “most swimsuit models aren’t super ‘ethnic’ or even muscularly built to begin with  especially when they’re Brown. They’re white or, here, maybe Asian, and their the stereotyped versions of that: thin, small…”

“…willowy,” I filled in, a word often used to describe Asian female bodies.

“Right,” he said.

I wasn’t sure, but then I remembered that I was also going to flat-iron my hair for the job, since my curls didn’t “fit the look.” Now, it had me asking “whose look was I trying to fit?”

As we push to become more “diverse,” it’s important to remember that diversity isn’t just shades of color on our skin. It’s all aspects of loving and valuing different, perhaps cultural, parts of our bodies: including hair curls, thick muscular legs, and the softness of hips. We cannot keep letting society exoticize brown skin in advertising without accepting the fact that the brown bodies inside it may not match the shape that mass consumption thinks is “right.” I wasn’t the only one yelling in my ear to look a certain way, it was my voice backed with decades of cultural indoctrination that has told me I should look this way.

In some ways, though, I think the work starts with us. I think the work is internal, as it always begins.

If, as Tatum says, racism and its beliefs are the smog we breathe, that means we also have to know when to look at our bodies after a big, heaving breath to clear out our lungs from the toxic beliefs we’ve taken in. If I’m believing societal things about what my body “should” look like in a swimsuit, then they’ve already won half the battle. It doesn’t start with me raging at a company for making me feel this way, it takes me finding the strength to tell anyone that they don’t get to make me feel this way. It takes me choosing to not make myself feel that way.

So some of it starts with me, internally doing the work and perhaps unabashedly going out in a swim suit or a sports bra and being okay with that. I love that other women are out there, doing this. Hopefully as it happens more, it will mean that advertisers catch on, and at some point the “look” will expand far beyond what we’re already seeing. We have to be able to challenge those negative thoughts when we have it, though.

As for my “approval,” I was asked to be a back up for the job. I laughed after finally getting word, bemused at how riduculous I had been about the whole situation. I respectfully declined (and it wasn’t a problem) and got up to look in the mirror. Above it, is a race-medal hanger PJ got me that says “Run Like A Girl.”

Thank you legs, I thought, thank you thighs and feet and arms. Thank you grandma for the hair and mom for the eyes and family for the caramel skin and generations back for this body that runs, that moves, that works. Thank you Lord, for the blessing of a working body at all. Thank you. Thank you. May it always be glorified, just as it is.

I Am The Body, Divine.

4 Comments

There is no possible way I can do another set of these, I thought to myself, mid-pushup. I had just foisted myself off the ground, begging my already tired abdomen and screaming shoulders to bring my body up in a straight line. Too tired to listen, my knees dragged behind.

“No rep,” the coach told me, meaning my pushup hadn’t counted because I had “wormed” up instead of following proper form. “C’mon, breathe, you can do this.”

I saw stars before my eyes, I could barely breathe, and  my stomach threatened to heave. I fell back onto the ground. There’s no way I can do this. I took a deep breath in.  Of course, that’s what I thought at the last three stations… I grunted a huge exhale as I willed my body up in a line.

“There we go!” Coach yelled. “That’s 20! Now, pick up the dumbbell.” Panting, a dropped to my knees, tried to clear my head with a quick shake and breath, and stood up.

Yesterday, I competed in the UFC Gym Challenge on a bit of a whim. I haven’t been training and going to DUTs (Daily Ultimate Trainings) nearly as much as last year since I became ~laser focused~ on that sub-4 marathon. Still, I have the Spartan Trifecta Weekend coming up in August, and I decided to just jump in. I assumed I’d be out by the first heat anyway, but have a little fun and a good work out in the process.

Well, while I had a blast, I have to say this wasn’t just a “for fun” workout. Marathons test your ability to keep steady and find a solid pace internally. Competitive fitness, though, pushes you to your limit and keeps you there for as long as you can withstand.

And, I’ll be honest, it was mentally trying. I nearly cried throughout, I could barely breathe, I let my mind get the best of me and screwed up exercises I should’ve been able to do. The first round had not only been competitive, but had two exercises I always hate– wall-balls and double-under jump ropes.

So, when I squeaked into the top 5, I was baffled. Still, I had about 10 minutes to get over that amazement, and fortunately the semi-final round had exercises I love: farmer carry (aka run as fast as you can carrying 90lbs, which I love), KB cleans, shuttle runs, burpees. This was my time to shine.

While I loved the girls I was competing with, there was this sense of inadequacy on my part– these girls were LEGIT, and I felt not at all prepped for this. What was I doing here? I was going to humiliate myself, and maybe I had to be okay with that.

Then, during the farmer’s carry, I started gaining on the woman who had placed in front of me. Then, the doubt and pain cleared from my mind and said, “This is yours if you want it. This is what you have created your body to do.” 

At that point I broke out from my steady walk to a jog, 45 lbs plates in each hand. I smiled internally as I realized that, even though I kept thinking I couldn’t do this, I just… kept doing it.

My boyfriend was very sweet and came to watch me compete that morning. He’s never actually seen me race or work out competitively, so I was interested to see what he thought.

He was sweet and supportive throughout the whole race, and watched the finals with me (I finished a close fifth in the top-5 round, which I was very happy with). After, he mentioned how hard it must be when you see someone like the top girl, Lauren, in the competition. “I mean, you have to know you’re probably not going to win once she enters.”

My answer surprised me. “I think most of us know that we’re not going to win when we enter. I know I didn’t.” And I really hadn’t. I had been amazed even to make the top five. I had put myself through this, truly, just for fun. There was no belief that it was about the win or the prizes (though I did get a cool water bottle), just a question to be answered: Can I do this?

This morning, I woke up and EVERYTHING hurts. My shoulders, my lower back– everything aches from yesterday.

Still, I can’t help but smile when I think about that moment yesterday: This is what you have created your body to do.

I thought that again this morning when I looked in the mirror, my muscles flexing and moving under soft curves that I also love. I don’t feel good about my body lots of days, but I sort of can’t help but appreciate it the day after a tough race like yesterday’s.

There is so much marvelous ownership in that. So much power in that feeling– knowing that not only did my body survive, but thrived because of the work it has put in. I can’t help but feel that’s why any of us– especially women– get out there and lift heavy or run far and fast: our body is the body divine. My body is my own, and I can mold it into whatever I dream. What amazing and ridiculous thing can I teach it to do next?

A Random Blog Update

Leave a comment

I know, I just posted something, but I also realize it’s been quite a bit of time since I wrote here.

So here are some life-update things too, just because:

– I went to my love friend Stuti’s wedding in Kauai! (some photos)

– The EduColor Site is amazing and y’all should get on that stat.

– While the school year finished strong, I still have many things to do this summer, including a number of side jobs and fellowships.

– I have many things– family, friends, my guy– to be grateful for.

– I’ve been writing a lot! A piece for Teaching Tolerance and another for Honolulu Civil Beat.

Alright, that’s all for now. Here’s to a busy, eventful, and hopefully fun summer.